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.

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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.

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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!




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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.

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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.