September 22, 2010 § 4 Comments
Sometimes you meet a man and within the first 30 seconds your posture sinks, your head tilts, and you need a handkerchief to wipe up the drool. Most of the time it starts with his sly, corner-of-the-eye smile. It’s subtle, but you know it’s just for you. Hold on, I need to peel my chin off the floor, try to form actual sentences, and attempt to remember my name, and more importantly my age. And it was just a little ol’ smile. Total swoon. It’s the trifecta of the charming man and no woman is safe from his spell.
These men glow with god-given charisma and suddenly all the women in the room are running into walls, tripping over their own shoelaces, and kissing babies that aren’t their own, spontaneously blinded by the stars in their eyes. All the single gals engage their claws.
He becomes a trophy synonymous with a bride’s bouquet. And never underestimate the ultimate power-move: the bouquet toss. We have all seen enough America’s Funniest Home Videos to be aware of the danger in this sport.
The trifecta is a perfectly balanced cocktail of boyish charm, old-fashioned sensibility, and sharp whit with hints of kindness and worldliness. He’s the man who will buy you a drink, subtly reveal a past heartbreak, crack jokes about current events, and at the same time weaving in his admiration for his mother. All while telling you that you are the most gorgeous girl he’s ever laid eyes on. You believe every word. Think Mad Men’s Don Draper.
Not too long ago, I experienced such an encounter with a striking ginger-haired bartender. If you know me, you know I love a red beard. If I had a type it would be Irish. With an Irishman you know what you are getting yourself into, maybe a temper, most likely a drinking problem, but for certain, a fun loving guy with a sensitive side. Not to mention, Irishmen are the most loyal of them all.
I was meeting some Patriots fans to watch a game. Having lived in Boston only a short while before moving to Los Angeles, my allegiance doesn’t lie what-so-ever with Tom Brady, but as a Michigan girl, the Lions weren’t doing much for me either. Regardless, I love to enjoy a game of ball with a beer and old friends. Boston fans are fiercely devoted (most of them are Irish, case in point), so naturally the Beantown Bar we were trying to cram into was at max capacity. Plan B: throw a stone, hit an Irish Pub, order a pint, and the Pats game will surely be on.
I caught up with my friends at the second pub, my scan of the Sunday Football crowd was pleasantly interrupted by a certain tall Irish bartender. Pleasant is an understatement, it was magical. Hello, blue eyes! Oh that group of loud bumbling Pats fans harassing you, yeah… unfortunately, I’m with them. Thanks guys. I’ll just take my Guinness and be over here, mortified, if you need me.
One could assume that I no longer was there to watch the game. Of course I tried to play it cool as I watched his every move, gracefully dancing from one end of the bar to another, sharing his winning smile with lucky patrons. Certainly, I wasn’t the only one who noticed his charm. Even the burly lumberjacks I came in with were making side comments and developing man-crushes. Good, so it’s not just me, this man has the power to turn straight men gay.
Every once in a while we would make eye contact as he slung beers at my end of the bar. But then when I got up from my stool to graduate to the bathroom, he winked at me. Yup, he winked right at me. Normally, winks are kind of creepy, but this guy had the trifecta, he must have read my weakness. I had a grandfather who would pass me pieces of candy before dinner with a wink. There’s a special place in my heart for winking and I felt satisfied that I had received special attention.
At the end of the game we closed out our tabs and collected right outside the bar. The place was still packed, and I had resolved that the one wink was all I was probably going to get from Mister Handsome. As we were waiting for stragglers, my group started talking about him again. That’s the thing with charming men, they leave a lasting impression. Just as they were patronizing me for not striking up a conversation with him, speak of the devil, he walks outside assessing the area. Our eyes locked, another wink. Okay, now my knees are weak.
Once under the spell of the Charming Trifecta a lady must make a bold move to prove she is worthy. Fortunately for me, I was surrounded by enough clear thinking people, and had the consumed the right amount of liquid courage to make that bold move. I, like any good soldier, am prepared for anything as long as I have my big purse. I tore a piece of paper from my notebook and with careful tact, legibly scrawled my number. Without allowing too much time for second thoughts, I marched into the bar and right up the gentleman. “I know you probably get this a lot, but here’s my number,” I blurted out trying to disguise my fear. I was sure I was out of my league. Never has a man made me so tongue tied. My nerves were eased as the trifecta took hold of me. The intoxication of his small talk sent me over the edge and into the poppy field. It took all my power not to shout with delight as I skipped out the door.
He said he would call me on Friday and I totally believe him, and his electric blue eyes and dashing smile. And if nothing else, It was truly explosive to make the acquaintance of the striking ginger-haired Irishmen with the trifecta of a charming man.
September 21, 2010 § 1 Comment
With text messaging recently introduced as a weapon in the arena, the rules of courtship have shifted to accommodate this new utensil. We must remember, not too long ago, probably only within the last five years, the “3-5 day rule” still applied. Thanks to men who are chicken-shit and the movie Swingers, it was known to make a girl wait for a phone call after acquiring her number. How or why this rule came to fruition, we may never know.
It became customary for a gentleman to meet a lady on a Saturday, if she liked his feathers she would politely pass along her digits. He would then wait up to five days while she simmered in angst: he likes me / he likes me not syndrome. Somewhere around Wednesday, and the point where she’s compulsively consuming pints of Ben & Jerry’s like it was her last meal, he’ll offer to take her out over the weekend.
I’m not lying when I say that there is a certain amount of women who have a go-to fake number. Some men do not speak body language. Excuse me, MOST men do not speak body language, and none of them seem to understand that a woman may simply be making casual conversation. Boys please, just because she laughs at one joke does not mean she wants to or would ever swap spit. Serving up false numerals gives a chick an out. She doesn’t want to outright offend or make a scene, but there are some men who won’t take no for an answer. The fake number was originally invented for that gangly, drunk, socially forward, sign language translator with a squirrelly eye that just won’t leave you and your bestest alone.
However, the introduction of text messaging has completely changed the game. When the modern manboy/horn-dog succeeds in getting a female’s digits there is no latent period. He’ll most likely text the very next day, or even worse, right there in front of her.
Case in point, my girlfriend and I were enjoying a very drunk night out. Her boyfriend, who we so affectionately call ‘dad’ was out of town and we were left to our own devices which included attempting a game of pool. A couple of Massachusetts boys, or Mass-holes, noticed how unsupervised we were along with the less then expert handling of our cues and the harassment began. I went with my knee jerk reaction and unleashed the fake number. Regretfully, it backfired.
When an immediate text occurs it completely disarms the fake number, my whole equilibrium was thrown off, now I have to come up with a lie: I lost my phone / oh that, that’s my friends phone / She likes me to hold it for her when she’s been drinking / Her phone is dead / Oh that lighting up like that, yeah, its on the fritz / Stop yelling at me / The voices are telling me to punch you. / I don’t want to play games, I just don’t like your face. Sadly, for these boys from Southy, I was able to deflect by collecting my counterpart and leaving them with our tab.
An instantaneous intro text is actually clever on the man’s part because it elevates the anxiety of a telephone conversation, which most men claim to hate anyway. But it’s because all of them, in some way, are frightened to talk to women. The administering an on-the-spot-text opens a dialogue immediately. If she responds promptly with batting eyes and giggles he can then space out his replies in intervals, creating a rollercoaster of girlish worry while allowing him ample time to think of clever responses to keep her on the leash.
Unfortunately, this could go on for days, even weeks if the guy is passive aggressive enough. Boys, listen up, the ladies are wising up to these antics and will loose interest if you volley text too long before actually calling her and asking her out. And about the go-to fake number, we’re wising up to that too. So don’t piss me off, because I’ll start giving out your number to random guys at the bar. *LOL fine baby girl. It’s the handsome guy you met last night at pub.* Now lads, that’s one confusing text from last night.
September 7, 2010 § 1 Comment
Enough with this personal messaging masturbation, my profile and textual whit cannot be that interesting to which all these men are satisfied with volleying sentences back and forth for weeks. I’m at the end of my rope, someone man-up and meet me in the flesh! This online dating thing is boring. After coming to the realization that I was over this and ready for real personal contact, I made a date with the first gentleman caller that inquired. I guess beggars can’t be choosers. I agreed to a date with a man named Melvin.
Yes, that’s right, his name is Melvin, a synonym for an extremely uncomfortable man-wedgie. Melvin. I accepted because after I learned his name, I figured it couldn’t get much worse. Poor Melvin. He was doomed from the womb.
I tried not to contemplate how communist his parents must have been, or why in his adult age he wasn’t going by his middle name, and reaffirmed my acceptance by looking at his profile. He seemed like a normal 27 year-old guy, kind of standard, tall with a nice smile. His instant messages were well crafted, prompt and smart. What could go wrong? Aren’t those the famous last words…
He agreed to meet me on my side of town. Damn right, I am not going out of my way for a Melvin. I picked a bar within walking distance from my house, I was sure to need a cocktail or five. I was late of course, and on my way I received a text message from him: I’m sitting at the bar… with a rose. Really? I almost turned around right there. Great, not only a Melvin, but also Captain Cheese. After swallowing my pride, I resolved to not stand him up. I didn’t want to be rude, his name is Melvin after all, I’m sure he’s been through enough.
Strike one, the hopeless romantic move, automatically putting an extreme amount of pressure on an already uncomfortable situation. Strike two, those must have been glamour shots on his profile, because I almost didn’t recognize him. Things were not going well for Melvin, and we hadn’t even said hello.
Now, I’m not really a hugger or a fan of unnecessary touching in general, especially with strangers. Melvin skipped the handshake and went right in for the hug. Strike three. Poor Melvin. As I sat down to settle in for conversation my eyes darted around for the waitress. Something strong, please.
I was hoping that I could at least get through 60 minutes of conversation without getting smashed, but my fears were confirmed when Melvin made his first Star Trek reference. Thank you, and may I have another, make it a double this time. I don’t know if it was because he was nervous or if he was just stupid, but his replies were delayed, like when you are taking an overseas phone call from a third world country. It was because of this and his too eager smile that I retreated to basically talking the entire time just to fill the negative space. My speech was fueled by the alcohol and I became so distracted by the pressure of being entertaining that I couldn’t properly form a plan to get out of there. The only thing I could do was let it run it’s course.
After nearly drinking an entire bottle of wine to myself, Melvin finally realized I was a lush and he should start thinking about how to get into my pants. Now that I think about it, maybe that was his carefully crafted plan all along. Of course I was not going to go along with that. Even when I’m drunk, you have to have at least an ounce of game to swoon me. Poor Melvin, there is not enough booze in the world to impair my judgment to the extent that I would give up more than an embrace. And even that’s pushing it.
He offered to drive me home, without batting an eye, I declined. The night was bookended with another hug, and I stumbled on my way. What a disappointment, and I wasn’t even expecting that much. Lucky for me, I found a sexy tattoo artist with exactly one ounce of game and spent the rest of the night with him. Poor Melvin.
September 2, 2010 § 1 Comment
Let’s face it, looks are important, but perhaps I judge too much. Tagging, untagging, and selecting the perfect profile picture that makes you look skinny with clear skin and flawless hair, all of us do it ad nauseam.
On my online dating profile I get a lot of messages saying: you are stunning, gorgeous, beautiful. Of course you think I am, those are the three best photos of me ever taken, period. And PS… I am proficient in Adobe Photoshop.
I was recently doing some light Internet stalking at work. Later this month I am attending a reunion of sorts where an old flame will be in attendance. I announced to my best friend not to let me, under any circumstance, sleep with him. Which is code for: only if he looks as good as I remember. She came back at me with the news that his girlfriend will be accompanying him. Bummer. Next step: become Facebook friends to scout out his main squeeze.
After this was completed, I immediately went to his profile in search of tagged pics, hoping he had gotten fat or ugly and I wouldn’t want to sleep with him anyway. I was just about to scrutinize his profile pic with his blonde bombshell when my boss caught me [APPLE W]. To my horror, he looked great in what I saw. For the next several hours I began devising my game plan, lamenting that I probably wasn’t going to get laid and would be fantasizing about it for far longer than necessary.
Upon my next available web moment I took his pictures into closer examination. To my astonishment, I was worried about nothing. He was not reflecting the hottie that I had built in my head, and his babe was no prize either. Profile pictures give a whole new meaning to cute from afar but far from cute. However, we will have to see if the disappointing tags will hold up after a few cocktails in the flesh.
This made me feel better at the moment, but then I was disgusted with myself for even participating in the act. Our online personas are shaped by our judgment of ourselves. We choose pictures where we look spectacular, thus raising the standard for everyone we come across online. People get mad, even end friendships over posting a horrible picture, or untagging one. As a rule of thumbnail, I say we collectively graduate to only posting pictures we all look great in. Our vanity precedes us, we update a profile pic where we look fantastic and the person next to us looks like they have just come out of electric shock therapy, drooling with a sleepy eye (aka drunk beyond reason). And don’t even get me started on the celebrity doppelganger episode that took place a few months back. Talk about narcissism.
Also, just because you have untagged an unflattering picture doesn’t mean we can’t see it if the person posting it has made the album public. I think this is Facebook’s way of keeping us in check. Let’s remember, people are just people, some of them happen to be super models, but most of us are not.