Tag Archives: first dates

Ms. Man-shopper in Boozetown

Part of being an adult is having adult problems and solving them with adult solutions.  In other words, I am here to write about…

… alcohol.

I posit that alcohol is a key component to any man-shopping operation.

I cite the following reasons:

Doing away with inhibitions and sound decision-making is essential to coping with an interlocutor who is unattractive, boring, or generally repulsive in some way.  In the long run, it’s better to be civil, but sobriety makes this very difficult.

  • Sober Man-shopper : Bugger off before I rip your face off and use it as a cape.
  • Drunky Man-shopper : Oh heeeeeeeeey, fancy seeing you here.  How’s it going?  Having a good time?  You like my dress, aw shucks, oh how nice of you to say!

It’s nice to have something to do with your hands.  It’s the difference between descending into irredeemable dorkitude and actually passing for a normal human being who may even appear to have some semblance of man-shopping mojo.

  • Sober Man-shopper : < arms flailing about uncontrollably, sometimes hitting people in the face >
  • Drunky Man-shopper : < clutching glass, sipping demurely, and sometimes peeking over it and pretending to bat eyelashes >

Sometimes we would all like a way to pretend like something never happened.

  • Sober Man-shopper : Oh god.  That guy last night at McDonald’s.  He looked like a troll that was hit by a truck and then backed over by a cement roller.  He smelled like a petting zoo.  I’m not entirely sure he was even simian.  And HE TOUCHED MY ARM.  GET IT OFF GET IT OFF GET IT OFF.
  • Drunky Man-shopper : I don’t remember anything after paying for my chicken nuggets.

Man-shopping is a risky business, and we all know how easy it is to get burned.  And it’s disturbing how easy it is to not just get burned, but to get effing incinerated.  So if you’re anything like me, we don’t like to deal with our shit in a productive kind of way.  Alcohol to the rescue!

  • Sober Man-shopper : Sob. Sob. Sob.  Uncontrollable weeping.  I hate myself, and I would like to die now please.  My heart is exploding.  But I luuuuuuuurve him.  I am a fat cow, no wonder he discarded me like day-old bread.
  • Drunky Man-shopper : I am a goddess, and it’s his loss, dammit.  Leaping lobsters, I look phenomenal in this new lingerie, and he’s NEVER GONNA SEE IT.  Dance it out, girl.  Dance it out to Britney in your bedroom….  < static… >

Alcohol = courage.

  • Sober Man-shopper : < Silent and cowering in the corner of the room >
  • Drunky Man-shopper : Helloooo, sir, you are very handsome.  May I touch your biceps?

Sometimes competition over a coveted male can get a little heated.  Alcohol can sometimes save you heaps of money that would otherwise have been spent on legal representation after getting charged with assault.

  • Sober Man-shopper : That bitch just said WHAT?!  I WILL DESTROY HER.  HE IS MINE.
  • Drunky Man-shopper : Aw, she didn’t mean it.  She’s just jealous of my awesome shoes.  Who is this guy again?  Ooo, is that guacamole I see?  I LOVE PUPPIES!

Alcohol = mad skills.  We all need skills to have an edge over the competition, right?

  • Sober Man-shopper : I can’t dance to save my life.  I also can’t speak any language but English and a smattering of Pig Latin.

All that aside, however, as I try to pick my face up off the floor from yesterday’s hangover, perhaps you all should ignore everything that I have to say.

Happy man-shopping.  Don’t forget to hydrate.

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

This post has been brought to you by The Insomnia Club.  This edition was to take its inspiration from the image above.  Check out what my compatriots have to say on Natalie Dee’s little drawing!

Condoms: Who Likes ‘Em Anyway? – Skye Blue of Met Another Frog

Insomnia Club Strikes Again: Get Your Own Box – Nikki at Women Are From Mars

Sharing is Caring: The Insomnia Club Strikes Again – Simone at Sex, Lies and Dating in the City

We also had an additional topic this month…

Banana Pancakes & Pretend It’s The Weekend ~ Charlotte at My Pixie Blog


Filed under Misses

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.


Filed under Misters

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.


Filed under Misses

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.


Filed under Misters

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.


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!


Filed under Misters

Ms. Anniversary!

As of today, it has been exactly two months since I began this slightly perverse social experiment with the dating scene in Paris!

So to honor this landmark event, I will recap my shenanigans for the past month.

First up, some number-crunching:

  • Total number of first dates : 19 (A number of dates didn’t make the blog due to time constraints… In other words, I was just lazy.)
  • Number of second dates : 0
  • Success rate : 0%

According to these numbers, I have little to show for my hard work.

But numbers don’t tell the whole story, right?  What’s more important is the life experiences that I have gained.  So perhaps it would be more valuable to look at the highlights from my field notes.

After this past month’s dating escapades, I can now proudly say that I have accomplished the following:

  • I found a real guy who managed to replicate — and possibly improve upon — Patrick Dempsey’s hair: Mr. Hair.
  • I met a guy who was more pretentious than anyone I have ever met — even during my years at Harvard.  Now THAT’S saying something: Mr. Pretentious.
  • I had so many guys in my shopping cart that I couldn’t keep their names straight: Mr. Oops.
  • I got stood up: Mr. Anglophone.
  • I went on a ten-minute date that wasn’t speed-dating: Mr. Ten Minute Wonder.
  • I survived a date that was scripted from bodice-ripper novels: Mr. Bodice-ripper.
  • I went on a date with a guy who was more woman than I am: Mr. Pretty Woman.
  • I drunk-dated: Ms. Drunk Date.
  • I went on a date with a guy whose creepy grin still gives me nightmares: Mr. Cheshire Cat.
  • I learned that my drink orders are manlier than the most of the men I date: Mr. Love-You-Long-Time.
  • I tried to stalk a hunky postman: Ms. Stalker.
  • I survived date conversation about unconventional sexual predilections: Mr. Too Much Information.

Not too shabby for two months’ work, I’d say.

But still, I continue on my quest for that elusive, pseudo-mythical creature — that great first date.

I’m beginning to think that it may not exist — that it should be categorized with Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy and leprechauns.

So to fête my two-month anniversary, I cordially invite you, all my readers, to send in first-date stories.

Convince me that it is possible to have a great first date.  Or, if you are a skeptic, send me your horror stories.  Over the next month, I will feature my favorite reader stories, and, of course, I will continue to share my own.  And at the end of March, I will deliver my verdict on the question:

The great first date… is it a myth?


Surprise me.


Filed under Misses