Mr. Not Even Close

As some of you may recall, in a recent speed dating misadventure, I had the misfortune of having eight “dates” with eight ineligible bachelors.  And in an effort to recoup at least some of the fifteen euros that I wasted on that speed dating fiasco, I decided to say “yes” to Matthieu, the least offensive one of the lot — in the hopes that I’d at least get a date for my trouble.

Well, of course I’d get a date with Matthieu.  I had worn lip gloss.  I was a brilliant conversationalist.  I was, in a word, fabulous.

So it came as no surprise that our speed dating “interest” was “mutual,” and the online system sent me his contact information.  And it also came as no surprise to me that I didn’t need to use it, as he sent me an email straightaway to ask me out to dinner.

Now before I get into the nuts and bolts of how our dinner date went down, let’s review what I had written about Matthieu in my speed dating write-up:

Matthieu was kind of cute.  He seemed nice enough (I felt no desire to run away, rip his face off, or vomit.)  His only problem was that he suffered from what I’ve talked about in previous posts: munchkinosis.

He was small enough to fit in the pocket of a petite, 5’3″ Asian woman.

Needless to say, the prospect of seeing him again didn’t exactly thrill my socks off.  But I wasn’t repulsed either — which, in my warped parisian world of low standards, was a plus.

Sad.

But I tried to convince myself that perhaps I was too harsh on him at speed dating.  Maybe he wasn’t actually that small.  Maybe he was much cuter than I remembered.  Maybe his conversation was titillating.

First impressions aren’t always accurate, but in this case, they were.

Wait.  I’m getting ahead of myself.  First, to be fair, let’s go over the positive aspects of our date:

• He asked me out to dinner properly. Like a man.  Not nonsense like, “So, do you want to, maybe, hang out or do something sometime?  Together?  But only if you want to.  Do you want to?  Will you want to later?”
• He picked out a cozy restaurant and booked a table. I hate wandering around until we mutually decide on a place that we see.  (1) It’s never mutual.  (2) I don’t give a shit; I just want to eat, dammit.
• He was wearing an adorable sweater/jumper. Dear readers, you may not know this about me, but I’m a sucker for a man in a nice sweater/jumper.  There’s something so cuddly about it.  It makes me want to run up and snuggle.
• He ordered very nice wine. I’m pretty old-school.  Man takes woman out to dine, so man orders the wine.  In my book, it’s really up to him to set the tone of the date with this.  I don’t touch the wine list.  That’s just how I roll.
• He absolutely refused to let me pay. Believe me, I tried.  What a gentleman.

Matthieu had all the logistics down pat for a very nice date.  On paper, this date should have been perfectly satisfactory.  However, the negative aspects of the date has doomed Matthieu to my ever-expanding gallery of parisian date failures.

• He was exactly as small as I remembered. My shoulders were broader than his.  Not even an adorable sweater/jumper could save him.
• He was exactly as (un)cute as I remembered. Now I know why they hold speed dating events at Le Bizen.  The lighting there is freaking amazing.  And by “freaking amazing,” I actually mean, “so dim that you can barely see.”
• He refused to talk about himself. In fact he refused to talk in general.  Every time I tried to steer the conversation away from me by asking him questions, he’d respond with a few words and throw the conversational ball back at my face.  That’s exhausting for me and wildly inconsiderate on his part.  He essentially forced me to babble in French for over three hours (more or less non-stop).
• He didn’t make me laugh.  NOT ONCE. And since I promised myself not to fake-laugh anymore after my disastrous date with Mr. Fuckwit, I refused to fake any laughter on this date.  I made myself chuckle quite a few times, but that was clearly due to the copious amounts of wine that I’d drunk.

After teetering home, I crawled into bed, sent a few drunky emails and tweets, and dreamt about hedgehogs and purple daffodils.

People, I’m tired.  And a little broken.

Next, please.

n.b. – Apologies for a lackluster blog post.  I’m a bit strung out in the non-blog and non-dating related areas of my life, so I’m not in top form at the moment.  I’ll try to deliver a more satisfying blog morsel next time!

Ms. Top Five

A couple of weeks ago, the illustrious and infamous Fishy of Plenty More Fish Out of Water published a brilliant little piece about the top five things that he looks out for on his first dates.  It was positively inspiring.

So in honor of Fishy’s work, I’ve decided to compile my own list.

After almost five months of countless first dates and one second date, I’m finally able to pinpoint five major issues that I look out for on a parisian first date…

(1)  Are my arms bigger than his legs?

Another variation of this question is: Can I bench-press him?

It wasn’t until I moved to Paris that this was ever an issue.

I don’t know what it is about the life here that it makes the men so… slight.  Could it be the diet?  Could it be that the women here are so tyrannically bitchy that they literally reduce their men into tiny little slivers of manhood leftovers?

I have no idea.

All I do know is that this size differential is unacceptable.

I simply can’t date someone who looks like an anorexic baby giraffe.  Case in point: Mr. Pretty Woman, whose upper arms were the size of my wrist.

(2)  Is he tall enough to go on the adult rides at Disneyland?

At a whopping 5’3″, I’ve never had a problem finding a guy who is taller than me.

But it’s shocking how difficult this is in Paris.

Shameful.

Comical even.

I’ve discovered that no amount of first-date drunkenness is enough for me to find a munchkin attractive.

And while Mr. Almost There was the closest I’ve ever come to a decent first date, he was a victim of severe munchkinosis, which could be to blame for his insecurities and for the patronizing asstardedness that he displayed on our second date.

Yes, I went on two dates with him.  I had to prove to myself that height wasn’t a deal-breaker for me.

As it turns out, it is a dealbreaker.  At least in Paris, anyway.

Am I superficial and utterly without substance?

Abso-fucking-lutely.

(3)  Is his COCKtail actually a COOCHtail?

Just because “cocktail” has the word “cock” in it, by no means does that make it acceptable for a grown man to order one on a date.

For the same reason that a lady shouldn’t break out her big buckets of crazy all at once, a man shouldn’t sabotage his chances of seeing a lady’s naked woman-bits by ordering glow-in-the-dark girly drinks.

Obvious, right?

Not in Paris.

ALL my dates, including all my speed-dates, have ordered ridiculous frilly concoctions.  (There was even a drink whose glass was fitted with a tiny light fixture that changed the color of the drink every ten seconds.)  Mr. Love-You-Long-Time really blew it when he ordered his Hello Kitty coochtail and belittled my beer-drinking ways.

Asstard.

(4)  Is he capable of talking about something OTHER than my asian-ness?

Yes.  I’m Asian.

Of all people, I’m the last person who needs to be reminded of this fact.

I especially don’t want to be reminded by some pasty creep who doesn’t know his asian from his arse.

As I’ve discussed before, I have nothing against the Asian fetish.  It’s something that I can use to my advantage in today’s cutthroat dating marketplace.

But please.

I don’t want to be called a geisha (see Mr. Metro Casanova), and I don’t want to receive pictures of a guy and his dim sum (see “the deal-breaker“).

And guys, if you happen to have a penchant for the slanty-eyed ladies such as myself, don’t screw it up by saying the shite that some of my parisian idiot-dates have come up with.

(5)  Do I have the urge to either vomit or to run away screaming?

Mr. Icky almost made me vomit… in his mouth.

And I’ve run away from not one, but THREE dates.

By “run away,” I don’t mean that I made my polite excuses and parted ways amicably but quickly.

I literally ran away.

Mr. Cheshire Cat was the incarnation of all my most terrifying childhood nightmares, and I bolted after drinking only a quarter of my pint.  Mr. Ten Minute Wonder was the shortest date in my entire dating history (and no, it wasn’t a speed date!); I backed out so quickly that I lost a glove, which I’m still very upset about.  And Mr. Crazy had me sprinting through metro doors as they closed, at which point I got stuck and had to get pulled through by the other passengers.

As far as I’m concerned, as long as a guy doesn’t make my digestive system run in reverse, and as long as he doesn’t force me to run in heels, it’s a good start to our relationship.

************************

So as far as standards go, mine have plummeted since I started this dating experiment.

On a first date, I’ve stopped prioritizing substantive things like intelligence, wit, ambition, generosity, openness, etc.

Apparently, to get a pass on a first date with me, a parisian guy just needs to do two things:

• Fill out a suit that comes from the men’s clothing department — not the boy’s section

• NOT FUCK IT UP

According to my data, this is next to impossible.

Who would’ve thought?

So as I finalize my social calendar for this coming weekend, I fully anticipate coming home empty-handed yet again and falling asleep alone to choruses of…

… next, next, next, next, next…

Ms. Speed Dater (Part 2)

For those of you who missed my first attempt at speed dating (or “soft dating,” as they say here in Paris), you can catch up here.  It was a complete failure, and I was hoping that attempt #2 last night would fare better.

Well, “better” is a strong word.  The only way that last night’s speed dating was “better” was the fact that I actually got to go speed dating this time.

In every other way, this attempt #2 was much worse.

*************

I was excited about speed dating at first.  If anything, it was going to be a change of pace.  Literally.

When I stepped off the metro, I felt great.  I’d just had a nice steam and sauna at the gym, so I felt relaxed and confident.  And most importantly, I had lip gloss on.  So I felt like a wanton dating goddess.  (Lip gloss doesn’t have this effect on everyone, but that’s what it does to me, so don’t you judge me.)

After a greeter seated me, I scoped out the man scene.  None of them set my loins astir until the last two guys arrived.  I zeroed in on the broad-shouldered one  (I’m a shoulders/arms kind of gal).

The greeter told him to take one of the last two empty seats.  One was in front of me, and the other one was across from the most busted chick in the room.  (I’m not saying this to be mean.  I’m just stating a fact, based on hair, skin, makeup, body, fashion sense, and overall upkeep.  So don’t get your knickers in a twist.)

Mr. Shoulders locked eyes with me, and when I smiled…

… he made a beeline for the seat across from Ms. Busted.

I felt mildly disappointed and highly insulted.  I quickly checked myself in a mirror.  Nope, no warts, no scales, no horns…  Yup, lip gloss was still fabulous.  What the hell, man?

I suppose that it didn’t matter where he sat, since he would end up in front of me at the end of the speed dating round.  But still.  My ego hurt.

And so the speed dating began…

Date #1 – Matthieu

Matthieu was kind of cute.  I just hadn’t noticed at first because he came in with Mr. Shoulders.  Matthieu seemed nice enough (I felt no desire to run away, rip his face off, or vomit.)  His only problem was that he suffered from what I’ve talked about in previous posts: munchkinosis.

He was small enough to fit in the pocket of a petite, 5’3″ Asian woman.

But it was all downhill from there.  If it’s any indication, Matthieu was the ONLY guy that I put down as a “yes” in the end — if only to avoid coming away from this whole misadventure with no date at all.

Date #2 – Chan

Chan wasn’t hideous, but his French was incomprehensible.  I just sat there looking at him blankly as he struggled to form simple sentences.  It turned out that he was Indian, so we continued our date in English.

This didn’t make things much better.  Now that I could finally understand him, he was so boring that I preferred it when he was speaking gibberish.  Chan was proof that ten minutes is FAR too long for a speed date.

This also begged the question, why the hell would you go speed dating in Paris if you don’t speak a damn word of French?!

Date #3 – Charly

Charly just sat there in silence after introducing himself and kept scanning the room — as if he were on the lookout for something/someone better.

Douche.

Date #4 – Gauthier

Gauthier was a troll.  When he sat down, I had to suppress a shudder.

And he was obviously ill at ease and suffering from a severe case of verbal diarrhea.  Even worse, with his word speed of about 592 words per minute, I didn’t understand a damn thing that he said.

His speech impediment didn’t help either.

Date #5 – Gwenaen

I think we wasted a full three minutes or so as he tried to tell me how to spell and pronounce his name.  Unfortunately, that was the highlight of this date.

So.

Dull.

And he was wearing a t-shirt with suspenders painted on them.

Baffling.

Date #6 – Christophe

Another look-around douche.

And dumb as soup.

Date #7 – Jugo

Jugo was a Yugoslav Steve Urkel with bad teeth and even worse fashion sense.  When he first said his name, I thought that his name was Gustave.  Oops.

It could have been a great bonding/funny moment if this guy weren’t such a spastic fool.  Everything he said was punctuated with such over-exuberant body movements that he almost fell out of his chair a few times.  He, too, suffered from verbal diarrhea, and he thought that everything he said was riotously funny.  It was as if he was on a date with himself, the way he laughed at his un-funny jokes.

If you could play back my thought process during this date, you’d hear, “Shut up.  Shut up.  SHUT UP.  Shut UP.  ShutupgoddammitshutupwhyareyoustilltalkingshutUP.”

Date #8 – Sylvain

He was Pee Wee Herman.  He had those same, creepily rouged/rosy cheeks.

Pee Wee Herman terrified me as a child.

Enough said.

Date #9 – Mr. Shoulders

Speed date #9 was SUPPOSED to be with Mr. Shoulders, the one guy that I was excited to speed date.  But he left early before the round ended.

Of course he did.

The universe hates me.

*************

Bottom line: I paid 15 euros to drink one glass of wine and watch grown “men” drink cocktails with glowsticks and/or umbrellas.

What a waste of lip gloss.

This wanton dating goddess will save her lip gloss for more worthwhile endeavors.

Next, please.

PLEASE.

Mr. Almost There – Part 2

As some of you may recall, in my two-month anniversary post, my goal for March was to go on a second date.

And as of this week, I have finally broken my long string of first dates.  Mr. Almost There, the ONE decent date that I’ve had all year, asked me out for a second date!

And even though sparks didn’t exactly fly on our first date (he was a munchkin), I said yes so that I could give him a second chance to charm my pants off — a second chance to make me overcome my inability to be attracted to a munchkin man.

So this past Thursday night, and even though I had pulled out my flattest pair of shoes I was feeling optimistic…

The same jacket, I swear!

…until I saw him.

Mr. Almost There looked like the White Rabbit from Alice in Wonderland.  (This is the second time that my date has resembled a character from Alice in Wonderland — see Mr. Cheshire Cat.  Perhaps my dating life is just one endless LSD trip…)

He was wearing that very jacket AND carrying an enormous umbrella with a wooden hooked handle.  What made it worse was the fact that the length of his umbrella was almost 3/4 of his height!

I had to take deep breaths to avoid laughing hysterically.  I almost gave myself the hiccups.

His legs were this short too...

It didn’t help that when he started walking, he looked like the Disney version of the White Rabbit —>

Absurdly funny, but definitely not sexy.

Especially considering that I was still taller than him in my flat shoes (again, I’m 5’3″, people).

But then it got worse.

On this second date, Mr. Almost There came across as a bit of a condescending prick.  He asked me where I went to university, and after I told him, he started acting like a patronizing ass-face.

He probably felt insecure about whether he measured up intellectually.  Either that or he thought that I’d be turned on by a man who antagonized me about everything from not putting accents in emails sent from my iPod (the thing doesn’t even do accents!) to being unable conjugate “promouvoir” in the subjunctive (dude, I know French people who can’t conjugate it in the present tense).

What an asstard.

Munchkinosis + asstardedness = zero chance of hanky-panky.

Basic mathematics.

His insecurities about our intellectual equality were well-founded after all… because he definitely didn’t understand that equation.

Going in for the kill?

Mr. Almost There somehow thought that our date was coming along swimmingly.  At the end of the night, as we were saying our goodbyes, he leaned in for the kill…

It’s times like this that I LOVE living in France — a country where la bise, the kiss planted on each cheek, is a perfectly polite greeting and parting salutation.

Even Obama knows la bise.

… so I deftly executed what I call the Mouth-to-Cheek Slide, my best post-date-kiss evasion tactic.  I round off the move with a full la bise and step back to admire my handiwork.

The look on his face was priceless.

Befuddlement, sheepishness, and irritation.

The best thing about all this: the condescending turd can never accuse me of being impolite!

Muahahahaha.

Next!

Mr. Almost There

This will come as a shock to those who have been following my string of one-hit disasters on this blog.  But I just had a GOOD date.

Gasp!  Shock!  Awe!  Disbelief!

I know.  You all thought that I was a cynical, demanding harpy who enjoys putting man-products through my buzz-saw of criticism — just to get my giggles.

Well, maybe I am.  But not today.

Mr. Almost There was almost everything that I could ask for in a pleasant date buddy.  He provided witty and engaging conversation, he was passionate about his cool job and his hobbies, and he showed that he was a fun-loving guy who could also appreciate cultural activities and serious discussions.  He was also the consummate gentleman.

And he was cute as buttons.  He truly was.

There was only one problem:

Compared to him, I was kind of enormous.

I know that I have blogged before about the diminutive size of my date by making wisecracks about munchkins (see Ms. Drunk Date), but it matters more now that I actually like this guy.  In principle, I have nothing against smaller guys; I am not demanding in the sense that I need some Nordic giant on my arm.

But it’s just a little demoralizing when a lady of 1.6 m / 5’3″ dwarfs her male companion.  It’s just that I like to snuggle up to a substantial piece of man.  And “substantial” — in relative terms — is not that difficult to find for someone my size.

It’s not just a matter of height.  I hate to bring up a cliché, but size DOES matter.

My shoulders are broader than his.

My arms are about the width of his legs.

Not cute.

So I’ll bottom-line it for you all.  If he asks me out for a second date, I’d be more than willing to give it a shot.  And no, it won’t ONLY be due to the fact that it’s my goal for March (see Ms. Anniversary) to get a second date.

If he wows me a second time, I’m sure that I can get over my superficial concerns.  I’m a modern woman, after all, right?  Right??  (Am I saying this to convince myself?  Perhaps…)

Mr. Almost There really was ALMOST THERE.  He was almost attractive.  Almost.

Sigh.

I am such a superficial hussy.

Ms. Drunk Date

So I was chatting with a friend before my date, and she posed the following question: what would happen if I showed up drunk to the date?

Since these dates are part of a greater social experiment, this seemed like an absolutely brilliant idea.

One problem: I had less than one hour before my date.  But it was for the sake of science, so my friend brought out all her beer, I pounded them despite my empty stomach, and then I teetered out the door.

So with Project Drunky well underway, I arrived at the brasserie, only to discover that my date was…

…a munchkin.

Not only was he pint-sized, but he could not stop talking.  And since I couldn’t get a word in edgewise, I had nothing else to do but drink.

And LORD, did I drink.

It wasn’t entirely my fault.  I would turn away for just a second, and a full pint would magically appear in the place of my empty glass.  The munchkin was trying to ply me with alcohol!

And yet he continued to yammer on… and on… and ON.  About everything.  About nothing.  God, he just would not shut up.  During our date, I drank more beer per hour than I ever have since freshman year.

Finally, after two hours, he took a long sip of his drink, and I took advantage of this pause to tell him that I had to leave.  So I wobbled out of the brasserie and tried my best to stay upright as I crossed the road.  But just as I reached the middle of a major intersection, I came to a shocking — albeit delayed — realization:

At some point during my drunken haze of a date, I had agreed to go on a SECOND date.  A second date with a munchkin-motormouth!  I distinctly remember stopping in the middle of traffic and using most of my remaining brain cells to process the following thought:

“Fuck.”

I then used my remaining brain cells to attempt to drunk-dial everyone in my inbox — while still standing in the intersection.

So let’s recap what happens when I drunk-date:

1. I agreed to go on a second date with someone who doesn’t stand a chance in hell of getting even to first base with me.
2. I nearly caused several car accidents on Boulevard Raspail.
3. I drunk-dialed my boss.

Therefore, I must conclude, with absolute scientific certainty, that drunk-dating is NEVER a good idea.

Hopefully Ms. Drunk Date will never resurface again…