A big 'ole slice of humble pie.

Let's talk about the way I started my day. Busy morning at work, scrambling around to get reports together before meetings... and then a little note from Dan, one of the protagonists in the Tale of Two Boroughs post, saying he found and read my blog.

Just the cherry on top of a fan-fucking-tastic Monday morning.

There was a reason I had a readers list before, and unfortunately I will not be able to keep this blog open to the public going forward. Someone from work felt the need to forward the link to Dan. He already knew I wrote a blog about my match.com experiences, so this wasn't entirely a surprise to him. I'm sure he was upset and hurt at some of the things he read, which is bad enough. Here's what's worse: people I work with forming professional opinions about me based on a personal dating blog. I can't have that.

So let's analyze a delightful little gem of a comment left by one of Dan's friends.

truthfully, I think this is kind of stupid. Because a. you're going to go with who YOU want to go with and that seems like "Nate." and us giving you our opinions won't change jack shit.

b. you're not in Sex & the City. or some movie. You're fucking with people's lives. Clearly they read this. How would you like to have someone refer to you as "kinda cute, but dumb."

I'm sure your feelings would be hurt and you'd go cry to your girlfriends or maybe even to a blog.

c. I'm all for dating and getting a feel for what's out there, but don't fuck with people's emotions.

lastly, I hope Dan is smart enough to not choose you. You don't deserve someone like him
bye

oh & I just heard you choose Nate. I mean let's be serious, is any one surprised?
xo,
a.

I realize this is one of the consequences of writing a blog. And, dear commenter, you might be surprised by my reaction but... you're right.

I'm not Sex and the City. If I'm 35 and chasing after young tail for a one night stand, you can take me out back and shoot me. I don't have a movie deal. I have a nine-to-six job playing in Excel, and that's not about to change anytime soon.

Some girls fantasize about having to choose between two great guys. I'm not one of them. No matter which way I chose, I lost. Clearly anonymous commenter "A" thinks I'm a manipulative whore who fucks up people's lives for funsies, so I doubt we'll be BFFs anytime soon. But honestly, his/her opinion doesn't matter. Dan's does. So since I wrote about the beginning of our experience on this blog, I'll also write an ending.

Dearest Dan: I know we already worked this out between the two of us and I have no idea why you continue to think so highly of me... but I'm grateful that you do. I understand why your friends are screaming, "GRAB THE TORCH AND PITCHFORK," and I can't for the life of me understand why you're not furious. If you want to catch a Ranger game sometime soon, let me know.

... and that's all, folks. I'll be updating with more stories later but I hope you can all understand why I can't leave this public. Hurting Dan was bad enough, but having people at work judge me for this and not on my mad excel skillz... it can't happen.

Facebook, Twitter, or email me directly and I'll make sure you're on the readers list (unless I work with you, in which case you're shit outta luck.)

xo,

[wink]

---------------------------------

The Tale of Two Boroughs

I'm almost six months into my membership and it's hard to maintain hope after the number of trainwrecks, pedophiles, and psychopaths I've dated from Match.com. I'd like to believe that I'm not totally jaded, that I'm still open enough to this whole project and it maybe, just maybe, it might actually work out. Besides, we all know I can't get a book deal unless I get a happy ending outta this horseshit.

Between the horrible, yet hilarious dates I've been on, I found a guy I like. Two, actually... and therein lies the problem. One is from Brooklyn and the other from the Upper East Side. They're polar opposites, yet both strangely compatible with me. In the spirit of intra-borough rivalry, we'll call the scrappy Brooklyn boy "Dan", and the good-looking Upper East Side guy "Nate", but try not to let the Gossip Girl reference color your opinion of the story.

My first instinct, no joke, was to make a spreadsheet comparing the two. Good lord I'm a nerd.

We'll start with Dan. Dan is a Brooklyn born and bred hockey boy who messaged me one day on match. He's 23 (shocker, I know), not bad on the eyes, and caught my attention by referring to Minnesota by it's affectionate nickname "Minny." We eventually started talking on gchat and, much to my surprise, I found out his brother is one of my coworkers. It gets better. His brother is terrifying. Long hair, motorcycle jacket, communicates mostly through pointing and grunting - quite the imposing guy. Still, it's hard to be 100% badass when you wear a motorcycle jacket but carry a metro card.

Dan and I started to talk. Thanksgiving break was... uneasy... at my house, so I had a lot of spare time to chat. Most of our conversations revolved around hockey, football, work, and him poking fun at my accent, but they were enjoyable nonetheless. For example, we had a friendly bet going about the Wild vs. Rangers game. Whoever lost had to buy the other team's shirt and wear it on our date. For those of you who were fortunate enough to miss the game, the Wild got spanked 6-1. That Rangers shirt was the most painful purchase of my life.

We talked almost every day for two weeks - gchat, texting, or video chat - and decided that on our first date, I'd take my very first excursion into Brooklyn.

I am good at many things, but directions are not my strong suit. It is almost statistically impossible to be wrong as consistently as I am. Left and right? North? Uptown? What? My commute to Brooklyn, which should have taken me a half hour, took an unbelievable hour and a half. This means I was an hour late for dinner. His response? "You look cute in your Rangers shirt."

Points for Dan.

Then he took the subway with me back to the city so I wouldn't get lost. Yes, we were that couple that made out on the platform and snuggled on the train. Bystanders be damned, PDA can be fun.

But he's far from perfect. The consistent contact has turned borderline clingy, which is a huge turnoff. The perpetual student in me is disappointed that he doesn't care about school. He failed out of college once for having a GPA less than a 1.0. Apparently he was surprised he couldn't talk to his swimming coach and make the F's go away. Then there was the drinking problem.

To his credit, he went back and finished his engineering degree and is still in school for industrial design. Still, I know he cheated on his math test last week... when you program the answers into your calculator, don't expect me to get excited about your C.

Kinda cute, kinda dumb. Takes things a little fast - he made it perfectly clear he wants me to be his girlfriend. He also knew I was on a date with Nate tonight. After I left Nate, I looked at my phone and saw these text messages:

"You should wear your Ranger shirt today. That way you can think about me :)"

"So when do you have to go meet that Nate guy for your chickflick date that I would rather take you to"

"... Guess you're busy."

Don't get me wrong, I love alpha-male competition as much as the next girl, but that was a little much. For the record I did not wear my Ranger shirt tonight.

So that's Dan in a nutshell. Fine looking, good conversation - albeit about shallow topics - and sweet but persistent to the point of clingy. Aside from the jealous texts tonight, he's saying all the things I thought I wanted to hear... but now I just don't know if I want him to be the one saying them.

Phew. Halfway done. On to Nate.

Nate is not from match. I met him a few weeks ago while watching Monday Night Football with friends. He also happens to be the polar opposite of Dan - born and bred on the Upper East Side, studied Finance at BU, and is quite a good-looking fellow.

He was an ass when I first met him. We had a tally system going for how many strikes he accumulated that night, and I think we gave up counting somewhere near 140. When I say "strikes" I don't mean literal dealbreakers; it was playground flirting. He annoyed me to the point where I didn't know if I wanted to smack him or smooch him.

I made a colossal mistake that night. I told him about this blog. At the time I thought it was fine, but it has come back to bite me in the ass.

Nate: So anybody who asks you out... you have to date them.

Me: Yes.

Nate: You're saying if I went on this site, made a profile, and asked you out, you'd have to say yes.

Me: Yep.

Nate: Well how 'bout I just ask you out now?

See? Awwww. The kid has moves.

My birthday was a few days later and I invited him to come to drinks, but it was one of those uncomfortable situations where I was on the inside of the booth and didn't get a chance to talk to him. I genuinely felt bad about this, so we made plans to meet up a few days later.

This is where that colossal mistake comes into play. Not in a million years did I think he'd ever read the damn blog. My own mother doesn't care to keep up with this, why would he?

Oh but he did. Not only that, but he psychoanalyzed the shit outta me. It got to the point where I was physically uncomfortable - squirming in my seat, looking anywhere except him, hoping for a change of subject that would bring the focus off of me. I like to pride myself on not being a "game player." According to Nate, I'm the biggest playa around. Everything is a game, so he says, but I'm just used to being in control of it. That night, and the few dates since, I haven't been.

It's been a long time since I was that thrown off by someone, and I froze up a little. Even after our date tonight, I can't figure him out. He's still that annoying kid on the playground, but I definitely want to smooch him. The problem? He's not very clear - I don't know if he's into me or if we're just friends who kiss occasionally.

So there's my dilemma. Brooklyn: flawed, dumb, but very sweet guy who wants to be exclusive. Upper East: smart, cute, but a gamble.

Leave a comment - what's your vote??

------

I have a newfound appreciation for gold diggers.

I am obviously writing an update which means... drumroll please... I SURVIVED!!

That's right. Tonight, at approximately 8:32 pm, I met a 53-year-old for a date. He was born in 1957, the same year as my mother. He has two children, the oldest of which is five years younger than me, which is twelve shades of fucked up.

I told him all of this. We've been talking for months and in this time I've suggested he's too old for me, I could never be a stepmother, I think his daughters would disapprove, that most of his attraction for me is because I'm 30 years his junior... and despite all of my protests, he still asked me out. So, in accordance with my blog rules and against my better judgment, I went.

I can now say I have a newfound respect for those, whom popular culture has deemed "gold diggers."

Let's take a moment and look at the evolution of this relationship. Heff has been doing it for years, but the general consensus is that Bunnies have daddy issues and fewer brain cells than amoebae. However, recently it looks as though the older-man, younger-woman relationship has carved itself a place in the mainstream. Led Zepplin's guitarist dated a 14-year-old, Catherine Zeta Jones and Michael Douglas have been married for years despite a 25 year age gap, and - most importantly in my book - the characters Gloria and Jay from Modern Family have shown that age cannot contain love. Pop culture has been alternately fascinated by and disgusted with such unions, as these spreads from Marie Claire and People Magazine show.

But really, how could I possibly consider dating an older man? Honestly, it's self-explanatory once you know how dates with men my age have gone.

About two months ago, I decided to go on a date with Michael, a 23-year-old NYU student. He was studying to get his masters, also spoke German and Spanish, and had a good relationship with his parents and an appreciation for ice hockey. Perfect.

He also showed up to our date drunk, on purpose, so he could "have drunk munchies during dinner. They're the best." Strike one. He also happened to be making a sloppy ass of himself at my favorite bar in NYC. Strike two. Fun fact - I found out later the waitresses fondly nicknamed him McLovin, due to his unfortunate resemblance to Christopher Mintz-Plasse. 45 minutes into the most boring conversation I've had in my entire life, I couldn't take it a second longer. I bolted. I told him I had to help a friend move... at 9:00pm on a Saturday night.

I'm guessing he got the hint and quickly plotted his revenge. I flagged down our waitresses and got the check, and even offered up my credit card for half of the $75 bill (it's expensive german beer, what can I say.)

... and then waited.

... and waited.

... and waited some more. Fifteen minutes the check sat there, when I told him I had an emergency to get to. Finally I just gave the waitress the bill and paid. Including tax and tip, I paid damn near $90 on a first date and didn't even get a "thank you" for it. The best part? He still tried to kiss me and suggested we get tested for STDs so that he could "get it in" on the second date.

Welcome to my life.

I'm very comfortable with people older than I am; growing up I hung around my older siblings' friends, and for some reason adults always find me adorable. It's not hard to imagine that after a handful of bad dates like McLovin and a dash of amazing, flirtatious guys who are nevertheless attached to other girlfriends, I would look outside the (age)box.

I just got back from my date. We went to Nobu for dinner, where I had the best spicy tuna roll of my life. The $20 a glass wine put my best $20 bottle to shame. Who knew red wine could be so good? The girl at the liquor store once asked me if I was offended by wine that came by the liter. Offended? Fuckin' economical, given the way my friends drink. I was going to ask if they had something that came in a bag, but I guess a liter works too.

In addition to the usual first date questions, we talked about politics and investments, debated whether or not the Federal Reserve runs the country, and geeked out over our mutual love of international spy novels. It was a refreshing change. Well, it was... and then he referenced events that he had lived through and I had only read about in history books. In case you were wondering - yep, he was hot. Think George Clooney with a Long Island accent. I happen to think Long Island accents are the biggest turnoff in history, but then I stumbled upon one worse. I asked about his ex-wife.

I sat, mute yet content with my $20 wine, while he ranted for fifteen minutes about how all women are crazy. Let me preface this by saying that I agree. All women are nuts. I have no idea how men put up with it. If you, as a woman, are willing to recognize the crazy, embrace it, try to reason with it, and let go... it's tolerable. Hormones are unavoidable but you can find a way to tame them. So yeah, women are crazy. I agree. But I don't want it to spoil my incredibly delicious eel roll, a-thankyouverymuch. His divorce tale was mildly interesting and, not surprisingly, made him look like an all-American family man who tried to reason with a crazy wife and ended up losing out. I highly doubt that's the entire story.

Still, he insisted on giving me $40 for my cab ride home. The chivalry thing is not something I'm used to, as you can see from the following text message exchange:

Me: I'M ALIVVEEEE

Ashley: Yay! He didn't try to jump you?

Me: sort of. but he took me to a feast at Nobu and paid for a cab home, so I'm okay with it. Oh my lord, is this what gold diggers sound like?!?

Ashley: no, I believe gold diggers would have actually gone through with it and bedded the dude with no attraction

Me: Oh. Well he was cute for an old guy.. but still. Can't go through with it

Here's what it comes down to: I don't think there's much difference between gold diggers and prostitutes. Both are sleeping with people for money, but just in different contexts. And although he has all the positive, chivalrous qualities of someone with more experience, his baggage counteracts it.

Besides, for the money he spent on that dinner, do you have ANY IDEA how many dive bar beers and pool games that buys?!

------

Breaking up is hard to do

Well.. now seems as good of a time as any to test the dating waters.



To my surprise, I'm actually dating multiple people at the moment. Some have promise, some don't... some are from match, some aren't... tune in tomorrow for the details!





----

Kiss and Tell

So I've been sub-par at this whole blogging thing lately. Life predictably interfered - work, travel, friends, dating, and this horrible sprained ankle all contributed to my absence. Sorry. Our internet is on the fritz so I actually hobbled down to my friendly neighborhood Hooters to write this post, and since it's Halloween I'm being served by a waitress in heels and a bunny costume. I'm guessing this is what every 13-year-old boy's wet dream looks like. It's strange.

So now... *drumroll please* the long awaited "Kiss and Tell."

-----

I used to be frustrated when my mom asked me what kids meant by "hook up." We don't describe sexual relations through baseball analogies, instead mashing all the bases together onto one large continuum that covers everything from innocent kisses to kinky sex, or “smushing” as the Jersey Shore cast so eloquently named it.

I naively thought this confusion only lasted through college, where getting laid is about as difficult as shooting fish in a barrel. I’m coming to find the grey area persists in adult relationships as well. Friends with benefits, fuck buddies, hook ups, hooking up exclusively, casually dating... do you have any idea how many labels you can slap on a relationship? Here's a graphic to get you up to speed:

(You're going to want to click on that one to see all the details.)

I had this crazy idea about adult dating, particularly online dating, would somehow be different than college dating. Now it's not just a first date with a guy, it's also my first meeting with him. There's no vetting process. I have no mutual friends with these men and some of them are too old for facebook, so third-party investigations are a no-go. So far, the only real difference between college and adult dating that I've identified has been in apartment decor. Taped-up posters from allposters.com are swapped out for generic, yet pretty, framed pictures from IKEA. There may or may not be a creepy roommate, depending on how old he is, and the booze is a few steps above Bankers Club.

Still, men are men. I've kissed three different guys that I've met on match.com dates, and only one of those was strictly voluntary.

My first kiss was on my second date, with Derek from my "What the Fuck" post. After his infamous comments, I wanted to finish my food as fast as humanly possible and find a cab home. In case anyone was wondering, Indian food is not exactly something you can scarf down. As our meal finally ended, I put one hand up to hail a cab. He grabbed my other hand, did some kind of spin move I imagine he learned from watching "Dancing with the Stars" and stroking off at night, and planted a sloppy one right on my smacker. I nearly gagged.

Next, I kissed a senior citizen. Well, nearly. He was 43. Interestingly enough, this was Victor of "What the Fuck" fame. I'm not stupid. I tune into body language. When someone likes me, I can tell. He'll go out of his way to touch my arm while he's talking, maybe joke about our plans for date two, or give me lingering hugs for totally unnecessary reasons. Now during this date with Victor, I was aware that he might read into my body language. So, I carefully crafted my body language to say "fuck you." I sat on the opposite side of the table, kept my hands and feet to myself, and gave a non-committal laugh when he talked about our second, third, and fourth dates. "Let him dream," I thought.

Well, I thought wrong. Have you ever seen those nature shows, where the alligator is sliding silently below the water, then shoots up to grab some unsuspecting bird? Yeah. That happened. We got up from the table and I was looking for a cab when SCHOOM he grabbed my hand. This guy was not letting go either; it was a sweaty death grip. I finally spotted a cab and SCHOOM he swooped in again for a kiss. I pushed him away, actually said "ew", and then went home to take multiple showers.

I'm not against kissing on the first date, I'm just against kissing people involuntarily. Aside from these two instances, I've become the Muhammad Ali of dodging awkward first date kisses. A guy going for one can expect me to turn it into a quick hug or a peck on the cheek, but there are very few that can penetrate my defenses. I've become better with practice.

Then, there was the one I did kiss. His name was Jack. He was 31, a chemical engineer, very tall, mildly awkward, but definitely cute and a very good kisser to boot. We dated casually for around two months - he met some of my friends, I met some of his friends, and I thought things were going great.

... and then I got dumped for not putting out.

Putting out, smushing, sexing, bumpin' uglies... whatever you want to call it, I got dumped for not doing it. Fan-freaking-tastic. I did have a very good reason for not jumping in bed with him: we weren't exclusive. In this world of multiple sex partners and rampant STDs, you better believe I'm not sleeping with someone who's also having one night stands in clubs or getting ass from tranny prostitutes in New Jersey. Here's how our conversation went:

Me: Hm. I don't know how to bring this up. I'd really like to.. but... I mean, I like you, but I only sleep with guys I'm dating exclusively. Besides, I really don't know how you feel about me.

Him: .....

Me: ... and?

Him: ......

Me: Well if you have to think about it that long, I think I have my answer.

It might help to explain - we were both a little drunk and that conversation took place around 4:00am in his apartment. Also, I'm pretty sure I caught him completely off guard with it, as it's not something we had previously discussed. It was by no means my smartest moment. I'm sure he had certain expectations given the late hour and our level of intoxication, but that doesn't mean I'm going to drop my pants.

So that's the score. Three kisses, one real kiss, and countless awkward cheek-kisses. Good news: since the blog is now subscription only, I can be as specific as humanly possible moving forward. None of this "we hooked up" shit, expect overshare central... once it happens.

I might expand this post later but I really need to get out of here - I'm surrounded by fake boobs and I keep wondering if they float like life preservers in pools. If I stay here long enough, I might actually ask.

------

Update

UPDATE: Oh no! The old man canceled our date! No live tweeting tonight.

... I'm not complaining. We rescheduled for next week Thursday - I originally said Friday but he has to pick up his daughter that day. Yep. You read that correctly. His kid. What the hell does he think we have in common?


Coming up in the next post: I kiss and tell about gettin' physical (or not) on Match.com dates.

Well this is a new low.

Tonight I have the great misfortune of going on a date with a fifty-fucking-three year old. Can we pause for a second and think about that? FIFTY THREE.

He was born in 1957, which means he probably remembers where he was when Neil Armstrong walked on the moon. He also lived through the Civil Rights movement, free love, the Kennedys, and probably remembers when the price of gas was below $2.00.

*Moment of silence for my dignity*

I talked with him about a month ago and totally forgot about him until he texted me last week.


Me: I'm sorry I got my numbers all confused. How old are you again?
Ricky:: 31 plus :)))
Me: ... how much plus are we talking?
Ricky: First of all Betsy you wanted to make sure I'm not a serial killer hAha and I'm not and second of do you remember txting me at all? :)
Me: It was a long time ago! And the serial killer thing was totally a valid question
Ricky: I guess but ************** Pharmacists are number one!! So you are in good hands :) I remember you went to U Penn right
Me: And now I remember you're 53... right?
Ricky: Yes but I look like 30 cause I'm in great shape work out like crazy and I'm so young at heart!
Me: Okay I've had my fair share of old men looking for a fling. Why exactly do you want to hang out with a 22 year old?
Ricky: For the knowledge of someone who may not have the experience but is so smart as to figure it out pretty easily! Plus your beautiful :)) I can have a great convo with you I'm sure
Me: I'm sure you're not just looking for conversation

There were a few more texts after that, but you get my drift. I was myself throughout this exchange - I told him he was a creeper and sketchy and wayyy too old for me - but he insisted on asking me out at the end of it.

So, I'm going.

But here's the best part - my BFF 'FO LYFE Ingram is going to come along incognito. She's going to use my twitter account and tweet her very judgmental observations, since I will be otherwise occupied (plus, my sister yells at me for not tweeting enough. Sorry Mags. *tweet*)

@thewinkproject

The fun starts at 7:30pm... don't miss it!




---

Call me crazy...

I have to admit there's another reason why I'm on match.com. Yeah, my dad initially suggested it as a good way to meet new people in a strange city and their commercials on Hulu are strangely persuasive. Still, I think self-reflection is an important part of growing up and I would be lying to all of you if I didn't admit to one fact: I'm bad at picking men.

First, I have no gay-dar. None. In Minnesota there are two extremes - a guy either resembles Paul Bunyan or is fabuloussssssss *snap*. That's an oversimplification, but you get my drift. The metrosexual fad on the East Coast is driving me insane. I'm all for a guy taking care of himself, but if he knows more about designer jeans and buys more expensive hand cream than I do, shit's not going to work out.

Let me explain it this way. I was at a Mexican restaurant last week with a recently single girlfriend of mine, and the male waiters at this fine establishment were stunningly gorgeous. We're talking unfairly hot. I spotted a guy at the bar who is the epitome of my type - tall, brown hair, blue eyes, broad shoulders, insane smile, with an intangible masculine air about him. Sure, he was mouthing every word to Beyonce's "Single Ladies" and shaking a mojito with a little too much hip action but come on, who doesn't? Ten minutes later our equally good looking waiter was painfully explaining why Mr. McBeautiful would never, ever be interested in me.

"Oh him at the bar? Ummm yeah. No, he doesn't have a girlfriend, but he's actually a homosexual. Come to think of it, every guy working here tonight is. So don't feel bad!! You have to understand... it's not YOU.... it's just that he doesn't like women."

Yeah, he got a big tip.

So I have no gay-dar, which is mostly funny and slightly uncomfortable at times, but doesn't mean I have bad judgment with men. Oh no. Here's what does: I get blinded by the fun of dating and forget to think clearly.

He stood me up last night. Jackass. But look at the cute text message he sent this morning! All is forgiven.

I mean technically he does have a girlfriend, but they're going to break up.

He doesn't have a college degree and is essentially drinking himself stupid on his parents' dollar, but isn't he funny?!

He's deployed in Iraq and when he gets back we'll be dating long distance indefinitely. Whatever. International dating can work.

There's no winning in these situations. I am smart enough to logically understand this. Unfortunately, my heart is borderline retarded. (In my defense they were all gorgeous, but teenage hormones are only partially to blame for my ridiculous track record.) This is where match.com actually provides a valuable social service. The deal-breakers are right up front - education, height, ability to string a sentence together, etc - and this businesslike approach makes it much more difficult to get bowled over in the sweet details which, in the end, can't sustain a relationship.

Admittedly, this approach takes some of the fun out of getting to know someone. I also have to deal with wading through creepers and enduring unbelievably awkward dinners. Still, at least the guys on the site are straight and single... and for me, that's a step in the right direction.

---

Sometimes you just gotta say, "What The Fuck...?"

I am not an easily flustered person. Case in point – my mother and I have an ongoing argument about autofellatio. If you're unfamiliar with the subject I would suggest looking it up on Wikipedia, but it's not work appropriate material. You've been warned. Our conversations revolve around whether it’s physically possible, what the ramifications for one’s sexuality would be, how relationships would change because of it, etc. It takes a pretty darn unflappable person to talk with her own mother, even hypothetically, about whether or not sucking one’s own penis made one gay. Her latest thoughts on the subject, “I’m not sure what it would mean in the grand scheme of things, but I’m sure all men would be pretty damn happy about it.”

Even with acquaintances, I rarely get nervous when people cross the usual social boundaries. I once sat next to a sixty-year-old, twice-divorced woman on an airplane who insisted on sharing every detail of her sex life with me. Kudos for still getting it on at that age, I say. It’s not exactly my go-to topic of conversation with complete strangers, but if she wants to grab my iPhone off the tray table, look at the Cosmo Kama Sutra app and give me her personal feedback on each of the listed positions… well, there’s not a whole lot I can do to dam up that river of overshare. I figured it was karmic retribution for cutting the boarding line. So instead of shying away from the inherent awkwardness that is discussing reverse cowgirl with someone old enough to be my grandmother, I rolled with it.

Embrace the awkward. In the world of online dating it’s a necessity. After perusing the buffet of profiles, exchanging a few witty emails, and agreeing to meet, the two parties have come to a tacit understanding. If you find the other person attractive enough and relatively sane, you’ll date. It is nice to have clear expectations – there’s no question if “hanging out” or “grabbing dinner” is a platonic or romantic suggestion. They’re all dates. But when a first date with someone is also a first meeting, the stage is set for Awkward to make an appearance. Even for someone who finds humor in the uncomfortable, there have been times when all I could do was sit back and say, “What the fuck…?”

Derek* was a private investigator I met for a low-key Indian dinner one Thursday night. He was decent looking – tall, broad shoulders, good smile – and could carry on a conversation. I thought he might be one of the elusive Normal People on the site. I could not have been more wrong.

Somewhere between the Naan and my spicy Chicken Tikka, the creep-o-meter started to edge upward. We were swapping stories about childhood and he took this as an opportunity to explain what type of parent he wants to be when he has little ones of his own.

He said, and I shit you not, “Well if I have a daughter, I think I’m going to sell her virginity on eBay. She’s going to be a whore anyway. I might as well make some money off of it.”

WHAT. THE. FUCK.

This is not 1940s Japan and we are not, to the best of my knowledge, in an episode of “True Life: Memoirs of a Geisha.” In what universe is that an appropriate thing to say, especially on a first date?

Things I learned from this WTF moment, brought to you by Derek:

1. People who talk about selling their daughters’ bodies in any capacity most likely have a deep seeded, yet barely concealed hatred of all women.
2. Be careful while sipping beer. My involuntary gasp sent bubbles straight up my nose. I ended up sneezing Sam Adams for a full day afterward.

One of my other dates, Victor, blindsided me with a triple WTF. Since I actually read the profiles of people I’m going to meet, it became abundantly clear that he lied through his teeth about, well, everything.

“So my ex-wife…”

WHAT.

“… we broke up because as you get older… I don’t know. People change. I mean I’m almost 43….”

THE.

“… and you’re beautiful and young. Women of a certain age, you know like 30-year-olds, are just not appealing anymore."

FUCK.

So you dumped your poor ex-wife because of some sad mid-life crisis, and now you’re saying that even if we do go the distance you’ll dump me when the clock strikes 30? Buy a fucking Ferrari instead. It’ll last a lot longer than this date will.

Things I learned from this triple-whammy WTF, brought to you by Victor:

1. People lie, even on (or especially on) match.com
2. Try to die before I’m 30 and apparently become repulsive to the opposite sex
3. Maybe I should invest in mace. Or a Taser. Nothing says “I’m outta here” like 50,000 volts and making a guy lose bladder control

People like Derek and Victor make conversations with my dear ‘ole mum seem downright normal. Autofellatio? The sexual escapades on Jersey Shore? Sure. Bring it on mother.

---

Date Night!

I do owe you all a nice, full-length post, and I promise I will get to it later this afternoon. Cross my heart. I would have written it last night but I was busy getting bitched at by some drunk, shrieking Yankees fans. Jealous?

I did want to announce one thing though - LIVE TWEETING FROM MY DATE TONIGHT!

@thewinkproject

That's right. At 7:00pm eastern time, I will be sitting down to grab a slice of pizza with a rather handsome fellow named Michael. Let's run down the list of dealbreakers:

- Is he interesting? So far so good. The email exchange has been entertaining

- Does he have a college degree and/or steady employment? No suga mama action going on here... Yep. Well, sort of. I'll figure it out.

- Is he taller than me? maybe. His profile says 5' 9'', but most guys I've met are shorter than their posted height



Don't miss it!




---

The First of many First Dates.

What did I just say? Mark. Wait… is that even his name?

I blame the heat. It was a disgustingly sticky New York evening, one of those nights where subway passengers and bar-goers alike brave the conditions only to leave little ass sweat angels on their seats. I was half a beer into my first ever Match.com date, and “dull” is the most flattering way I could describe the situation. I put my mind on autopilot and launched into a story I’ve told thousands of times, one that involves spring break, Munich, a strong beer festival, and finishes with dancing on tables amid lederhosen-clad Bavarians. It’s a real crowd pleaser. It was in the middle of this story that I found my mind wandering. Then I gestured in my date’s direction and said his name. Mark.

Mark. Marrrrrrk. He doesn’t look like a Mark. He’s from the Philippines, right? I don’t remember his name being difficult to pronounce. That’s right, he took an English name. Maybe “Stan” or “Donald”… it sounded like something out of a popular baby names book from the 1950s.

Shit. Focus.

I looked up from my pint and froze. Usually I hold a person’s gaze for an almost unnerving amount of time, but I had been absentmindedly people watching while telling my tale. Years ago some magazine published a pop psychology article on eye contact, which concluded that averting your eyes from another person’s gaze was an expression of either submission or fear, neither of which are particularly appealing in a date. Whether there’s any truth behind it I have no idea – what I do know is that he was 39, unattractive, and questionably employed, so I wasn’t concerned with turning on my A-game charm.

The confirmation of my mistake was written all over his face. I had indeed called him the wrong name.

LEONARD!! HIS NAME IS LEONARD! Wow. Mark and Leonard are not even close. L and M are neighbors in the alphabet, but those names are on two different continents. Dammit mom, why did you have to yell at me about my enunciation today of all days?

Mumbling couldn’t possibly have covered it up. Still, I had taken her advice to heart and “Mark” came out of my mouth, perfectly articulated. Clear, crisp consonants began and ended the word. He looked confused. Honestly, given the way our date was going this was hardly the lowest point in the night.

I arrived at the bar right on time and started looking around for my date, a 5’ 8’’ juiced-up Asian with a scraggly ponytail and tattoos. From his pictures, he appeared to be as wide as he was tall and built like a brick shithouse. If the bodybuilding, Mr. Olympia version of Arnold Schwartzenegger had a lovechild with Jackie Chan, Leonard would have been that child. I spotted someone who matched his description standing at the bar, deep into conversation with another woman. I was still standing near the bar when I saw him get her number, turn toward me, and introduce himself as my date.

Awkward.

The next fifteen minutes were about as enjoyable as a body cavity search. I stumbled on the uneven floor and fell right into him, leading to an uncomfortably long embrace; he explained to our waiter that we were on a blind date, but it was acceptable because I was pretty; and later he brought up our 17-year age gap and wanted to psychoanalyze my “apparent father issues.”

No, you arrogant fuck, I do not have father issues. I lucked out in that department and have the best set of parents a kid could ask for. I’m working my ass off to be as pleasant as possible, but you’re really getting on my last nerve. Prick.

Following his Freudian faux pas, I quickly steered the conversation into safer waters and planned out the rest of the date in my head. Spring break story, laugh laugh laugh, “oh it’s getting late”, and bolt. Unfortunately this little Mark slip-up threw me for a loop. I tried to cover it up with laughter, but it was too late. He heard it. I heard it. Even the waiter heard it. I decided to completely ignore the elephant in the room, skip the rest of my story and get right to the “oh it’s getting late” phase of my plan.

The man still tried to kiss me. I ducked the first pass and narrowly escaped the second - he landed a sloppy, tongue-y one on my cheek before eventually giving up and going home.

Lesson learned: name tags are totally underrated.

---

How It Works

"Let's tell people we met at Starbucks."

Despite what the Match.com commercials promise (1 in 5 relationships now start online! This is an acceptable way to meet your significant other! Lowest murder rate around... WE GUARANTEE IT!!), online dating remains stuck in social limbo. Years of negative stereotypes and scandal - pedophiles on MySpace, exhibitionists on Chatroulette, and let's not neglect the prostitutes on Craigslist - stained its reputation so badly it would take a wunderteam of Brawny and PR genius to clean up the mess.

Do I admit to strangers that I'm on Match? Fuck no. No matter what rosy statistics its marketing team put together, online dating is the equivalent of desperation, conjuring up images of sad Cathy comics and far too many cats. It's a last resort - the gastric bypass of dating. "What, you can't meet someone at bar like the rest of us normal folk? You're either a troll or certifiably insane. Have fun in your windowless basement room emailing middle-aged virgins!"

I'll freely admit that part of the reason I'm writing this blog is to justify my existence on the site. People ask questions... like "how'd you two meet?" Sure, that's innocent enough. But the temperature drops five degrees and shit gets rull awkward when the answer is "oh you know... we met online."

*pause for uncomfortable laughter*

If I don't feel like explaining The Project, I say it was a blind date set up by a friend. If the date was "I-might-consider-becoming-a-lesbian" bad, I say it was set up by a friend with a sick sense of humor. Any way you shake it, I'm not quick to fess up to my Match.com membership. Since my life is usually an open book, I'm guessing other people are equally as tight-lipped about their experiences in this arena.

So here's an introduction to the site - we'll call it Online Dating 101.

First, you have to create a profile. For all you technologically inclined youngins, this is similar to setting up a Facebook profile, but all of the fields are different. For example, you can fill out the following about you:

- Relationship Status: never married, separated, divorced, widow/er

- Age range: how old are you? how old will you date?

- Physical appearance: eye color, race, body type, hair color

- Interests: music, movies, etc

- Lifestyle: do you drink? smoke? what's your job? salary? religion?

- Photos: they encourage recent pictures, but there's no repercussion for lying

Next, you get to define the same fields for your partner. For example, I'm looking for someone taller than me with a bachelor's degree. Obviously, you can be much more specific in your search, including restrictions on income level and religion and so on, but I thought it was better to begin broad.

Fun fact: in poker, people often give themselves away by a "tell." In online dating, I'm convinced this "tell" is the username. JerseyBoy** was a juicehead who idolized The Situation and fell asleep at night dreaming about contracting STDs from Snooki. Another gem named IvyLeagueStud4U** was, not surprisingly, an elitist snob who only dated European-influenced women who could pull off riding a bike in stilettos. Needless to say, I failed his test. I'm sorry, but I've accepted the fact that I can't compete with the effortless elegance of French women. I have to rely on my wit and charm instead. Apparently he thought I was awkward and dull - shit happens.

After setting your search parameters and viewing the results, there are two ways to get in touch with another user. First, and most common, is a wink. (Note: wink... like the blog name! See? It all makes sense!) A wink is similar to a Facebook poke - it's a way to say "hi" or, if you're a little more enthusiastic, a "hey girl heyyyyyy" without having to expend the effort of an email. Mirroring real life, there are rules in the online dating world. For example, don't wink at someone AND email them... unless you want to reach a whole new level of desperate. If a guy winks at a girl: he thinks you're hot and probably hasn't read your profile. Winking is cheaper, easier, and faster. If a guy emails a girl: he probably likes you. Congrats!

I don't know much about girl-girl or guy-guy interactions on the site - totally cool with me in general, but since I'm not looking for a lesbian lover (yet... but good lord I might switch teams if things keep going the way they are), I wouldn't really know. I'll try and get a few guest bloggers in from time to time who either represent other sites, sexual orientations, or age ranges to liven up the mix.

If you have any questions about the process that I haven't covered, leave them in the comments. For the next post: let the dating begin!

Let's start at the very beginning

... a very good place to start.

I suppose the beginning of this story dates back to when I moved to New York this past June. My new job was challenging and awesome in its own way, but there was one glaring hole in my life - friends. When I first started out, it was not a social office. My days consisted of coming to work, drinking unholy amounts of caffeine, putting in my earbuds, and listening to my iPod all day while building LTV models in Excel. I could, quite literally, go an entire day without uttering a word. I tried it on one rainy Tuesday - not only did I succeed, but I was weirdly amused by it. I'm pretty sure that was a huge red flag signaling I was starved for some form of human interaction.

So to fix my nonexistent dating and social life (and after suffering through thousands of their commercials on Hulu), I caved. I signed up for match.com. Here's the blurb I wrote about myself:

Online dating? I thought that was only for creeps and old people. Since I already signed myself up for six months of this, I'm hoping to be proven wrong.

I just moved to the big city for a job in SoHo. While I consider myself to be personable, I'm finding it rather hard to meet people in a place as overwhelming as New York. So here I am.

As I am originally from Minnesota, I'm looking to spend time with someone who shares the same values. I don't mean "values" in the political, Sarah Palin "real America" sense; I mean that I don't think expensive clothing, an apartment address, or an annual salary should define your view of yourself or others. For me, ambition, education, and common sense are much more important.

There is nothing sexier than a good writer. Seriously. "U" is not a substitute for "you" and there, their, and they're actually mean three different things. I hold a special place in my heart for the oxford comma. Good grammar is hot.

I'm sure everyone writes this, but it's true: I love to travel. I lived in Munich for awhile and enjoy anything and everything German. I've gone to Europe nearly every year for the last five years, and nothing makes me happier than a slow train, a good book, and the European countryside whipping by outside the window.

If anything I've written has piqued your interest in the slightest, feel free to get in touch!

Surprisingly, there are quite a few well-educated, employed, darn good lookin' men on there. Awesome. A few of them have already gotten in touch with me. Double awesome. However, one fun side effect is that I also get emails from guys like this:

From: nuggets77**

Stats: 19 years old, high school dropout, standing at a napoleonic 5 ft. 6 in tall, whose profile is littered with shirtless mirror pics and backwards hats

hey how are you cutie do u have a cell :)).... ill tell u about me im kinda tall i have a nice build to myself i think youll like lol33.......i love buying and seling dirtbikes and 4 wheelers to make money...for my hobby i like to race them lol...i have a sister shes 20 and she goes to college... i currently work for my dad doing garage doors he owns his own buisness which is cool..im looking to open up my own buisness small engine repair shop which would be cool lol i think ...ya and i just took a test for high school which i hope i past global regents hopefully i did umm im not still in highschool just need that one test lol yupp......soo ya i wear all different types of clothes aeropostale to hollister lol yaa. ya i think your very cute soo when u get this message just smile that would make me happy hahah

... not exactly a promising beginning. My second night started off equally as bad, when I had one (very short) conversation that went like this:

Jerseyboy: hey! I came across ur profile and just wanted to say hi ;) what ru up to?

Schneids1744: oh nothing.... just having a beer and watching the Office. Wow, I sound like a dude.

Jerseyboy: i'm not rly a beer guy

Schneids1744: really? hm. that's surprising.

Jerseyboy: yeah... too many carbs

Jerseyboy: wow.. i sound like a girl

Schneids1744: yes, yes you do.

**end of conversation**

The first few days were a mixed bag of messages from old men looking for a fling, young guys looking to lose their virginity, and fat dudes thinking I might be desperate enough to give them a shot. At this point, I'd just about had it. After my second glass of wine for the evening, I had a thought - if I have to suffer through this bullshit, you should have to also.

And thus the project was born. During the entire six months of my match.com membership, I would continue to contact people that interest me, but I also vowed to meet every person who contacted me.

Every.... single.... one.

This includes the napoleonic, grammar-challenged dropout and "JerseyBoy", the juiced-up Guido wearing more hair gel than should be legal. And then I'd write about it. Since I knew my parents would freak out at the prospect of me meeting with strangers all over Manhattan, I drew up a few rules.

The Rules:

1. If you wink at me, I will wink back. If you email me, I will email you back. For every action on your part, I will respond in kind.

2. However, I will be myself through any and all interactions. I will not pretend to be ditzy, uneducated, or to care about science fiction movies just for the sake of a date.

3. I will email my sister before all new dates with the place, time, and screen name of the guy I'm meeting. If I do end up getting chopped up into little bite-size pieces, at least you'll know where to start looking.

As of now I am about two months into my match membership and felt the time was ripe to share my trainwrecks, heartaches, and silly moments with the world.

Enjoy.