My first internet date …. when I was still wide eyed and filled with hope ….

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So the guy’s name was and probably is still Leonard.  I am going to skip pseudonyms here.

I was happily sitting  chatting on dating sites. I thought I could keep this cyber chatting going for almost forever.  I know me.  My social phobia and my fear of meeting new people, will keep me glued to a keyboard and a screen, happily hiding there.

After a few drinks (when all good decisions are made) – I drink alone. It’s  not quite the 12 step programme, but it is less than 12 steps from my computer to my bed, so it is sort of the same thing.

I decided GO ON A DATE!  And then I had this internal monologue.  I often do it out loud so I am not sure how internal it is, and I convince myself that I need to “grow a pair” and just go out with people.

These people.  Just go.  Pick 10. Even if randomly, and go on 10 dates.

If after 10 dates it is still as much as a cluster fk as I anticipate it will be, then I will say fuck it all, eat chocolate until I am as wide as I am tall, and stop brushing my teeth.  And get cats.

That people is my plan.

I ask Leonard out.  Remember this is my first step out into this rather strange space.  I have not been able to set up my “rules” my “codes” that I stick to when meeting strange people in strange locations.

We book a time, Saturday 16h00 – my thoughts are I can be out of there whilst the sun is still up.

I make the mistake of letting him select the place.  Never made that mistake again.

He selected The Fat Cactus in Mowbray.  Should have been my first clue.  I was giddy with the excitement of it all, and forgave a lot of details that right now would not pass the muster.

I got myself ready for this date, like I was going to meet Leonard and we were going to run away and live together on his private estate, forever and ever and ever.

Yep, that is the way I was pitching this in my head.

I had not been on a date in more than 20 years.  Unless you count the time the plumber came over.  And I do.

I was channeling Cinderella and Snow White. It was all going to be magical.  Little woodland animals would come along and clean my house after I danced around with them in a clearing in the woods to music by Mr Bolton himself.

I arrive at the venue.  Early.

I want to make sure I have all exits mapped out.  I want to check out the toilet, see if I can fit through the toilet window if push comes to shove.  Shove being the operative word.

I am sitting at the “restaurant” and I got a sense of being 22 and drinking too much tecquila – it’s that kind of place, where you are singing “Come on Eileen” at about 11pm with people you don’t know, but whose sweaty armpits you are sort of leaning in to.  The decor leaned towards a grungy homeless shelter than say a place one magically meets their prince.

Again, I am trying not to be too judgey.  Be cool.

The table top was particularly sticky. Once I found a position where my arms were comfortable they just sort of stuck there.  Adhered there.  I kept it looking casual.  {I am not 100% sure what the sticky was, but I decided not to look at it too closely …..}

I am thinking about all the preening and stupid things girls do when getting ready for a date, and then this guy walks in.

He is the exact opposite of what a girl does to get ready for a date.

I cannot confirm, or deny, but he looked like he had been in that set of clothes since this morning,.  And at some point had had a relaxing deep afternoon sleep in those clothes on his gomma gomma couch.

Was woken up with a fright, no time for grooming, donned a white hat —- a fedora I think — I can’t make this shit up people, and appeared there before me.  Visions of stallions and being swept off my feet leaked away quietly.

It turned out he was my date.

Lucky. Lucky me.

I unglued my arms and said hello.  Now already any expectations have flown out the window.  Not up to the sky in wonder, but straight into the tarmac making that thunk-thunk sound like an injured pigeon does as it tries to tarmac dive after being in the sun too long.

I have long started regretting I got a full body wax for this, and the new underwear is starting to creep.

Anyway he introduced himself, Leonard, and I said hi and then he started to talk.  About himself mostly.  He did ask me a question, and as I tried to answer, he sort of cut me off and answered it.  For me.

I felt it was going so well we were finishing each other’s sentences.

By that I mean, I just ordered Millers and thought I would focus on drinking them.  I would let him speak. He seemed to have a lot to say.  Nothing really interesting, but with enough Millers things that are loud can turn int a quiet drone. I have done the field work, trust me on this.

Almost the first thing he said was that he did not carry credit cards – he only paid in cash.  I got a strange “Big Brother Conspiracy” going on —– but as said I did not have much time to ask questions —- or answer any.

He told me he owned his own home and car — which of course countered my initial sense that he was tres cool and homeless.  But I left it.  I thought that is sort of odd in this day and age, but hey white old folks be crazy, so I will just decided to go with the flow.

I knew that this date was not going well.  It wasn’t to the point where I felt I needed to throw a candle at the alcohol stand to form a fire ball so I could escape in the chaos that ensued.  I realised that at least I had a back up plan because the only thing going down here, was my expectations and hope of this ending soon.

As he talked he name dropped.

The problem with name dropping is if the person sitting across from you is not suitably impressed then stop fucking name dropping.  Name dropping is not cool if you have to keep explaining who the name is.

To the person drinking Millers sitting across from you.

I stopped opening my mouth to explain I did not know who so-and-so was, and realised I was not really going to get a word in, so I shrugged and ordered another Millers.

I looked around for something to read and found a menu.  I quickly jumped in with “I am starving – I am going to order something” and he then agreed and continue to tell me things about the menu.  It appeared he was a regular here.

Efficient and friendly server arrived, we ordered, and again I sat and drank my beer.

I was alarming sober.  I had fallen into that comfort level where I no longer cared. I started looking around and found things that amused me.

Food arrived.  It was really good.  Great mexican food – really enjoyed it.

He ate his. I think he ate what I didn’t eat. Or something else equally as endearing.

I thought okay, I have gone about as far as I was with this one.  I think I ordered another beer – and asked him if he wanted anything else, he said no.

I said great, I am going to call for the bill, which I did.

Leonard started to tell me that he gets 10% discount at this particular establishment.

If you have known me for 13 minutes you will know telling me you get a discount for anything is akin to making my vagina dry up, shrivel and catch the first taxi home.

I looked at him in my most convincing “listen here mate” look I could muster and said “it is fine really…”

And he kept saying it. 10% discount.

I was now wondering if we had moved into a sort of autism territory.  I kept staying IT IS FINE but slower and louder, because well, it was fine. The quicker I can get the fuck out of here, the quicker I can get home, phone my friend Judith and drink wine.

That was my short to medium term plan at this point.

Then he goes “I don’t have any cash on me……..”

I offered him what I though was a withering look, it might have just being “DUDE YOU ARE FUCKING SHITTING ME RIGHT NOW …..”

I did actually glance around waiting for Ashton Kutcher to appear and scream “PUNKED…”  He didn’t.

I am not sure how many seconds had passed  he said “I will run across the road and draw some money”

I looked at him and said “YOU ARE NOT FUCKING RUNNING ACROSS THE ROAD. TO DRAW MONEY.  JESUS.  I WILL GET IT.  I MEAN SERIOUSLY …….”

{key note:  the issue is not that I am paying.  I am fine with that.  Fine.  It is the fact that he announced he had no credit cards, then announced he had no money —– surely anyone in their sort of half right mind comes to a date with some money, or a cow to barter, or maybe some beans to barter for a cow …….. something dumbass….}

I was thinking that inside my head but it slipped out and I said it aloud.

I took control of my voice, stood up went to the bathroom, had a bit of a laugh and thought, well you know 9 more dates cannot be worse/stranger/more disappointing than this…. right?

I got back to the table.

He was still talking.  The server returned with the credit card machine.  He kept muttering about his 10% discount.  I wondered if I hit him against the side of the head with the credit care machine it would stop his bleating.

I know your frontal lobe controls conversation so it might need to be a full frontal head butt with an iron.

I paid the bill, said thank you and stood up.

My aim here was to leave, fast.  Avoid any contact.  ANY.

He insisted he walk me to my car.  Yeah, not.  I pointed to my car and said it was fine, it was right there, it was broad daylight and I would be fine.

He invited me back to his car.  I was a little unclear of where this was going.  I have not dated in 20 odd years, lots of things could have changed.

I agreed, only because I thought if I walked him to his car, that means I could leave him AT HIS car, walk to my car ALONE and be able to snigger uncontrollably the entire way.

I get to his car —- and this is a true story —- he takes out a brochure and starts to sell me something.  Not something interesting like a vibrator that gets 200 km to the litre, but cleaning products.

I shit you not.

I just stood there.  I took a deep breath. Smiled as politely as I was able, said thank and good-bye.

I walked back to my car – a little bit unsteadily.  It was not the beer, I was wearing heels that made me walk like a new born Kudu calf.

I called my friend Judith and told her to get her raggedy little arse over to mine as I seriously just needed someone to talk to.

She came over and we laughed, and then screamed with laughter and drank too much wine.

The next morning I checked my phone — I am that person who puts their phone down and then does not look at it for 15 hours.

There were a list of messages from Leonard.

They started off with “thanks, it was lovely to meet you” to “lets do it again” to “do you dance?” and then moved on to the more uncomfortable ones “why aren’t you answering my messages” and “okay, okay fine….”  There weren’t hundreds, but there were say 11 or so – but they got decidedly more needy as they went on.

How on earth could this guy think or feel that what he had just experienced would be considered a good date?

That I would want to repeat.  Maybe he was just following up on his cleaning product order and see if I was going to order 25 litres of Handy Andy or VIM.

I realise I am niave and a tad low on street smart, but for fuck sake, dude ………. dude!!  Even I know when a bomb is a bomb.

Needless to say I wished Leonard well, and said we would not be seeing each other again.

He did ask again if “we could go dancing … as friends”

Bless.  So that was my first time.  Done and dusted.  No more dating virgin here.  I owned that!

Yes, and some days it is just shit-a-holla ….

divorce_fuck you

 

I hate it when people ask me “so how are you doing…” and not add the “with the divorce thing, you know” …..

I still don’t know what to say.

Some days I am super happy. I have the remote control.  I can make star angels in the bed, and can poo with the door open. The world is pretty much my oyster.

The next day I don’t want to get out of bed.

I am not sure if I miss or hate Kennith.  It could be a bit of both.

Yesterday evening driving home I saw him running along the side of the road.

In a split second I had two thoughts “drive the fucker over” and “shame, I should stop and give him a lift” ….. but I understood that both would probably have a knock on effect to him running the Comrades, and instead chose to just drive on.

I hate that he has toddled out of this relationships straight into another.  And seems happy.

I want to kick him in his hairy little face and say “look what you did fuck wad….” but I guess he did not do it all by himself.

Why can he not have a relationship where they are fighting and throwing cat food at each other?  But in a non sexual way!

Why can’t he be muttering “she is a dumb bitch” under his breath ….. instead of looking so delightfully peaceful?  I am seriously ……….. seriously

I want to ram a fork into his shoulder, just to see if he will react.  I will blame her of course.  I know I can do it, I figured out how to sneak into their house …. I know which door squeaks, I know where the forks are kept.

I can be in and out of them in under 8 seconds ……. at the moment I am still at 14 seconds.

But I train two or three times a week, and my times are getting better.  I am only going to stab him with a fork, it’s not like I am going to shoot him whilst he is on the crapper. Relax people.

You will know when I am unhinged, trust me, you will know.

I hate that my kids keep telling me how wonderful she is – I don’t know her, and I still want to drive her over.  If my kids compare her to me one more time, I am seriously going to start to take Xmas money away from them and tell them J stole it.

On other days I sigh and I think how peaceful life is and I am glad K is not lonely, and I am glad he is dating someone who seems to be nice to my children.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuckity fuck.

I never think that.  I’d like to.  That would mean I was potentially a nice person.

I just lie there and go fuckity fuck fuck.  Fuck it all ….. “now bring me wine and chocolate” I scream at no one in particular.  Hence I get neither.

I am fine for several days, and then I am not.  It might have nothing to do with Kennith it might just be PMS, but fuck that, I am blaming him for it all right now.

I do not want Kennith back.  I do not want him to die.  I do not want him to explode into 1 000 little pieces.   I am not sure what I want.

I lie in the bath and sip my wine – I have changed it up to a rosé – it makes me feel pretty and girly.  And I still get drunk at about the same rate, so that is really all that matters right?

Life is good.

Life is kak.

Life just is.

My constipation was pretty bad on the weekend ….. just filling space here people, just filling space.

Some days I am so happy I sing along to really shitty songs.

Some days I cry at radio adverts.  While the radio is off.

Other days I have MUSIC going so loud in my ear phones, I physically prevent myself from being able to think of anything.  It also drowns out the sound of my kids arguing in the car, so really it is a win-win all round.

Last night I climbed into bed.  The girls were already in my bed – this is kind of where they sleep most of the time.  Sadly it reflects on my social life.

I got into bed, I was tired, exhausted, and the cat was trying to find a spot.  Isabelle’s chubby slightly damp little hand came over my shoulder and held onto my arm, and for that little slice in time, I forgot everything and felt pure joy.

Then the cat clawed my foot, and I tried to kick him, missed and kicked the end of the bed, and the moment was just that little bit less magical.

As said before, fuckity fuck fuck.  With a double fucker fuck fuck at the end.

 

At your lowest, it is still not this ….

So I am internet dating. No secret.  It still bears a stigma, so we do not talk about it in polite company.  I think it might be more acceptable to say I am a prostitute.

I do not go around wearing a t-shirt announcing it – the internet dating, not the prostitute thing — keep up now.  The reality is what are the chances of me meeting a semi-stable male person who is single, or not in jail?

I will tell you incase you have not done this experiment, the chances are almost nil actually.  I can’t quite meet people at work ….. I work for myself, you see how that is weird?

I have to fling myself onto the cattle market that is internet dating and die a thousand deaths.  Daily.

My friend told me she saw her friend’s husband on a site once.

Well that got awkward fast.

Internet dating, by it’s sheer ludicrously, allows for several hours of funny stories, a few really embarrassing ones, and several that I prefer never to talk about unless I am on some sort of strong medication and restrained by a medical professional (not the one mentioned further in this piece just so we are on the same page here)..

You meet some lovely people.  You meet some questionable people, and then you meet the people who will hold your hair back whilst you are up-chucking. I am stylish like that, see.

Which basically means I am chatting to people who could be the 12 year old boy next door or a 78 year old woman in Geneva.  It is all pretty Dating in the Dark stuff – and you need to keep your wits about you.  I firm dose of humour, and always keep Barney’s words in mind “Stranger Danger.”

{does it bother you, or maybe raise an eyebrow that in that show there is a character called BJ.  Of all the names they could use, they settled on BJ, why not just go to the next level and call him ANAL?  Maybe I just do not understand the market they are trying to appeal to}

There are so many lows in the process that I can’t even list them.

I had a theory that I would sit and jot these down one day, but that day is never going to come.  Things have got so murky, my lines in the sand have been smudged so badly, that I am starting to doubt whether some things I recall actually happened.

I got this message today – with a few photographs:

Hi, I read ur story. Interested in you. I am Dr *******. South Korea medical Dr. work at khaleitsha area. prevent Hiv.Aids person. I majored gynaecology for female. Recently I looking for good friend.

I am not sure what to make of this.

He is looking for a good friend, he has majored in gynaecology.  I like the way he is specific and says “gynaecology for females” …. as opposed to?  Say ….. is there any other kind of vagina doctor I don’t know about?

Anyway, I am going to say thanks, but no thanks.  And then try to find the door to get the hell out of this rather strange place. For today, I will be back tomorrow, I am drawn to it like a moth to a flame —- a large petrol fueled flame!!

I am sure he is wonderful.

I am sure he is.

I am sure that I am never going to find out.

Good luck strange doctor guy.  Good luck.

Me – cheese and riced, I really need to take stock of my life sooner or later.

InternetDating

Dick pics …. when is it a good time …..?

{Part 1 of a series …… not sure how many in this series}

I am almost sure that this is a question that plagues many of us.

There are several very helpful articles —- several hundred in fact, so this must be a question around which many people are confused, terrified and are in need help.  Clarity.  Possibly some boundaries.

I thought that maybe I was losing touch with the cool kids so I ran the question “when is it a good time to send a dick pic” – Google was not shy with the helpful articles it had on supply around this exact issue – about 39 300 000 results (0,34 seconds) – that is a large figure.  When I ran the same search but based on “how to deal with anal leakage” the results seemed small/insignificant in comparison – 1 890 000 results (0,41 seconds) .

I am not wanting to compare the problems of anal leakage with that of whether to share dick pics.

One you are not going to take a picture of and send it to what you think might just be a “hot babe” whilst the other seems to be something you do take pictures of, then share with random people.  Totally random people, who you think need to see your dick.  In a pic.  Without a cat.  On a mat.  With a rat.

That people is a lot of people talking about dicks, photographing them, and then deciding on which distribution channel is going to work best, or at all.

I need to come out at this juncture and add that I do not personally have a dick/penis/prick or what ever is the right word.  It appears that there are more than 174 names/words in use that are used instead of the word penis.

That is unbelievable, if you consider the Eskimos only have 100 words for snow – and they see snow all fucking day, and all fucking night.

It actually cannot be proven that the Eskimos have a 100 words for snow, it is a bit of a legend and we just repeat it enough so now it sounds factual.

Lots and lots of snow, miles of it.  Piles of it, stretching out as far as the eye can see.

Falling from the sky, hitting you in the eye, ruining your hair, making your lips chapped, spoiling your lovely blue dress.  You never know how much there really is going to be — and it is always too much or too little, and seldom just the right amount.  Different shapes and sizes of snow flakes, no two the same.

Random people holding sticks on television in front of a map telling you how deep it is going to be – or that it might get slippery.

All of this and only 100 words for this phenomena of nature versus 174 for a dick, but now I have digressed.

To get back on track — here is a flow chart that helps answers the question of  “Should you send that Dick pic?”:

dick pic-flow chart

Source:  http://www.collegehumor.com/post/6910070/should-you-send-that-dick-pic

I have my own story around Dick Pics but I sort of wanted to create a base from which to operate or start the story, because as you all know, for me it is all atmosphere and background.

The details, the details – the story is always in the details.

Tune in again to read more on this fascinating topic.