Tag Archives: Comedy

My Match.com Experience

Online dating

At the urging of various friends and family members who’ve insisted that I need to “get over it” and start dating again, I posted a profile to Match.com (since deleted, before you go looking). Doing this made sense on some level because most of my time is tied up with children and words, and most of the women I’m meeting these days are cropping up on social media sites.

Creating my profile took maybe a half an hour. Soon enough, I was tossed into a digital meat market of nearly identical profiles punctuated here and there by second hand problems. It seems like most women on Match are “looking for their partner in crime”, “strong and independent”, and pretending to like football a hell of a lot more than most men I know.

Online dating sites still carry the reputation of being populated by weirdos. I pretty much ignored this stigma because I met the mother of my children on the Internet back in the 90’s when this concept was new and even more frowned upon.

Things certainly have changed, but not necessarily for the better.

For starters, we have people in their 30’s and 40’s taking throwback MySpace pictures like this:

I can take pictures with mirrors! Whee!

I can take pictures with mirrors! Whee! And no one will ever tell this is the staff bathroom!

Then, there’s the obligatory shot wherein one pretends (I hope!) to drive a car for no reason:

Low-Ride-Er... Rollin' in mah Honda deathtrap...

Rollin’ hard in mah Honda deathtrap… So GANGSTA!!

Let’s not forget the grotesque image of the potential dating candidate doing something random and weird to attempt to appear fun and interesting:

Carl's Jr. Commercial

Check out my personal Carl’s Jr. fish sandwich commercial! Gave me worms…

In my week on Match, I was stalked by women in their late 40’s, “winked at” by people who disappear off the site in the next twenty-four hours, shunned like Hester friggin’ Prynne for having two children at age 30, approached by someone trying to run an international gold scam (I swear I’m not making this up!), and stalked by a wannabe Russian mail-order bride that still e-mails me in broken English and writes as if she has known me for years and is passionately in love with me.

Additionally, I went on one date. Prior to doing this, I texted one of my best friends, who has been through a divorce and remarried, and told him I was having second thoughts about going. I explained that I felt like a traitor to my family. He explained to me in no uncertain terms that it was just a date and that I was being a sissy la-la.

So I went.

Being a paragon of chivalry in this postmodern world, I allowed my date to pick the time and place. I, of course, would pay for everything. I had to borrow a car because my Honda deathtrap is even less dateable than I am at present, and when I arrived at the scene, it was practically rained out. I ended up meeting my date in a cramped, smoky bar that was so loud we couldn’t hear ourselves talk.

In retrospect, this was the best part of the evening. Hands down.

So she and I get into my (my mom’s) chariot to get out of the rain. In the space between pulling out of the pub scene and finding a place to eat, I ask her some basic questions that weren’t addressed on her profile.

Like, for example, what she does for a living.

She refuses to answer this question, stating that this information is normally reserved for the third or fourth date. She’s a college graduate too, so I figured this would be small talk.

Weird, right?

At about this point, I notice that she is more nervous than I am. This seems odd to me as well, as this is the first time I’ve been on a date with anyone but my ex in nearly a decade, and my date has candidly told me that I am her 22nd Match.com guy. No, not 22 dates, she explains. Many more dates than that. 22 guys.

This is pretty much the only thing she’s willing to talk about other than a mutual teacher we had in high school (we went to different schools, but apparently he gets around) who she thought was hot. This same teacher, who I once looked up to, had an affair with a 17-year-old student despite being married and having two beautiful children.

My date thinks it’s strange that I, as a teacher, am bothered by this. She also thinks my profile is “unappealing” because I was honest about my personality and didn’t take pictures in a nice suit.

The coup de grace, of course, is when she pulls out a journal (manifesto?) of handwritten notes taken over every e-mail she’s received via Match.com in the past two years. She proudly shows me the number of views she’s had daily since creating her profile, which are scrawled in the margins.

“Check, please!”

So yeah, I lasted about a week on Match. It would have been nice to get a refund for the two+ months I paid for in advance, but the experience was invaluable. In addition to confirming for the umpteenth time that women are crazy, I learned that I’m just not ready to do this again.

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Your Bathroom Mirror Vs. Your Rearview Mirror

Bathroom Mirror: Well done, sir! Every hair on your head is nicely in place, and you have this natural feathering effect thing going on! Surely that hair loss scare of three years ago was all just stress. Venture out into the world, my fine feathered friend, for you are the John Stamos of English education!

Rearview Mirror: Morning, Shatner! What is that limp, greasy, washed out thing on your head? It looks like a ferret took a crap up there and you tried swirling it around with a fro pick to cover that spot where your own mother said you were thinning on top. You know what the most pathetic thing is about it? It looks like you’re trying to be 20 when you’re 30. There are cosmetic scissors in the glove box. You know what you have to do.

Bathroom Mirror: Your beard looks so nice it’s like a dozen Liliputian landscapers raked and mowed their hearts away to create this sculpted majesty it thrills me to reflect! No, pay no mind to the little bit of growth on your neck, nor to that tiny blemish budding at the corner of your mouth. Your majestic facial mane keeps the former at bay, eclipses the latter! Venture out into the world, my paragon of testosterone, for you are the Zeus of English education!

Rearview Mirror: What is that thing on your face? No, not that beard with the hazy trim line that makes it so I can’t tell where your double chin is supposed to end and your scapula is supposed to begin. Seriously though, why didn’t you shave? No I mean that… Okay, let me rephrase. Where is your face? Because next to that red giant star on the corner of your mouth, bleeding its foul light into the universe at the speed of ugly, the rest of you is just background noise. There are thumb tacks in your wannabe-teacher-of-the-year kit. You know what you have to do.

Bathroom Mirror: Those teeth! Marbled marvels of perfection! That optic white toothpaste you’ve been using really has made a difference! And with the contours of your mouth such as they are, no one can tell that your wisdom teeth slightly askewed your bottom row! The hollows of thine nose and ears are clear, and thy sideburns cut as evenly as the Scales of Justice! Venture out into the world, my highly hygienic friend, for you are the scrubbing bubbles of English education!

Rearview Mirror: Are those kernels of corn in your teeth? No, those are your teeth. Wow. And your underbite looks like the Titanic hit the glacier, survived, flipped a b—-, and tried it again! Your nose hair isn’t blending so well with that caterpillar you call a mustache, and as for those nostrils, you have bats in the cave, man, bats in the cave. Sure, you can pick and pluck while driving. No one will notice. Your sideburns? Sure, they’re even. It’s your friggin’ ears that aren’t on straight! You know what? There’s a roadside cliff where the guard rail gave out a couple miles ahead. You know what you have to do.

Me: I could turn you around, you know.

Rearview Mirror: Yeah, go ahead and try that. See how long you last without me. I mean, if you had eyes in the back of your head, you could see that bald spot…

Me: But do the people I run into see what the bathroom mirror sees or what you see?

Rearview Mirror: I’ll play the part of the therapist. What do you think? And how does that make you feel?

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10 Reasons Why I Hate Christmas Music

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Come now, Dan. ‘Tis the season for over singing and adult onset diabetes…

10) I’m sick to death of these modern singers trying to make their version of a tired old… err, I mean traditional Christmas song sound different by hamming it up. It’s Noel, people. Two simple syllables. Noel. Not Nooeeeee-hooo-eeelllll-eeeeeeeell-lllaaaaaa-weee-llllaaaae-llllaaa-welllll-ealll-wellll-ellla-wellll! And if it’s such a joyous occasion, why does your voice sound like a sobbing five-year-old with her finger smashed in a door?

All I want for Chri-iiiiieee-iiiieee-iiieeee-iiiieeeest-maaaa-aaaaaaas i-i-i-i-i-ss yoouuu-oooww-oooooowwww-oooooooowwww-whooooaaaaa-oooooooo-whooooooaaaaaa-oooooooo-WHOOOOAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!

Yeah, and you’re going to get your man back by howling at the moon like a retarded, tone-deaf werewolf?

The other day, I heard a version of The Little Drummer Boy featuring a female vocalist rolling her r’s with every rum pa pum pum. If her intention was to simulate a drumroll using onomatopoeia, she failed more famously than NATO. If her intention was to Latinize the song, she insulted Chicanos everywhere. If her intention was to make it sound like the Little Drummer Boy was firing a machine gun at the token livestock gathered for the Nativity scene, she succeeded brilliantly.

9) Am I the only one who notices the horrible innuendos, voyeurism, and zeitgeists that occur in the “modern classics”?

Have a Holly Jolly Christmas:

Somebody waits for you/

Kiss her once for me!

Wait… what? A minute ago, you were singing about the joys of the holiday season, and now you’re encouraging me to make out with some “ho” under the mistletoe just so you can watch? Is this how you get your jollies, Burl Ives?

Baby, It’s Cold Outside:

I simply must go/

The answer is no…/

Hey, what’s in this drink?/

Wow. What a charming, family oriented song about roofie-ing some poor girl you “rescued” from the snow storm only to imprison at your house (serial killer lair) until she gives it up to you. I guess they didn’t have date rape in the ’50’s when this song came out.

Hell, while I’m writing this, the DJs on the Christmas station are discussing STDs. I rest my case.

8) Christmas music actually advocates for absentee parenting.

It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas:

Dolls that can talk and will go for a walk/

Are the hope of Janice and Jen/

And mom and dad can hardly wait for school to start again!/

Yeah, the truth comes out. Teachers are glorified babysitters because you jerks don’t know how to handle your own kids.

7) I have to hear Elvis, who has no idea how to enunciate and sounds like the Godfather trying to sing with a mouth full of mashed potatoes. Or a hick trying to sing with a mouth full of deep fried peanut butter and cocaine sandwiches.

Elvis:

Uhllevavlue…

Backup Singers:

Oooooo-uuuoooo-eeeeee-oooo-ehwl!

Elvis:

C-c-c-hristmas…hubbalavout you!

6) Last Christmas I Gave You My Heart…

And the very next day, you made yet another version of this awful song. What’s worse is that I have no sympathy for you. You had a one night stand with some jerk at the company Christmas party or whatever (Tell me baby, do you recognize me?/ Well, it’s been a year, it doesn’t surprise me/), and I’m supposed to empathize with you? And you’re still not over it a year later? Oh, but you “found a real love” and can’t be fooled again–yet you’re still whining about this a year later!

What’s even worse is that I get this travesty stuck in my head and write my own lyrics, which are even too horrible to be posted here… (A Facebook lover with a fire in his fart…)

5) Carol of the Bells…

My five-year-old is terrified of this song. Apparently, so is Peter Griffin. Of course, it always reminds me of that stupid “Ding Fries Are Done!” YouTube video that was funny ten years ago before I had matured into the sensible, cultivated man I am today. 😉

4) It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year…

If that’s so, why is it a tour de force of all the overrated, mainstream vocalists that I couldn’t stand from every era involving vinyl? And Andy Williams, were you just totally trashed when you spit out, “There’ll be scary ghost stories and tales of the glories of Christmases long, long agooooo!”

In what Christmas tradition does one toast marshmallows over a fire and tell ghost stories? That’s called a camping trip, you moron! The only possible similarity there is the tree!

3) Edward Cullen…err, I mean Satan Claws…err, I mean Santa Claus is Coming to Town…

He sees you when you’re sleeping. He knows when you’re awake. He knows where all the naughty girls are. He’s immortal and oft misunderstood. Could Santa Claus be a sparkly vampire?

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You’d better be good, and not just for goodness’ sake… Uuuaaggh! I’m so angsty!

2) Simply Having a Wonderful Christmas Time…

Paul McCartney, did you think that because you were a Beatle that you didn’t have to actually write anything good? That people would listen to utter crap that falls flat on every level and doesn’t say anything about anything just because you’re Paul McCartney? Did you write this song on the one-ply toilet paper at the hotel and just perform it right afterwards? I mean, you basically just put out: I’m Paul McCartney. And that’s enough. 

1) Didn’t see your favorite Christmas tune here? Maybe that’s because the radio in Arizona basically plays these same freaking songs over and over and over again, and I have to listen to it all for the sake of my girls. (I could seriously go for You’re a Mean One Mr. Grinch, but at least I haven’t had to hear Alvin and the Chipmunks this year–yet.) The only one I didn’t touch on is Feliz Navidad, which is actually hysterical because my gringo kids, who apparently learned absolutely nothing from watching Dora the Explorer, think the guy on the radio is singing about the Hydra.

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Aurie: Feliz Navidad… Oh sumthin’ Hydra feliz di-dad!

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Filed under Family, My Writing, Rants, Uncategorized, Writing