Tag Archives: dating disasters

Mr. Class Ring

“I’m a woman, Mary.  I can be as contrary as I choose.”

~ Dowager Countess of Grantham, played by the illustrious Maggie Smith

I actually don’t believe in dealbreakers.  This may surprise you, since I can be pretty brutal on this blog, but, let’s face it, in reality, when I truly fancy someone, he can do no wrong.  He could sleep in a bunny suit and worship a clay statue of a muppet as the one true god, and it’s highly likely that I’d find it endearing if I like the guy enough.

What can I say?  I’m a big softy at heart.

However, that being said, if I DON’T fancy the poor hapless thing, there’s no saving him from my ridicule and scorn.

And unfortunately for you unlucky many, whom I don’t fancy in the least, there are is a long list of things that would preclude you from seeing me naked — no matter how much alcohol you pour into me.

This list includes but is not limited to the following:

  • Class ring – This is speaks to a unique form of bro-douchery.  Just… don’t.
  • Puka shell necklace – Do I really need to explain this one?
  • Big diamondy balls of bling in the ears – This is a girl’s domain.  Back the eff off.
  • Longer nails than me – That’s just icky.
  • Higher heels than me – Yes, this has happened to me before.  I’d rather not talk about it.
  • He tells me that I’m fat – You’d be surprised how often this happens.
  • Matching tracksuit – This is doubly repulsive if the tracksuit is white.  (Yes, Joey, I’m talking to YOU.)
  • Gold chain necklaces – I shudder at the thought.
  • Flat-bill baseball caps – I’m a bit of a baseball cap snob.  I once dated a guy just because I liked his perfectly worn, fitted baseball cap.  I never let him take it off.  Ever.
  • The deep V-neck – Call me old-fashioned, but I find it more than a little disconcerting when a man sports more cleavage and a more plunging neckline than myself.  My barely-there-boobies really take it personally.

A significant portion of my dealbreakers consists of items related to man-jewelry.  I can safely say that I am generally opposed to almost all forms of man-jewelry.  Accessorize cautiously, lads.  Very very cautiously.

Merci buckets to Julia, who is the inspiration for this post/rant.  She is a phenomenal lady who manages to bring all the boys to the yard while dressed in a fabulous shiny flame-retardant lizard suit, and I admire her greatly.

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Mr. Louvre Lurker

Every first Sunday of the month, museums all over Paris open their doors, free of charge, to the public.  And on one such Sunday at the Louvre, I was checking out the decorative arts section when I noticed that the one other guy in the room with me was kind of cute.

I thought no more of him until I realized, five rooms later, that he was still there.

Was he following me?  Should I be creeped out?

I decided that I would not be creeped out and that I’d give him the benefit of the doubt since he was “kind of cute”.  (Yes, I know, I’m superficial and I’m okay with it.)

However, I wanted to make sure that he was following ME, and not just following the prescribed route through the ceramics section and reading the captions in the tapestry rooms at the exact same rate as me.

So I decided to conduct a test.

I abruptly left the Objets d’Art section, went up several escalators, and traversed the length of the wing to get to the French Paintings section.  When I checked behind me, he was still there!

Yay!  He totally digs me.  I wasn’t imagining things!

But then I thought to myself, why hasn’t he made a move?

Pansy-ass french man.

He eventually ran out of time, since the museum staff herded the crowds out the door at closing time.  No surprise, but we “magically” ended up in the same metro train car.

Yet he still hadn’t sacked up to chat me up.

I was fed up with his pansy-ass pansiness, so I decided to be ballsy.

I wrote my number on the back of my ballet ticket from the night before, and I handed it to him as I was getting out at my stop.  I blasted him with my most winning smile and pranced away — my heart beating wildly from the adrenaline rush of doing something so ballsy.

Now you’re probably thinking, this story sounds like a fantastic when-we-first-met story that happily married couples have.

Yeah.  Right.  Come on, stuff like that doesn’t happen in the world of Manshopping in Paris.

Things went awry when we arranged a date.  It was the date the launched my illustrious full-time career of painful dating in Paris.

He had this high-pitched voice and barely-above-a-whisper mumble, which I found unbearable and impossible to understand.  But most importantly, his personality was just flat.  If I stared long enough, I could swear that he was actually one-dimensional.

My boredom was so severe that I’m scared that it may have caused some brain hemorrhaging at the time.

The worst of it was that I couldn’t seem to get out of the date!  He managed to cling to me all the way from the restaurant to my door (it was a 40 minute walk!), and the whole experience was very unpleasant, to put it mildly.

The next day I told him that it wasn’t going to work for us romantically.  In other words, I told him to bugger off and leave me alone.

And a normal guy would have, right?

But of course, I’m incapable of finding a normal parisian man to date.

He wouldn’t stop asking me out.

He asked me out to dinner to introduce me to his friends.

He asked me to accompany him to work functions.

Three months later, when he moved to India, he sent me weekly updates and demanded to know why I wasn’t responding.

Three months after that, when he moved back to France, he continued to pester me.

And now, two and a half years later, gmail is still filtering his emails directly into my trash bin.

Apparently this guy has nobody else to bother except some random woman who gave him her number on the metro two and half years ago.

I have concluded that he has no friends.

Of course, out of all the men in Paris, I picked THIS winner to hit on.

And I’ve been saying “Next!” for the past two and a half years.

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Ms. Date Gone South

When I hang out  with Wandering Menace, we inevitably get up to no good.  But most of the time, we just do silly things for the sake of being silly.  But one thing is constant.  Ryan loves to make lists.

Let me rephrase that.

She likes to make ME make lists.

She once asked me to write down all my thoughts in response to the following question:

“How do you know when your date has taken a bad turn?”

And this is what I came up with:

  • you go to the toilet three times in one hour, and each time you wash your hands both before and after — just so that you can prolong the toilet break
  • you start thinking about how much he looks like your little sister
  • you realize that his name is on your list of top ten names for your future dog
  • upon asking whether you’d like another glass of wine, you ask him to order a bottle
  • your date has a satchel
  • your date tells you that his wife said something similar the other day
  • while your date is in the restroom, you ask your waiter how he came by such marvelous forearms
  • you pretend to pick up an urgent phone call… on your iPod

Dating is so much fun, isn’t it.

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Mr. Comment Courtship

Around this time last year, one of my readers took it upon himself to ask me out… in the comments section of my blog posts.  Since this strange courtship (fueled by other players like Wandering Menace and Zia Zitella) was conducted on a public forum, I have no qualms about reproducing it here in slightly abridged form for your viewing pleasure.  I will save my brief comments for the end of this post.  I’d like you, dear readers, to judge the situation for yourself.

In other words, I’d like you to agree with me that this approach is NOT the way to charm a lady of discerning taste via the internet.

16 March 2010

Charmerci

I’d ask you out but women don’t date guys without money!

Man-shopper

Not all us women are after the money tree, you should give us a shot!  I try to give every guy a chance to prove himself to be a cool dude… maybe that’s how I end up on dates with crazy people…

Charmerci

I didn’t say women were only after guys who had lots of money — I said women didn’t want guys who had no money.  Trust me, I’m an equal opportunity guy.  Anyway, it’s not only that but it is a major part of what women look for — and even if they won’t admit it — it does affect how they feel about a guy.  (Obviously, not ALL women — there are the RARE exceptions — I just haven’t met any of them! 😉

Care to talk more about the subject over a drink?  (I’ll be nice — I wouldn’t want to have anything bad said about me on your blog.)

Wandering Menace

I am attending a function in which I will read my Bob/Robert post to a Parisian audience.  The function is hosted by the man who just asked you out.

I suggest-nay, request you come with me to the reading.

Man-shopper

I would love to have a drink with you.  Since I have agreed to go to the spoken word event on Monday with wanderingmenace, the only question at this point is whether I will have a drink with you before or after this Monday event.  If we grab a drink before Monday, that drink will determine whether or not we will be speaking during the spoken word event.  If you prefer to have the drink after Monday, that drink will, obviously, be contingent upon our interaction at the spoken word event.

And who says women can’t be rational? 🙂

17 March 2010

Charmerci

Whatever you want.  I suspect you would rather be safe and meet at SWIP.  See you there.

Met a gal on the internet

Rendezvous is now all set

Meeting will make us sweat

Nothing bad will happen I bet

Can leave at home her safety net 😉

Man-shopper

See you Monday, poet man.  I’ll be the token Asian who rolls up with your favorite blonde booger blogger.

18 March 2010

Zia Zitella

So when is/was this date with the poet?  I need results!

Charmerci

I’m chillin’ — she’s taking her sweet time.

I’m afraid that you might be disappointed if you’re looking goofy/wild stories.  I’m pretty normal.  (Well, unless she’s nutty….)

Geez, women are sooo impatient. 😀

Looking for wild stories that shall

Make her laugh as a grand mall

May be disappointed royal

So calm down and smoke a Doral.

Excuse me while I go and clean wax out of my auditory canal….

23 March 2010

Charmerci

Caught in a forever cycle of crazy men, rotating in an endless whirlpool of the big avoidance of anything approaching normality in the testosterone half of the human race, perpetually captured, living in a world of the feminine only.  Given a chance to touch a bit of the normal, it’s slipping between her fingers, falling to the ground to be left behind, continuing on her quest for the strange for people’s amusement.  Laughs shall continue to abound for her virtual audience.

[Since they did not show up, this is not a true reflection of our protagonist.  Oh yeah, I normally don’t write this well.  If I did, I’d be famous and wouldn’t’ be trolling websites about women’s dating experiences!]

28 March 2010

Charmerci

The month’s still not over.  See you tomorrow?

29 March 2010

Man-shopper

Not tonight, sorry.  My schedule is pretty messy these days…

Charmerci

Look at her response to me above.

That’s the third time I’ve made gentle requests and 3 times it’s been nothing.  I’m not aggressive/overly assertive so for me, that’s enough of a message for me.  I ain’t asking again.

I’m pretty sure that this comes from gals looking for the proverbial knight in shining armor (i.e. Armani-dressed in a white Ferrari) sweeping them off their feet.  (Thanks to Hollywood.)  Or that magical love-at-first sight thing.  It’s beginning to dawn on me that these overly aggressive guys are rewarded for their persistence — if only a little bit but that’s what they thrive on.  Maybe not individually, but as a collective whole I think that these women are at least, partially responsible — and it’s a shame because these a-holes make it so much harder for the nice guys.

30 March

Man-shopper

My schedule really is a disaster; I have a hard enough time scheduling in my good friends.  But that’s beside the point because I doubt that we will ever meet now.

And I’d have to disagree with you by saying that “these women” like me don’t reward the persistence of assholes.  Rather, we reward the effort of gentlemen who at least try to be charming and don’t ask us out on public forums where Wandering Menaces can publicly strong-arm us into saying yes.  Seriously, it’s like that dude who proposes on national television.  But at least that guy was already dating her and reasonably sure that she’d say yes.

31 March 2010

Charmerci

I did believe you when you said you were busy.  But in the past, I have always interpreted that as a “no” — whether that was wrong or right.

When I said “these women” I was not talking about any of the women on this blog.  I’m sure that you’re all fine, beautiful, intelligent, sweet, hard-working people.

On the internet a little misunderstanding

Sometimes can make for a hard landing

I wish you all the best

On your man-shopping quest.

Bye!

So.

To recap:

  1. His segue to asking me out was a somewhat bitter generalization about the shallow nature of women.
  2. Two words: rhyming poetry.
  3. He only has a tenuous grasp of what constitutes eloquence (e.g. “rotating in an endless whirlpool of the big avoidance of anything approaching normality in the testosterone half of the human race, perpetually captured, living in a world of the feminine only…”  I mean, WHAT?!)
  4. Upon being “rejected,” he thought that this must have been due to an obsession with finding my Armani-clad knight in a white Ferrari.  Yes, because, clearly, he must know me intimately through our interaction in my blog comments.
  5. On the bright side, at least he could spell.

I would also like to add that, according to my records, at no point did he send me an email telling me about himself or interact with me anywhere except in blog comments.

In conclusion, I present an homage to charmercis of the world:

Don’t be an ass-clown.

Quit wearing me down.

Don’t make me frown.

Get me out of this town.

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Mr. Normal

Bueller?…  Bueller?… Bueller?

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Mr. Hostility

Every once in a while, some ballsy guy who comes across my blog will work up the nerve to ask me, whom some have called the Man-chopper, to go out with him.  At first, my policy could be summed up with: “Why the hell not?”  I figured, worst case scenario, I’ll have blog-worthy material, so this could be a fun exercise.

But ever since the big box of crazy that was Mr. Hostility, I’ve had to revise this approach.

It all started out harmlessly enough.  Mr. Hostility read my blog, emailed me to ask me out for a drink, and I agreed.  In retrospect, I should have found it odd that even though he wrote, “I just read a few of your blog entries,” he didn’t compliment my blog in any way, nor did he tell me that he found my blog hilarious.

Let’s face it.  I AM hilarious.  I am obviously vain.  And the least that any reader can do is acknowledge these facts of life and stroke my ego a bit before asking me out.

That definitely should have been a red flag, but I was so young and naïve then.

So I met him for a drink.

Mr. Hostility vs. standard No. 2 pencil

Strike 1

The guy looked like a stick insect.  Except skinnier.  I remember thinking that the width of his leg was disturbingly comparable to my arm.  The illustration to the right is an accurate, to-scale representation of  his skinniness vs. the thickness of an actual pencil.

Strike 2

The guy smoked what appeared to be a whole packet of cigarettes… in less than two hours.  It’s one thing if he had smoked a couple throughout the entirety of the date, but, as a non-smoker, this excessive smoking just didn’t sit well with me.

Strike 3

The guy was as dull as… Good god, he was so dull that I can’t even think of anything that could come close to being as dull as him.  He lacked a sense of humor, to the extent that he — brace yourself, folks — took my blog seriously.  Hand to God, the guy told me that he didn’t really enjoy my blog and criticized me about some its finer social points, to which he took great offense.  Basically, the Man-shopping train left the station, arrived on the other side of the continent, and left Mr. Hostility standing on the platform with his trousers around his ankles.

I tweeted an abbreviated version of these three strikes that evening when I got home.

The next day, during my lunchtime gym session, I received the following text from him while I was on the treadmill:

Sticky insect is your mother, you fat, repulsive Asian cow.

I laughed so hard that I nearly fell off the treadmill.  It was such a close call that I haven’t been on a treadmill since.

His reaction was so out of proportion to everything that I thought that it was a joke.  An hilarious joke.  But then I remembered that Mr. Hostility didn’t know how to joke.

So I realized, wow, this man may be a little unhinged.

I mean, come on.  He knew that he was asking out a blogger.  He knew that he was potential blog fodder.  He knew how merciless I can be.  Transparency was never an issue, as my dating life, personality and, dare I say, scathing wit, are here on the internet for all to see.

Yet he clearly thought that he was so spectacularly awesome that he would have been THE ONE with whom I would fall madly in love and abandon my man-chomping ways.

So Mr. Hostility clearly didn’t take it so well that, in less than 140 characters, I managed to sum up everything that displeased me about him.  Frankly, for those of you who witnessed that tweet, you can probably attest to the fact that it really was the nicest that I’ve ever been to any of my dates.  140 characters doesn’t give me much room to be truly bitchy.

What a big baby.

Oops.  I mean, what a skinny baby.

Skinny, hostile baby.

I said it then, and I’ll say it again…

… Next!

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

P.S. Big shout-out to my buddy, Alex, who found a MacPaint program for me to play with.  We have Alex to thank for the rock-tastic drawing skills showcased in the above representation of Mr. Hostility.  If all goes well, I hope to be showing you more of my unparalleled artisitic talent in the future.

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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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Mr. Fuckwit

Part I – meeting the enemy

I met Mr. Fuckwit at a friend of a friend’s party.  He didn’t make much of an impression on me at the time.  I was busy mingling and having a good time — standard procedure for parties.

However, late that night, as my partner-in-crime, Lady C, and I were walking home, we had the following conversation:

  • Lady C: So what did you think of Mr. Fuckwit?
  • Me: Meh.
  • Lady C: You didn’t think that he was cute?
  • Me: Yeah, he’s cute.
  • Lady C: WELL?!
  • Me: Well, what?
  • Lady C: WELL, he was following you around all night like a puppy!
  • Me: Oh, I just thought that I kept running into him randomly.  It was a small party.
  • Lady C: You are so dense.  He was into you!
  • Me: His conversation wasn’t very stimulating.
  • Lady C: <if exasperated looks could talk, it would say something like “What the hell is wrong with you?!  He’s CUTE, dammit!”>

Clearly, I wasn’t exactly smitten with Mr. Fuckwit at our first meeting.  But in the spirit of open-mindedness, I promised Lady C that I’d give him another chance.

I need to stop making promises.

Part II – first skirmish

Lady C was very proactive on my behalf at that party; she had taken out her iPhone to facebook-friend Mr. Fuckwit on the spot.  She also invited him to our upcoming alumni happy hour before we left that night.

Mr. Fuckwit friended me on facebook straightaway.  And since I didn’t fix my privacy settings in time, he also clicked on my links to this man-shopping blog and proceeded to send me a message in which he joked that he was “for sale.”

(Mr. Fuckwit, if you’re reading this now, this will be tough for you.  But frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn.  It’s not often that you get to have a written review of your courtship techniques, so sit back and consider yourself privileged.)

I didn’t expect Mr. Fuckwit to come to our happy hour, since he wouldn’t have known anybody there but Lady C and me.  And I wasn’t going to give him my undivided attention at an event that I attend in order to mingle, network and catch up with friends and acquaintances.

But he came.

And he hovered around me (it wasn’t as bad as Mr. Hovercraft though, thank god) for the rest of the night while I did my thing.

I had to give Mr. Fuckwit points for having the balls to stick it out like that.  So when he asked me out for lunch, I consented.

I shouldn’t have.

  • Me: So my number is…
  • Mr. Fuckwit: Wait.  You have a French phone right?
  • Me: Uh, yeah, dude.  After being in Paris for three and a half years, I’d kinda need to have a French phone.  <What the hell is this guy on about?>
  • Mr. Fuckwit: Are you sure that it’s a French number though?
  • Me: Um.  YES.  <Can he really think that I’m THAT stupid?>

If Mr. Fuckwit had been some guy off the street, I would have abandoned ship at this point.  But we must have had mutual friends at that party, and I couldn’t see any polite way out of giving him my number.  So he got my digits.  And a lunch date.

Winner of the first skirmish: Mr. Fuckwit.

Well-played, sir.  Well-played indeed.

Part III: Mr. Fuckwit’s long march through enemy territory

The lunch date was doomed to fail before it even started.  My army of date snipers had his troops in their sights long before they were within striking distance of the formidable fortress that protects my naked lady-bits.  By the end of the date, all Mr. Fuckwit’s advances were all for naught, as none of his troops survived to even attempt a proper siege.

Here are a few highlights:

He told me to meet him at the Sentier metro stop (which is smack-dab in the city center, by the way), but then he asked me if I’d know how to find it.

  • Does he truly believe that I’ve lived here for almost four years without ever learning how to read a metro map?  What sort of idiots does this guy date?

“Have you heard of rue Montorgueuil?”

  • That’s like asking a long-time New York City resident whether they’ve heard of Wall Street.

“Oh, you already know about <insert long list of cliché attractions in Paris>?  Damn, so where am I going to show you around?”

  • Paris is my HOME, fuckwit.  It’s been my home for YEARS.  Yes, I’m American.  And no, not all American girls are simpering, naïve, teenaged exchange students whose ultimate orgasmic fantasy is to have a frenchman (or in this case, a Tunisian) show them around the romantic sights of Paris while they giggle, sigh, hang on to his every word, and revere him for knowing SO MUCH about PARIS.

“What do you feel like eating?”

  • I HATE this conversation.  It’s a pet peeve of mine.  You ask me out, so you pick a place.  Be a man.

“Those are cool sunglasses, but they hide so much of your beauty.”

  • I had to refrain from visibly gagging.

“Oh, you don’t feel like pasta?  There’s a Chinese traiteur down this way.  HAHAHAHA.”

  • No two ways about it.  This was just stupid.

“You’ve had mashed potatoes on your upper lip for a long time now, and I was having fun thinking about how long I would wait before I told you.  HAHAHAHAHA.”

  • This is him being charming?  Jackass.

“I’m writing a novel about the economic crisis, but I’m going to make it sci-fi and sexy.”

  • HAHAHAHAHA.

“Vietnamese girls have a different kind of beauty than Chinese girls.”

  • He was feeding me lines like this as if he thought that he was the all-knowing expert on Asian beauty and as if he was teaching me something.  I wanted to shove my fork down his throat.  And then twist it.

(after we finished lunch) “Do you want to get a drink somewhere?  You’re paying, right?”

  • Christ.  I was GOING to offer to pay if he had let me get a word in edgewise.  Seriously, dude.  Simmer down. After that I no longer wanted to have that drink OR pay, but I was stuck with it since he was so aggressive about it.

“I think that you are exceedingly beautiful.  Oh, I can see that compliments make you uncomfortable.  HAHAHA.  Well, you really are beautiful, your hair, your eyes, your makeup….”

  • After I explicitly told him that these kinds of compliments make me uncomfortable, he thought that it’d be funny to push my buttons.  All the wrong buttons.  (For the record, I think that these CONSTANT references to a lady’s beauty are much more effective when you’re already in a relationship with her, and she’s having a PMS-induced image crisis.)

“Your cheeks look so fluffy, can I pinch them?  Pretty please?  Aw come, please?  Pleeeeeeeeease?”

  • If looks could kill, there should have been a five-mile-wide crater where he was sitting.

IN CONCLUSION…

To sum up, I was annoyed by pretty much everything that came out of his mouth.  I was doing so much fake laughing and fake smiling throughout the afternoon that I think my facial muscles were starting to twitch.  I don’t even know why I bothered to pretend.  Reflex, I suppose.

At some point, after he remarked on the fact that I was carrying around a sport water bottle, I said, “Yeah, it’s handy.  Whenever I’m bored, I can just drink water.”  And then I took a big swig.

Mr. Fuckwit didn’t get the message.

NEXT!

n.b. – I chose the name “Mr. Fuckwit” deliberately.  According to the latest episode of Mythbusters (“No Pain No Gain”), profanity actually does increase one’s tolerance for pain.  I figured that this post would be painful and that you, dear readers, would need some profanity to get you through to the end.  Also, he really was a bit of a fuckwit.

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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…

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Mr. Hovercraft

I was out with a couple of friends one night, and we found ourselves in a tiny Irish pub in the 6th.  It was heaving with people, the floors were sticky, the barstaff was drunk, and I’d estimate that the average age in the room was about 18.  Basically, I found myself at a frat party where I had to pay for my drinks.

This was where I met Mr. Hovercraft.

So obviously, he was top-notch quality.

Mr. Hovercraft was an avid practitioner of mating ritual that, in my opinion, is rampant in the Parisian scene.

He hovers.

That’s right, folks.  Believers in hoverism firmly believe that hovering will get you the girl at the end of the night.

In case you aren’t familiar with The Hover, here’s the step-by-step breakdown:

Exhibit A. Can you guess which one is the hoverist?

  1. Position yourself close enough to the target girl so that you can eavesdrop on her conversation.  Ideally, you should be behind her so that she doesn’t realize that you are a complete creep… See Exhibit A —>
  2. Hover there for as long as possible.  Minimum acceptable time is one hour.  There is no maximum.
  3. Within this acceptable time window, whatever you do, DO NOT ENGAGE THE TARGET.  Sip your drink and look shifty.
  4. Wait until all her friends leave, go to the loo, or get more drinks.  You must find an opening where she is alone for a split second.  Then, and ONLY then, can you proceed to Step 5.  If she is never alone, simply hover until either you or the target leaves the premises permanently.
  5. Get her attention.  Tap her on the shoulder and/or finally move into her line of vision.
  6. Say something stupid/creepy because, during the multiple-hour hover, you didn’t think about what to say if you ever got the target alone.
  7. Get shut down mercilessly by the target.
  8. Rinse.
  9. Repeat.

hovering brought to you by http://www.nataliedee.com

You’d be surprised how many hoverists there are out there… and how determined they can be.  Mr. Hovercraft that night at the pub hovered for two hours until my one remaining friend went to look for the toilets — at which point he stuck his nose in my ear, blew some rank breath in my direction and asked, “So you’re Chinese?”

To all the practicing hoverists out there, a few things to keep in mind:

  • Technically, there is actually a Step 0, where you should check for mirrors within the target’s line of vision.  I was able to observe Mr. Hovercraft in all his creepy glory well before he moved in for the kill.
  • Just because the target can’t see you, that does not mean that her friends haven’t noticed you hovering over her shoulder.  It also doesn’t mean that the target can’t smell your bad breath.
  • Tapping her shoulder and moving into her line of vision are the only acceptable ways to execute Step 5.  Dribbling your drink down her back or shouting “FINALLY” into her ear — either deliberately or otherwise — will set you back to step 1 before you have time to blink.
  • Just because you can hover for five hours, it doesn’t mean that you should.
  • And last but not least, if you want to get laid, don’t hover.  That is all.

Trust me, hoverists, I know what I’m talking about.  I’ve been the target enough times that I’m a bit of a self-taught expert.

Must I say it?

I will anyway…

Next!

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