Tag Archives: speed dating

Mr. Normal

Bueller?…  Bueller?… Bueller?

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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!

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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.

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Ms. Speed Dater (Part 1)

Apparently, the French call it “soft dating.”

Absurd.  The French also translate English movie titles into… English.  (For example, The Hangover became Very Bad Trip.  Asstarded.  You also have to say it in a silly French accent, otherwise nobody will understand you.  Doubly asstarded.)

Anyway, before I get too off-topic, back to my speed-dating adventure.

I had signed up for “soft dating” to be held last night at a fairly swanky venue.  I dragged a girlfriend with me for moral support, of course.  When we arrived, we were greeted by two young men who looked like they should be hosting a fraternity keg party instead of a classy “soirée soft dating.”

Frat Boys #1 and #2 informed us that we had to wait because not enough guys had arrived yet to make our numbers even.

Then two more girls arrived.

C. and I checked out the competition, and we were underwhelmed.  We looked at each other knowingly, and maybe it was just me, but I could have sworn that we telepathically communicated the following message: “These girls don’t stand a chance against the multi-ethnic glam that we have going on here!”

We all watched as the last few guys trickled in:

Guy #1: Short, bald, old dude

Guy #2: Short, bald, not as old, but hardly a spring chicken, dude

Guy #3: Short, balding dude whose age was indeterminate because of the patchwork balding pattern on his head and face (!!)

C. shot me this look.  I knew what that look meant.  Her telepathic message was loud and clear: “Oh HELL no.”

I vetoed.  I was determined to see this through.

So I handed Frat Boy #2 my card to pay for the both of us.

The card was refused.

Mortifying.

I had plenty of money in my account, but my card just chose that particular moment to have an attitude problem.

Twice.

Since I had no cash, and since there were no cash machines nearby, C. and I had to slink away with our tails between our legs.

On our way out, we peeked through the window to see what the scene looked like.  It was a sea of shiny heads.  I don’t have anything against bald guys who can pull off the look (Zidane! –>), but this was ridiculous.

Perhaps my card crap-out was actually the universe’s way of saving us from the Bald Dude Convention.

But do not fear, dear readers.  I will try speed dating again next week, but with a different company.  Hopefully, the selection will have some hair.

Stay tuned.

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