The Twelve Days of Christmas, With My Online Dating Twist

     Merry Christmas greetings to one and all! As part of my “Mis-Matched to Miss Matched” dating series, I have penned yet another version of, The Twelve Days of Christmas, with my online dating twist. It’s destined to be a classic for sure!

12-days-of-christmas-thumb1-f

My Twelve Days of Christmas

On the first day of Christmas, online dating gave to me,
No man worth my membership fee.

On the second day of Christmas, online dating gave to me,
Two e-mails from women,
And no man worth my membership fee.

On the third day of Christmas, online dating gave to me,
Three convicted felons,
Two e-mails from women,
And no man worth my membership fee. Continue reading

Drunk and Drunker

dont drink and drive
     Hello, Friends! Welcome to the ongoing saga of “Mis-Matched to Miss Matched.” Today’s dating tales of woe concern two men and their love affairs with alcohol.
     The first bachelor passed the email and phone call tests. When I met him, there were a few red flags, but he seemed fun and easy to talk to. So, against my better judgment, I went on several dates with him.
     He declared that he was working out 4-5 times a week, was living a healthy lifestyle and was going to lose more weight. He had already lost 100 pounds.
     Although I did not observe him making healthy food selections, it was his drinking that bothered me. He did not stop at one or two drinks.
     If you have been following me through this journey, you know I am a one-drink person when I am out, and I am the designated driver. I will not get into a car with someone who is legally drunk.
     During our last date, I met him at his favorite restaurant. This place carried a special type of wine just for him. I learned that on our first date. That was a red flag, but I chose to overlook it.
     He greeted me with a hello kiss. Then he proceeded to tell me how sick he was and how horrible he felt. The congestion in his chest was terrible. He held his chest and coughed. It sounded like bronchitis to me.
     Backing away, I reacted, “Yikes, no more kisses for you until you’re well.”
     He replied, “Oh, you’re one of those.”
     One of those? If you mean people who don’t want you contaminating them with all of your respiratory infection germs, yes, I’m one of those. Be considerate. Good Lord!
     I sighed as I sat across from him.
     Then he coughed and coughed, without covering his mouth.
     I am sure I cringed as I shifted to the right. At least that way he was not coughing directly on me. I mentioned that he should be coughing into his elbow.
     Eventually, he covered his mouth with his hand. But then he wanted me to hold that hand.
     Are you trying to get me sick on purpose?
     Thank God I had antibacterial wipes.
     While he enjoyed his third glass of wine, he saw I was agitated. He asked, “What’s on your mind?”
     Oh, buddy, you just asked the wrong question. I don’t think you really want to know. I’m thinking I’m going to catch this plague you have. And your drinking is bothering me. But since you asked…
      “The amount you drink bothers me. Every time we’ve gone out, except one time, you’ve had a lot to drink. Not just one or two glasses of wine, but multiple glasses. I’m concerned.”
      “I’m not an alcoholic.”
      “Do you drink every day?”
      “I usually don’t go out during the week.”
     Not sure what that had to do with the price of tea in China, I replied, “Well, I won’t ride with a person who’s legally drunk. If you’re always going to drink like this, I will always have to drive.”
     Defensively, he argued, “I am not drunk! Do I look drunk? Do I act drunk? Am I slurring my words?”
      “No.” Because you have built up a tolerance.
     He continued, “My friends drink hard liquor. I drink wine. It’s better. We’re here every Friday and Saturday night drinking at the bar. They drink hard liquor. I drink my wine.”
     Every Friday and Saturday? Drunk is still drunk, dude. Any cop will tell you that. So will a blood alcohol test.
     I stated, “It doesn’t matter what you’re drinking. Alcohol is alcohol.”
     “It’s just wine. And now you’re making me uncomfortable and self-conscious.”
     “Sorry, you asked, and I had to say something because it’s making me uncomfortable.”
     Dismissively, he responded, “You’re making something out of nothing. I’m not an alcoholic. You don’t drink wine, so you don’t understand.”
     What’s there to understand? Wine contains alcohol last time I checked.
     Then he stopped the waitress and asked her for another glass of wine.
     Are you freaking kidding me? Way to show me you don’t have a drinking problem.
     She emptied the contents of the bottle into his glass. This was glass number four.
     As he drank, I got the “you’re not the boss of me” look and vibe.
     I shook my head and ate my dinner.
     I am not trying to be the boss of anybody. But drinking and driving is a serious issue. And I do not want to be with someone who drinks to excess all the time.
     Then he said, “Next you’re going to tell me I can’t ride my motorcycle without a helmet.”
     Heavy sigh.
     Annoyed, I said, “No, you can do whatever you want.”
     Obviously, because nothing I say matters anyway.
     After he drained his glass, he asked the waitress for yet another glass.
     She answered, “I emptied the bottle last time. Do you want me to open a new bottle for you?”
      “Yes.”
     If you are counting with me, this was glass number five.
     Finally, dinner was over.
     After that evening, my texts to him were short.
     He texted, “So I’m assuming by your lack of communication and enthusiasm, you’ve lost interest and can’t get over my evil wine drinking ways.”
     You guessed right! That and your complete disregard for my welfare by spewing all over me and for not understanding why I would not want to put my life into the hands of someone who was legally drunk.
     I wrote, “You disregarded my concern completely. I understood finishing the glass in front of you. Then you had her open another bottle. And you got defensive and dismissive. I can’t handle being with someone who drinks 5 glasses of wine in that short amount of time and disregards my feelings.”
      “Actually it was 3 glasses and that hardly makes me an alcoholic…I wasn’t trying to dismiss you by ordering another glass but I was trying to make a point that I’m 52 years old and I’m pretty set in my ways.”
     I was not going to argue about the number of glasses or about anything else for that matter. I was drinking water and clearly counted five glasses of wine.
     So that was the end of that!

     A friend attempted to help me in my quest for “Mr. Right.” She invited a friend, an extremely wealthy businessman, to meet us for drinks and a light dinner. We were sitting at the bar when he showed up three sheets to the wind.
     Obviously, that was extremely disappointing, in and of itself.
     And did I mention that he looked older than my parents? So, he had nothing working in his favor.
     I was polite at first. But after I had heard the exact same story for the third time, I was mentally done. I tried to ignore him the best I could, but he kept hanging on me.
     I caught the eye of a young, handsome guy a few seats away. I gave him my “help me” look. He laughed and looked away.
     Damn!
     Without another option, I disappeared to the ladies’ room. And I stayed in there entirely too long. When I returned, “Tipsy” was sitting in my chair.
     Thank you, Jesus!
     I quickly sat next to the handsome guy.
     He looked up at me and smiled.
     I smiled back. “I need you to save me.”
     “I know. I saw the look.”
     Exasperated, I threw up my hands. “But you didn’t save me.”
     “Trust me, we’ve got your back.”
     “Who’s ‘we’?”
     “As soon as you left for the bathroom, I watched your drink. I was convinced that guy was going to put something in it.”
     “Really?”
     “Yes. He looks like that kind of guy. A real creeper.”
     I laughed.
     He continued, “And the bartender is watching out for you too. And the piano guy hasn’t taken his eyes off you all night.”
     “Good to know I’m covered. Thank you.”
     “Don’t mention it.”
     He wore a wedding band.
     Of course, the gorgeous ones are always married!
     I said, “I know that you’re married, and I’m not hitting on you. I just need someone to talk to until he leaves.”
     “No problem.”
     We had a nice conversation. And when his wife and teenage daughter showed up, he introduced me to them. He explained the story. His daughter got wide-eyed when he said he thought the guy was going to drug my drink.
     Glad I could provide a teachable moment. Hopefully, she’ll remember this when she goes to parties.
     This nice family even asked me if I wanted to join them at a booth for dinner.
     “No, thank you. I don’t want to intrude.”
     “If you change your mind…”
     I shook their hands. “Thank you.”
     My friend and Tipsy went out to smoke.
     The bartender said, “You look like you could use that dessert now.”
     I nodded. “Yes, please.”
     I ate my chocolate dessert and talked to the bartender and the pianist.
     Finally, it was time to leave.
     My leather jacket was on the back of the businessman’s chair. He insisted on helping me with it.
     As he slipped on the coat, he commented, “Oh, the leather is so soft.”
     Then he reached around and grabbed my right breast.
     Let me tell you something, dear readers. I have never, ever hit anyone. But at that moment, I really wanted to hit him.
     It took every ounce of strength I had within me not to hit him.
     I hear you screaming, “Why the hell not? Hit him! Slap him! For God’s sake, knee him!”
     I was almost a head taller than him. He had been drinking steadily since he walked in. So, he was drunk as a skunk and unsteady on his feet. And I knew that if I hit him, his sorry geriatric ass would go down hard, very hard. And with my luck, he would have broken a hip. Then he and his army of lawyers would have had me arrested.
     Friends, I would not do well in jail. Not for a single minute.
     Instead, I will let karma take care of him. He will get what’s coming to him in the end.
     In the meantime, I might kill him off in one of my books. Or not. I guess you will have to buy my next novel to find out…

If you or a loved one has a drinking problem, please get help. Here are a few organizations that can help you on the path to wellness.

AA http://www.aa.org/
Al-Anon http://www.al-anon.org/
SADD http://www.sadd.org/

Copyright © 2016 by Suzanne Purewal

My Big, Fat Greek Tragedy

MasksComedyTragedy     If there was any doubt that my life is a Greek tragedy in the making, this episode of “Mis-Matched to Miss Matched” should solidify the notion in everyone’s minds.
     This installment’s bachelor is a well-known businessman in this area. So, all I will say is that he was in his early 50s and had blond hair and blue eyes.
     Initially, when he contacted me, I turned him down. One of the descriptors in his Match profile did not sit right with me. And I explained in my reply that descriptor was why I was turning him down.
     He wrote me a long email in return, clarifying his position and dispelling any incorrect impressions I had. His arguments were good ones. So, I agreed to talk to him.
     We talked and hit it off. We wanted to meet. However, he was in Florida vacationing with his kids. We would meet when he returned. Despite him being on vacation, we spoke every day.
     Then, my dad had a heart attack. So, I was driving to New York as this intriguing man was about to drive back to Indiana.
     God just loves messing with me.
     My potential suitor understood, and we kept talking on the phone.
     Finally, we were in the same city at the same time. So, after talking for almost three weeks, we met for dinner. We got along splendidly. Our likes and dislikes were the same in just about all areas, including politics and religion. That, in and of itself, was amazing.
     He grew up on the East Coast, just like me. Loved to travel. Loved live theater and musicals! Yes, musicals! Where had he been hiding all of this time?
     Well, most of the time, he was working, networking or attending his kids’ activities. He had the busiest calendar I had ever seen. He could not plan out more than a week ahead because meetings and events were constantly being added to his schedule by his assistant and his kids. But he swore he would make time for me. And he did try.
     In the days that followed, we talked for hours on end, about everything and anything. The conversation never got stale or boring. The more we got to know one another, the more perfect we seemed for each other. The similarities were uncanny.
     Drinking and smoking were not issues. Awesome!
     His children were older. Another bonus.
     He had no pets and had no intention of ever owning one. Thank you, Jesus!
     Pinch me already!
     Anyway, everything was going pretty well until it was time to meet his friends. That’s when the bottom dropped out.
     While Mr. Seemingly-Perfect did not have any pets, every single one of his friends did. These friends were his work colleagues as well as his personal friends. He spent almost all of his time with these people. And from what he told me about them, they were the best friends a person could ask for. I’m sure I would have agreed.
     But the conundrum was that they all entertained in their houses. You know, where the animals lived.
     If you have not read my previous posts on the subject, my allergic reaction to animals is anaphylactic. So, I can not be around animals. Extended exposure to them could literally kill me.
     Meeting his friends out at a restaurant would have been fine. I suggested that. But in the long run, that would not have been feasible or sustainable, as they all loved to entertain at their homes. Each had an elaborate backyard oasis, fire pit, and/or boat, etc.
     Then there was his buddy’s lake house. I absolutely love lake houses because I love sitting by a lake, looking out at the water and listening to the water lap up on the shore. And there’s nothing quite like watching the sun rise or set over the water.
     That’s one of the biggest things I miss about living in New York. I really miss being close to a large body of water. Growing up minutes from Lake Ontario was a luxury I did not fully appreciate until I moved to Indiana, land of small, man-made lakes. But I digress…
     Alas, there were always animals at his buddy’s lake house. The owner brought his pets and allowed everyone to bring their pets too. Well, just shoot me now and put me out of my misery.
     I could not in good conscience ask him to pick between me and his friends. He’s known some of them for over twenty years. If I kept him from them, he would become resentful. And I would feel guilty.
     And if he always went over to his friends’ houses and to the lake house without me, I would become resentful. And presumably, he would feel guilty.
     We discussed the situation rationally. No compromise was suitable, and he picked his friends.
     I will not lie. I am extremely disappointed. But let’s face it; I could never compete with them, the lifestyle to which he had grown accustomed, the boats and the lake house.
     How pitiful is that? We can’t have a relationship because of other people’s pets.
     Heavy sigh.
     Animals are truly the bane of my existence.

Copyright © 2015 by Suzanne Purewal

Fright or Delight?

     My quest to find a good, decent man is becoming epic in length. But I refuse to give up! So, here is the latest and greatest in my “Mis-Matched to Miss Matched” dating saga.

     There once was a man who was prolific in poem and prose.
     He had a quick wit. Let’s meet. Why not? Who knows?
     Alas, his memory was lacking, he called me by the wrong name,
     Despite me correcting him over and over. How totally lame.
     Was this other woman his ex-girlfriend or an ex-wife?
     I cared not, for I was cutting him out of my life.

     The next eager bachelor was an eHarmonious man
     Who unfortunately decided to try a product to self-tan.
     Since he was not an Oompa Loompa, orange was an awful hue.
     Why he did not realize this while looking in the mirror, I have no freaking clue.
     However, it was his obnoxious behavior that upset me the most.
     Being rude and insensitive caused him to end up as a jerk in this post.

     Then there was a guy who promised me a special surprise.
     When the big reveal occurred, I could hardly believe my eyes.
     If I was watching a horror movie, I would have yelled for the girl to run.
     Touring ramshackle buildings buried deep in the woods is not my idea of fun.
     Any chemistry that might have existed was extinguished pretty fast.
     What a huge letdown after being psyched up for an absolute blast.

     After each date, to Mom, the obligatory email I did write,
     So she wouldn’t be pacing the floor half of the night,
     Worried that I was dead in a ditch or suffering an even worse fate.
     “Home safe and sound.” Another zero of a date.
     “A total waste of makeup,” is what I eventually would type.
     It sums up the evening well without painfully boring details or hype.

     So that, gentle readers, is all I have to tell.
     Perhaps the month of October will cast an enchanting spell.
     Could the eclipse of the blood moon help me find my “Mr. Right?”
     Or will it bring more ghouls and goblins to give me an awful fright?
     Those are the questions that I seek the answers for.
     Stay tuned, my friends, you never know what’s in store!

Copyright © 2014 by Suzanne Purewal

A Handful of Mixed Nuts

     Welcome to yet another crazy blog post about the Match.com men. This is my eighth entry of my “Mis-Matched to Miss Matched” series. The email exchanges never cease to amaze me.
     The first man up was a retired bachelor, at the upper end of my range age. His profile picture screamed Hannibal Lecter, sans straight jacket.
      “I had a dream about you last night. I couldn’t stop kissing your neck. I think it was the musk oil and your soft skin creating a sweet spot I couldn’t resist! Do you think that is a typical guy thought, or is it possible that women really are special to me? Just wondering… CyberCasanova.”
     What the ??? Typical guys do not think this way. Musk oil? Who talks about, much less dreams about, musk oil? As far as being special goes, maybe the kind of “special” that is tonight’s dinner entrée with fava beans and Chianti.
     I don’t know about you, but that was entirely too bizarre for me. There was no, “Hello.” Or even a, “Good evening.” I can not believe this guy thought that was an acceptable introductory greeting.
     I replied, “Honestly, I found it to be forward and creepy since we don’t know each other. I wish you luck finding a match.”
      “I think you misinterpreted my comedic style email about a thought experiment of how men think when we see a pretty girl and react with romance laden thoughts of love and affection as if we fast forwarded through courting to a point in the relationship where friendship develops into partners.”
     Huh? A comedic thought experiment? You have got to be kidding me. I didn’t find any of it particularly funny.
     It has been said that there is a fine line between genius and insanity. This guy seemed to have crossed that line.
      “It didn’t come across as comedic. You might want to rethink your approach. Best of luck to you.”
      “We are what our genes say we are and if it’s a smiling, happy, pretty girl that lifts us to happiness to want to live another day, then the Cosmos has set forth profound physical laws and properties to help ensure the survival of our species. A gentleman knows to look but not touch unless given permission. The Devil doesn’t make us, the Cosmos does. You’re probably just another fake profiler that doesn’t know the difference between E=mc2 and their hat size. Just sayin’… CyberEinstein.”
     You’re freaking nuts! And obviously, the Cosmos is slacking big time, because you’ve survived this long.
     I loved his slam on my integrity and intelligence. I think I will refer to him as “CyberNutJob.” And the Cosmos did not make me say it, nor did the Devil. I did it all on my own without consulting my genetic code or altering the space-time continuum.

     The next bachelor did not want to take “no” for an answer. He was within my age range. However, we had nothing in common based on our profiles. Absolutely positively nothing.
     Every picture posted was shirtless. And most were old pictures. They looked like Polaroids from the ’70s. His profile and his emails were written in all capital letters. So, he was lazy on top of everything else. I apologize for the caps, but I want to give you the true essence of the exchange.
      “JULIET…LET ME BE YOUR ROMEO.”
      “We do not have enough in common. I wish you luck finding a match.”
      “ROMEO NEEDS YOU…I’LL COME TO YOU….I PROMISE I’M AS GOOD AS ADVERTISED…ONLY 10 TIMES BETTER!”
      “No, thank you.”
      “ROMEO CAN’T BE ROMEO WITHOUT YOU.”
     I did not reply.
     Two days later, he sent, “I KNOW…YOU SAID NO…I DO RESPECT THAT…BUT I TRUELY BELIEVE YOU MISSED JUDGED ME.”
     No, I definitely did not. All I want to do is correct your grammar, spelling and punctuation.
      “You do not respect me because you keep contacting me. My answer is no.”
      “I DO RESPECT…BUT COULD YOU TELL ME WHY…MAYBE I’LL LEARN SOMETHING. BE NICE.”
     Oh my God! Seriously? Okay, buddy, you asked for it. And I’ll try to be as nice as possible.
      “No, you really don’t respect me because you insist on making me justify my answer. You are not my type, and I am not attracted to you. You have cats. You smoke. You want children. You have so many grammatical errors in your profile, I lost track. You indicate that you will become violent when defending loved ones. You posted shirtless pictures only. And last, but not least, you refuse to take ‘no’ for an answer. Nothing you say will cause me to change my mind. Please do not contact me again.”
     Well, you know he did. But I ignored him, and he eventually went away. Ugh!

     The next bachelor was a retired lawyer. He was well out of my age range.
      “Good looking, sometimes charming, generally well-behaved lawyer calling.”
      “You have a dog, and I am severely allergic to dogs. I wish you luck finding a match.”
      “Pity. Outside of my dog we are a pretty good romantic prospect. I’m as pretty as you, and as smart, creative, sophisticated and wealthy as you’ll find in these parts. Don’t rule me out on the onset.”
     Friends, he was not as pretty as me. Not even close. God forgive me, but the way he styled his red hair made him look like a clown. Not quite Stephen King’s, It, clown, more like a circus clown.
      “My reaction to animals is anaphylactic. So I can not be around them or people who own them. Best of luck.”
      “I have a solution! No hugging, kissing, or ETC. pending the occurrence of at least one of the following:
     1) You become uncontrollably driven to hug, kiss, or etc. with me so as to suffer a bad reaction notwithstanding.
     In your freaking dreams!
     2) You become gradually (and miraculously) acclimated. (I GROW ON YOU)
     You would grow on me like a flesh-eating disease!
     3) You take a Sudafed or other effective medication. (I will pay for testing and treatment- ha ha)
     Over-the-counter meds don’t work for anaphylaxis, moron.
     4) I take a ridiculously thorough bath beforehand. (You can watch!)
     Yuck!!! I shudder at the mere thought. You could not pay me to watch.
     5) My poor dog dies.
     I pity that dog for having to put up with you.
     6) We give it a CAREFUL AND JUDICIOUS TRY.
     Oh sure, because you’re not the one risking your life. Easy for you to say, “Let’s give it a shot.” You’re not the one who could die.
     Let’s meet for coffee, sweetness, I promise you won’t get the hives!”
     Not if you were the last man on earth!
     Life with this guy would consist of one idiotic, never-ending argument after another. Talk about exhausting.
      “I am not persuaded by your arguments. Anaphylaxis is not like a regular allergy. There is no medication I can take to avoid it. I am sorry, but my answer is still no. I wish you luck finding a match.”
      “I know perfectly well the effects of anaphylactic shock. It is after all, an allergic reaction, which is not unique to yourself. Changes in your physical environment could ameliorate the symptoms. In addition to physical factors, the power of the mind cannot be ignored and can produce remarkable things.”
     Sure! Let me just mentally will my throat not to close and miraculously stop myself from dying due to the lack of oxygen. Gee, why didn’t I think of that before??? If it was that easy, I would have tried it with the cowboy from a few posts back. I would not waste my newly-discovered superpowers on the likes of you.
     I did not reply because I knew he would keep arguing. He sent four more emails. I ignored each one.
     Then, a short time later, he sent the same initial email to me. But another quickly followed. It read, “Oops forgot! You’re the anti-dog screwball, never mind.”
     As I shook my head in dismay, a little voice beckoned to me. Behold! It is a jar of Nutella® calling my name. Mmm…hazelnuts – the kind of nuts a girl can truly love!

Copyright © 2014 by Suzanne Purewal

My Listen To Your Mother YouTube Video

     Here’s my YouTube video from Listen To Your Mother! My original title was, “Mom’s Thoughts on Online Dating.”

     Feel free to leave comments on the YouTube site, here on my blog or both!

     You can also view all of my fellow performers’ videos. It was a joy to be part of such a talented cast. Just click on this link. https://m.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL5oPQWgVdsDk-vfoa2dAKVEeUtO7KdvDD

     Enjoy!

The Foreign Contingent

     Welcome to another installment of my “Mis-Matched to Miss Matched” series! The Match bachelors in this post were all born outside of the United States.
     Indiana’s state motto is “The Crossroads of America.” And apparently, we are creating quite the melting pot in Indianapolis. Diversity is a good thing for “Honest-to-Goodness Indiana.” If you know me, you know I love learning about new cultures and traditions.
     Many of you also know that my ex-husband is Indian. His family is from the Punjab region in India. Yes, we had an Indian wedding.
     Anyway…I was contacted by bachelors from fourteen different countries, including India, Pakistan, Greece, Lebanon, Iran, England, Japan and Canada.
     Somehow, I attracted all of the Indian men within a fifty-mile radius. And 99% of them were doctors. Amazingly enough, they were deep into poetry and spirituality. As a poet, that intrigued me, because, let’s face it, most men are not keen on poetry.
     The conversations were interesting, enlightening and intellectual. One of the guys was even Punjabi. He was thrilled beyond belief that I knew what that meant. However, there was an element lacking with each and every one—chemistry.
     So let’s move on to merry old England. The phone conversation with the English guy was so awful it was like pulling teeth. I started fantasizing about my own version of My Fair Lady. I would be a kind professor teaching this brute of a man how to become a real gentleman.
     The Iranian, a self-advertised non-smoker, had a smoker’s cough so bad, I thought he’d cough up a lung during our phone conversation. I felt compelled to lecture him on the dangers of smoking. But that would have required me to listen to him cough longer. Ugh.
     The Pakistani bachelor’s profile pictures portrayed a tall, dark and handsome man. He seemed nice on the phone, but I couldn’t understand him most of the time. He sent me pictures of flowers. He said it was his way of giving me flowers. Sweet. But I did not grant him a live date. I knew I would have spent the entire night asking him to repeat himself. That wouldn’t have been enjoyable for either of us.
     The Greek candidate passed the phone interview. In person, he was gorgeous. Perfect olive complexion, thick black curly hair and a smile that almost knocked me over. He walked with confidence and had a magnificent personality. But alas, he wanted babies. Lots and lots of babies.
     Why does God hate me?!? Why???
     Then there was the bachelor from Japan. His introductory email read: “Hello! Have you traveled to Japan? What kind of cooking do you like? Do you like sushi?”
     My mind answered quickly, “No, I haven’t. The kind of cooking someone else does. Sushi? Way to stereotype yourself.” Sheesh.
     His height was listed as 5’1”. I’m almost 5’7”. And I don’t wear flats. Even my flip flops are wedges. Talk about an odd couple. With my lowest heels being two inches, we would be eight inches different in height. He would look like my child, not my date. That’s all sorts of wrong.
     The Lebanese bachelor was great on the phone. In person, he literally looked like Andre the Giant. Albeit, he was a bit shorter at 6’6”. He was boorish and drank like a fish. I stopped counting after six mixed drinks in less than an hour and a half. I would have left sooner, but it took forever to get the food. Hey, a girl has to eat. The redeeming feature of the night was that the food was good.
     The French Canadian guy took the cake. Period. Hands down winner.
      “I would love to get to know you more better and see how it goes between us, I am mixed race, Dad Canada, Mum America. I lived in Canada all my life.”
     I laughed as I read it. But based on the rest of the email, I knew he was serious about the “mixed race” part. After the initial email exchange, he revealed that he was working in Africa. He would require me to move to Canada as soon as possible to help raise his young son.
     Move to Canada? To raise his son while he’s in Africa? Um, no!
      “I’m sorry, but long distance relationships don’t work for me. I wish you luck finding a match.”
     I figured that would be the end of that. Au contraire, mes amis.
      “I quite understand how you mean but I seriously do not see distance as a barrier in a relationship in as much as true love and affection till the end of time.”
      “I’m sorry, no.”
      “I believe things happen for a reason, a connection happens when the right person comes.”
      “I’m sorry. I will not move to Canada. I am not the right person for you.”
      “Just thought it would be a nice idea to know some things about each other, it will be my pleasure to get to know more about you and answer the following love questions.”
     There were thirty-eight “love questions” that followed. Thirty-eight! There were basic questions, such as, “What do you seek in a relationship?” But there were slightly ambiguous questions, such as, “Do you like public intimacy?”
     I wasn’t sure if he was asking about public displays of affection or if I liked having sex in public places.
     The very last question on his “love questions” list was, “Would you hit your man for any reason?”
     I wanted to answer, “Yes, if he repeatedly ignored every word I said and sent me a list of thirty-eight ‘love questions’ to answer even though I’m clearly not interested. In that case, I might have to smack him upside the head.”
     Instead, my reply to his “love questions” email was simple. “Non. Non, merci. Bonne chance à vous.”
     And that was finally the end of that. Maybe he just didn’t understand “no” in English.

Copyright © 2014 by Suzanne Purewal

I’m Not Like Other Guys

     This is the 6th installment of my Mis-Matched to Miss Matched series, and it’s dedicated to just one bachelor.
     Bachelor #27 and I shared so many interests, it was unbelievable. Every line I read, I smiled and nodded my head. And no pets! Thank goodness. The computer screen told me that we were a 100% match! Could this be possible? After all I’ve been through already, I hoped, and I prayed.
     I’m not revealing his age or profession for reasons that will become clear as you read on.
     After a few email exchanges, we spoke on the phone. His voice was velvety smooth, an easy listening radio voice for sure. That first phone conversation lasted two hours. It felt like mere minutes. We chatted like old friends who were catching up after not speaking for a few months.
     We met for dinner shortly thereafter. Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome displayed impeccable manners and was very complimentary to me.
     We had similar hobbies and the exact same taste in music. He was also a muscle car guy. A GM muscle car guy. Thank God he wasn’t a Ford or Chrysler guy. (No offense to Ford or Chrysler guys, but I know GM cars. I don’t know squat about the others.)
     Several dinners followed. We enjoyed each other’s company tremendously.
     Then one evening, he said, “We need to talk.”
     Oh crap. Nothing good ever follows those words. I braced myself.
     “There’s something I need to tell you.”
     Maybe his ex’s name is tattooed on him somewhere. Or he’s a convicted felon. A serial killer. Bodies buried in the backyard. I could be next. Mom was right! Or he’s married. Or an illegal alien. Or he works for the Mob. Or worse, he liked “50 Shades of Grey.”
     “I’ve wanted to tell you for some time now.”
     “Okay. I’m listening.”
     “I’m not like other guys.”
     At that moment, I flashed back to the beginning of Michael Jackson’s Thriller video. Those were the words Michael said to his date before he turned into the werewolf. Oh crap.
     “I like ************censored*************.”
     Huh? I was speechless. Utterly. Totally. Speechless. For the first time in my life, I had no words. None.
     This man who I thought could be, “The One,” just confessed his fetish to me. Picture me sitting there stunned. Really stunned. Deer in the headlights stunned.
     Hopefully my mouth wasn’t hanging open. I don’t remember. But it’s fully in the realm of possibility.
     My mind tried to process the words he had spoken. So many questions raced through my mind.
     “Say something.”
     Here is the unfortunate question that popped out: “Does this mean you play for both teams?”
     Disappointed, he answered, “No. I’m straight.”
     “Okay.” Meaning, okay, I heard you. But I still didn’t know what to think.
     I don’t have a problem with this fetish, in general. It’s not illegal or immoral. And I consider myself an open and accepting person. I don’t judge people’s actions when consenting adults are involved.
     “Think about it.”
     There was no doubt in my mind that’s all I would be thinking about in the near future. The question remained, “Could I live with it?”
     I thought long and hard about it for a couple of days. I researched it on the internet. There were psychological explanations and justifications. All agreed it was a harmless practice. Apparently, it is more common than any of us would ever have imagined.
     I finally made my decision. I couldn’t live with it.
     I wanted to, because he seemed like a great guy, otherwise. We had so much in common. He treated me beautifully. Everything had been falling into place.
     But I couldn’t live with this one thing. It was too big. And he wasn’t willing to give it up.
     So, that was the end of that.
     When I told my mother I broke up with him, she couldn’t believe it. “What was wrong with this one? You said he was perfect.”
     “He had a fetish.”
     “Oh my God! Oh my God! Don’t tell me!”
     “But…”
     “No, don’t tell me! I don’t want to know what it is.”
     “It’s not horrible. I just couldn’t live with it. It’s not like he murders people or anything.”
     “No! Don’t say it! I don’t want to have nightmares!”
     “But…”
     “No! Don’t tell me!”
     So that, my friends, is why the fetish is censored. I do not want to be responsible for giving my mother nightmares. Since she loses so much sleep worrying about me to begin with, when she does fall asleep, I don’t want it to be nightmares about this particular fetish.
     I don’t want anyone he knows to find out either. It’s not like he broadcasts this to his family, friends and co-workers. He was a nice guy. It just didn’t work out.
     I think I’m going to watch the Thriller video now. Michael Jackson and Vincent Price—now there’s a perfect combination! Here’s a link to it, just in case you want to see it too. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sOnqjkJTMaA
     Stay tuned for the next chapter, “The Foreign Contingent.”

Copyright © 2014 by Suzanne Purewal

Doctors and Chemists and a Cowboy, Oh My!

     Welcome to the 5th installment of Mis-Matched to Miss Matched. I’m sure you’re wondering if I met a doctor who made house calls, or if I developed an organic relationship with a chemist, or if the cowboy was a stripper or an actual cowboy. There’s only one way to answer your questions. Read on!

     Perhaps it was time to have a doctor in the family. Bachelor #21 was a 45-year-old anesthesiologist. We agreed to meet for coffee. He was handsome and dressed like a professional golfer. But he showed up late. And he didn’t bother to text or call to let me know. A lady does not like to be kept waiting. Strike one.
     He asked me what I wanted to drink and got in line to order. When he returned, he had more than drinks. He purchased brunch. For himself. He didn’t offer me any food. He sat there eating in front of me. Strike two.
     The conversation wasn’t very stimulating. I actually think he could save hospitals money on anesthesia and sedatives by just talking to patients. Boring with a capital “B.”
     He asked how long I’d been divorced. I told him several months. I bounced the question back to him. He responded he wasn’t divorced. It was going to be too expensive. He was currently weighing his options.
     Well, I eliminated one option—me. Strike three. He’s out!

     Bachelor #22 was 50 years old and a surgeon. Another coffee date. However, this one arrived on time, in a black Mercedes. He had a certain air about him as he walked in. As we shook hands, I noticed his bling. Hard to miss it—thick gold chain around his neck, ostentatious rings and a Rolex watch.
     But as the Shania Twain song goes, “That don’t impress me much.” Sorry, but I’m more concerned with what’s inside a man’s head and heart than a flashy outer package. Always makes me wonder what they’re overcompensating for. Anyway…
     I sensed a God complex as soon as he started talking about his grand achievements. Don’t get me wrong, I admire people who accomplish great things. I just didn’t like how he bragged about them. Plus the fact that he wasn’t interested in me. When I told him that I had published a romance novel and a poetry book, I got that look. It’s the “Oh, you’re an artsy, fartsy type” look. I hate that look.
     It didn’t last long. He switched the conversation back to him. He loved to hear himself talk. I admired his perfect manicure as he chattered on.
     Fortunately, he had to get to the office.
     And I never heard from him again. Thank God.

     Fifty-three-year-old Bachelor #23 was a gastroenterologist. Some of my family members were thrilled at the idea of having one of those around. Seriously. My sister-in-law even told me that it didn’t matter what he’s like, I should “take one for the team.”
     Can you feel the love??
     We met for drinks. We had a great deal in common and were never at a loss for words. He was genuinely interesting.
     For those of you who know me, you know I only drink one drink if I will be driving later. One. Count it. One.
     “Have another drink.”
     “No, thank you. I only drink one drink.”
     “Oh, come on. Have another.”
     “No, thank you.” No means no!
     He yelled to the bartender, “Another drink for the lady.”
     I looked at the bartender. “I don’t want another drink. Can I have some water?”
     The doctor insisted, “Give her another drink.”
     “Don’t bother. I won’t drink it.”
     “Well, I ended up with the water and another drink.
     “You haven’t touched your drink.”
     “I told you that I wouldn’t.”
     “What’s the big deal?”
     “It’s not a big deal. But you’re making it one. When I say I’m not going to do something, I mean it.”
     “It’s just one drink.”
     I’m sensing major control issues. “I’m not drinking it.”
     “You should.”
     “No. Thank you for the drink that I did order. It’s time to call it a night.”
     He continued to contact me afterward. I told him to move on.
     Anyone who is that obsessed over getting me to drink something that I clearly don’t want has serious control issues. I can not even imagine what he would be like concerning important things. Yikes!

     I met Bachelor #24, an R&D Chemist, for dinner. The 50-year-old was interesting…on paper. In person, I felt like I was conducting an audit. If you’ve never been prepped for an audit, Rule #1 is: Stick to the facts. Rule #2 is: Do not elaborate.
     It was like pulling teeth. Some answers were one word. Others came in sentence form. Short sentences. I ended up talking most of the time because he wouldn’t.
     At least the food was really good. And I even had leftovers for the next night. So, it wasn’t a total loss.

     I gave another chemist a try. Number 25 picked the same restaurant as the last one. Wasn’t sure if that was a good thing or not. Nevertheless, I knew the food would be good. So, I met the 42-year-old for dinner.
     This guy didn’t have any problems talking. He never shut up. But it was all negative stuff about his ex-wife. The language he used was downright ugly. It was offensive to me as a woman. Granted, she might have been exactly as he described her. But I did not want to hear it. I’m certain the couple behind him didn’t want to hear it. The woman kept giving me looks. She even followed me into the bathroom.
     “That guy you’re with is a jackass.”
     “Agreed. It’s a first date.”
     “Hopefully your last too.”
     “Yes. As soon as the check is paid, I’m out of here.”
     “I’d leave now if I were you. Slip out the back door.”
     I laughed. “My sweater is on my chair.”
     “I’d forget the sweater. Leave now.”
     “It’s a really nice sweater. It took me forever to find it.”
     “Suit yourself.”
     Luckily, he paid the check while I was powdering my nose. I invented a friend emergency and made a quick exit.

     Gather around the campfire for Bachelor #26. I don’t know what it is about cowboys that intrigues us women. Maybe it’s the rugged look about them. Or the fact that they seem to be able to handle any problem that arises better than MacGyver. Or perhaps it’s that they have manners and tip their hats. Or maybe it’s just the tight jeans…
     Although this 50-year-old bachelor had a real job during the day, his passion was his ranch. Our phone conversation was so exhilarating; I violated my “no pets” rule. The tone of his voice was incredible. I had to meet the man on the other end of the phone. Despite the fact that he had dogs and horses.
     Ladies, he did not disappoint. This rugged, clean-shaven hunk of a man wore a black fitted cowboy shirt to highlight his toned upper half. His jeans were broken in in all the right places. And his boots were polished nicely.
     Big & Rich’s song, “Save A Horse [Ride A Cowboy],” played in my head. Goodness! Is it hot in here or just me?
     He was absolutely fascinating. The hours flew by. We were the last people in the restaurant. The waiter vacuumed around us. We took that as our cue to leave. It was a delightful evening.
     As a gentleman should, he walked me to my car. He leaned in, gave me a quick hug and kiss, and he was on his way.
     As I watched him walk to his car, my throat started closing up. I grabbed two Benadryl and my emergency meds out of my purse and swallowed them all quickly. I drove toward home (and the hospital), Epi-pen in hand. Just in case.
     The coughing and wheezing subsided after about thirty minutes. At least I didn’t have to use the Epi-pen, and I didn’t end up in the ER.
     It also meant that no matter how fantastic he was, or how well we got along, or how good he looked in those jeans, there was no chance of a relationship with this man.
     I told him the news. He said that he regretted not kissing me deeply. Dear Lord, if he had, I have no doubt that I would have ended up in the hospital. Although, that would have made one heck of a story.

     Stay tuned for the next crazy episode, “I’m Not Like Other Guys.”

Copyright © 2014 by Suzanne Purewal

Cast Spotlight: Suzanne Purewal

SuzanneToday, I get to shine the Listen To Your Mother spotlight on myself! My piece is about Mom and me. Some lines are so funny, I can hardly contain my laughter. So, I guarantee you will laugh out loud. I just hope I can keep it together during my performances!

I reveal several things in my interview with event organizers that I have never discussed before. So, if you want to learn more about me, click on this link!
http://listentoyourmothershow.com/indianapolis/2014/04/17/cast-spotlight-suzanne-purewal/

Buy your tickets today! They’re going fast, and you don’t want to miss out!
https://tickets.indianahistory.org/Info.aspx?EventID=1

The Old Bait and Switch

     This is the 4th installment of Mis-Matched to Miss Matched. You always hear men complain about women who post old pictures of themselves on dating sites. Well, I’m here to tell you, men do it too.
     Although I usually go for the nerdy type, I decided to throw caution to the wind and give Bachelor #15, a professional athlete, a try. He sent me a poem about rose petals and the morning dew before we met. Not bad, but not great. I gave him kudos for the effort and agreed to meet him.
     His profile stated he was 48 years old and a non-smoker. The pictures might have been from when he was 48, but he ended up being 58. And he definitely smoked. Why smokers think they can hide their smoking from non-smokers, I will never know. We know. We always know.
     I asked why he lied about his age.
     “Would you have agreed to meet me if I said I was 58?”
     “Honestly, no.”
     “That’s why I lied.”
     “Well, unfortunately, that makes me wonder what else you’re lying about. You lied about smoking too.”
     “So, you have trust issues?”
     “Only with people who lie to me.”
     “Everybody lies.”
     “No, not everybody does.”
     “You’re kidding yourself. Everybody lies.”
     “I’m talking about important things. There’s a big difference between telling a friend her butt doesn’t look big in her new dress when you’re already at a cocktail party and lying about facts, like your age, if you smoke and if you’re really divorced.”
     “I am divorced.”
     “So, one out of three isn’t bad in your book?”
     He smirked.
     “What if I had done the same to you?”
     He appeared annoyed with my question.
     “Seriously. What if I showed up and was ten years older than I said I was?”
     He muttered, “I’d be pissed.”
     “There you go! So, you don’t like to be lied to either.”
     He tossed back the remainder of his drink. “I’m not getting laid tonight am I?”
     Shaking my head in disbelief, I respond, “Not unless you pick up someone on a corner on your way home.”
     On that note, he got up, threw some cash on the table to cover our drinks and left.
     Strike three. He’s out!

     The next contender was a salesman who advertised his age as 49. He turned out to be 54. The ironic thing was that he looked better in person. A lot better.
     “Why don’t you have a more current picture posted?”
     “I figure if someone likes me heavier and with gray hair, then they’ll like me thinner with darker hair.”
     “So it’s like a test?”
     “Yes.”
     “Interesting.”
     “Interesting good or interesting bad?”
     “The jury’s still out.”
     “You’re funny.”
     I wasn’t trying to be funny. I was trying to figure him out. So, I asked him to tell me about himself.
     Big mistake. He droned on and on about all of the “important people” he knew. He dropped so many names that I tripped over them. But he didn’t have any stories about doing anything with them. Boring with a capital “B.”
     My theory is that he hangs out at St. Elmo’s on big event nights and introduces himself to everyone who walks in the door. That would explain how he “knows” the rich and famous.
     When he wasn’t bragging about the people he knew, he pointed out his designer clothes and how he only wore the very best. He proceeded to rattle off all of his favorite designers and stores.
     Okay, I’ll admit that I watch Project Runway. I’m familiar with high-end designers and fashion. I’ve shopped in the boutiques and stores in New York City, and I own a few nice designer items. But I don’t talk about them, ad nauseam. Sheesh.
     Bachelor #16 never got around to asking me much of anything. So, that was the end of that. The jury’s verdict is in: Guilty of being a boastful, materialistic, narcissistic jerk.

     Bachelor #17 was a 46-year-old entrepreneur who owned multiple residences in several states. We had a great deal in common. At 99%, we were almost a perfect match according to Match.com’s algorithm. He was a thin, handsome man, with a full head of black wavy hair and a smile that could knock you over.
     No coffee or drinks for this guy. He went straight for dinner. A girl has to eat, so I agreed.
     As I entered the restaurant, I searched for the dashing man in the pictures. Imagine my surprise when instead, I was greeted by an 80-pound heavier Mr. Comb-Over. The smile was still there. Thank God for small favors.
     After chatting for a few minutes, he revealed that his pictures were from ten years ago. All I could think about was shaving his head. The comb-over look is wrong on any man. Period.
     Our date went well. He was easy to talk to, and we had no shortage of topics to discuss. At the end of the evening, he insisted on buying my books. So, I signed copies for him, and we agreed on a second date.
     The second date went just as nicely as the first. He gushed over my poetry book. He even started quoting some of my work. How refreshing that a man was taking a genuine interest in me.
     After that date, he started reciting other people’s poetry to me over the phone. Then the texts started. Lots of texts. Late at night. First, it was rambling poetry. Then, it morphed into sexting. Obsessive sexting. I told him to stop. He didn’t. His sexting became more graphic. It gave me the creeps. I told him I was done and not to contact me again.
     He was hurt and didn’t understand why.
     I did not want to upset this creepy, obsessive, stalker kind of guy. So I told him he reminded me of my ex-husband and left it at that.
     He bought my story, hook, line and sinker, and left me alone. Thank you, God!

     Bachelor #18 was a doctor. We were the same age. Match decided we were a 100% match. Imagine my mom’s reaction being something like, “Oh, a doctor! I hope this one works out.”
     The doctor and I chatted on the phone and agreed to meet for coffee. Since I don’t drink coffee, I ordered hot chocolate.
     He was shier than I had anticipated. And he wore a Panama Jack style hat that he never removed. A wee bit eccentric, perhaps. But I’m used to eccentric. The conversation went pretty well, but he had to leave after an hour. We agreed to meet again.
     The next time, it was for a drink. And again, only for exactly one hour. My instincts were telling me something was rotten in Denmark.
     And sure enough, I was right. After some relentless questioning, he admitted he wasn’t divorced. He was meeting with me when he should have been watching his son play soccer.
     Slime ball. “So, you’re a liar, a cheater and a lousy father? What a sad excuse of a man you are. You’re despicable.”
     “And I guess you’re little Miss Perfect?”
     “I’ll be the first one to admit that I’m not perfect. But I don’t tolerate cheating, and I don’t date married men.”
     I wished that my glass had been full. I could have made a dramatic exit by throwing the contents in his face and storming out. Alas, there wasn’t a drop remaining. So, I just grabbed my purse and left.

     Bachelor #19’s profile indicated he lived in Indianapolis. We hit it off over the phone. He asked to meet somewhere around South Bend.
     “That’s almost three hours away. We can wait until you’re back in town to get together.”
     “Um. I live in Chicago.”
     “Your profile says you live in Indy.”
     “Yeah, I can’t find anyone nice in Chicago.”
     Really?? “Chicago is a huge city. And it has tons of suburbs. I think you need to try a little harder to find someone in your area.”
     “Nope. I’ve looked. There isn’t anybody.”
     Red flags are popping up everywhere. If this guy can’t find someone in all of Chicago and the surrounding areas, something is seriously wrong with him. “I’m sorry, but I don’t do long distance relationships.”
     “You could move up here. I’ve got a nice place. You could stay with me.”
     Riiiiight. Not on your life, buddy. I watch CSI and Criminal Minds. “I’m not going anywhere. Good luck to you.”

     A 28-year-old salesman was pitiful Bachelor #20. His profile stated he lived in Dayton, OH.
     “I’d like to meet you for coffee sometime.”
     “Sorry, I don’t do long distance relationships.”
     “I live in Castleton, IN.”
     “So, do you work in Dayton?”
     “I work in Indy.”
     “If you live in Castleton and work in Indy, why are you saying you live in Dayton?”
     “I don’t want my coworkers to see me on here.”
     “Why? If they’re on Match too, what’s the big deal?”
     “Idk. I’m embarrassed.” (Idk is “I don’t know” for you non-texting readers.)
     “That makes no sense. There’s no reason to be embarrassed. You need to update your city, or you are never going to find a match.”
     “I’m afraid they’ll make fun of me.”
     Wow, kid. You need to grow a set. “Forget about your coworkers. If they make fun of you, they’re not your friends. Change your city.”
     “I’ll think about it.”
     “You need to surround yourself with positive, supportive people. You need to do something to boost your self-confidence, or you’re going to get eaten alive out there. That pertains to your business and personal relationships. Whatever your story, you need to get your head on straight. It will make a world of difference.”
     “You seem nice and smart. Will you meet me?”
     “No. You’re too young anyway. Change your city, and hang out with positive people.”
     “Thx.”
     “You’re welcome. Best of luck.”

     The more dates and interactions I have, I realize that I should have gone into psychology. These guys need serious help.
     Here’s some free advice for everyone—be honest. It is the best policy.

     Oh well, back to site I go. Stay tuned for the next episode, “Doctors and Chemists and Cowboys, Oh My!”

Copyright © 2014 by Suzanne Purewal

See Me Perform Live On Stage!

     Yes, friends, I will be performing live! I am thrilled to be part of the cast of “Listen To Your Mother!” What is “Listen To Your Mother?” Well, click here to see what it is all about. http://listentoyourmothershow.com/indianapolis/
     As you can see from their website, I will be reading my own original work on stage, along with thirteen other creative women.
     There are two shows on Sunday, April 27th. For show times, tickets and more details, click here:  https://tickets.indianahistory.org/Info.aspx?EventID=1

     Ticket prices go up after April 14th, so get your tickets now! Hope to see you there!

Searching For Mrs. Robinson

the graduate    Welcome to the third installment of “Mis-Matched to Miss Matched.” If you missed the first two installments, this series is about my adventures on the Match.com dating website. The subjects for this post were younger than most. I debated whether I should entitle this article, “Searching for Mrs. Robinson” or “Hot for Teacher.” Initially, I wanted to call this “Hot for Teacher.” But the more I wrote, the more I liked “Searching for Mrs. Robinson.”

     You could tell Bachelor #11 was trouble by his profile picture—an all-American boy with a mischievous twinkle in his eye. You know the kind—trouble with a capital “T.”  I refer to him as a “boy” because he was a 24-year-old college student, and technically, I am old enough to be his mother.
     “Came across your photo. Couldn’t resist. Please give me your number.”
     “Sorry, but I think you should look for someone more age appropriate.”
     “I don’t mind. Give me your number.”
     “Well, I do mind. You should find someone your own age.”
     “No, you’re what I’m looking for. You’d make a good teacher, I bet.”
     “I’m not interested in teaching you anything, except for, possibly, manners.”
     “That sounds kinky. Give me your number.”
     Sheesh. “I wasn’t trying to be coy. I’m not interested. Good luck finding a match.”
     “What’s coy?”
     “Find a dictionary and look it up.”
     “Are you a librarian? Do you wear those tight skirts and your hair up? I’d like that.”
     I’m sure you would. “I’m not interested. Good luck finding a match.”

     Next up was Bachelor #12, a 35-year-old consultant.
     “How are you? I am hesitant to reach out to you. Mainly because I am putting myself in a position to be ridiculed and/or rejected. But, my hope is that you will respect my candor and honesty, as opposed to being offended.”
     “Well, you haven’t offended me yet. And I appreciate candor and honesty. So, go ahead.”
     “I really haven’t been very active in the dating scene and/or on this site. So, I found myself wondering ‘why am I on this site?’ the other day. I truly couldn’t answer that question, lol. However, I think I’ve realized that I want something new, exciting, and…not boring. I want to meet a woman at least 5 years outside of my age bracket, who is interested in a professional, vibrant, intellectual, witty, younger man.”
     “You have piqued my interest. I don’t mind dating a younger man. So, that’s not an issue. And I definitely agree that a relationship should be exciting, not boring.”
     “Now, here’s the catch. I’m not wanting a serious relationship. Not dead-set against it, but just not prioritizing it. I am very focused on my career and have goals to accomplish (just as you do, I’m sure). In all honesty, I’d love to meet a woman who craves and desires a younger man…even if she’s never been with one. I have a feeling that ‘older’ women appreciate a younger man’s intimacy, so long as he is energetic, passionate, and unselfish….oh, and privy to what will make her feel ‘euphoric’. Actually, that last one should probably be a pre-req for both sides, lol.”
     Euphoric? Well, who wouldn’t want to feel euphoric? And when was the last time any man wanted to make me happy, let alone euphoric?
     I reread his reply again, just to make sure I understood him clearly. But, then I got distracted by the whole “energetic, passionate, unselfish” bit. If any woman deserved a man who was energetic, passionate and unselfish, it was me. Visions of satin sheets, rose petals and candles flooded my mind. Then, I read it again for good measure.
     I have to admit that was the best soliloquy I’ve read that boils down to, “I just want to have sex. And I promise you’ll enjoy it.”
     And while I attempted to entertain the idea of this euphoric opportunity for a split second, my mother’s voice was screaming in my head, loud and clear. “Are you crazy? Have you completely lost your mind?!?”
     Fear not, Mom. I want to be in a serious relationship, not be some young stud’s booty call. And in all honesty my friends, I did not want to endure the inevitable, extremely awkward lecture from my mother. So, you’re asking, “Why on earth would you tell your mother?”
     I wouldn’t have to tell anybody. If Mr. Booty Call lived up to expectations, I am guessing everyone who saw me or spoke to me would notice my new, improved blissful state of being. You know that state—you are floating on air, the sun is always shining and everything is happiness, butterflies and rainbows. Okay, maybe it wouldn’t be exactly like that. Although it might be worth it to test my theory! (Just kidding, Mom.)
     Anyway…I wrote back to Mr. Booty Call. “I am flattered. But I am not interested in that type of relationship. However, I must compliment you on how eloquently you expressed the bottom line. I’m sure there is a woman out there who will be happy to oblige.”
     “I sincerely apologize if I’ve offended you.”
     “You didn’t offend me. Dating sites aren’t for the faint of heart. I wish you luck finding a match.”
     “Thank you. I wish you all the best on this site and in your other dating endeavors.”

     Unlucky Bachelor #13 was a self-proclaimed virgin at the age of 30. He was a computer specialist. I know, cliché. But it gets even worse, so keep reading.
     “I would be honored if you would be my Padmé Amidala to my Anakin Skywalker.”
     Heavy sigh. “Sorry, but Anakin becomes Darth Vader. And I don’t feel like fighting any wars against the dark side. I wish you the best and may The Force be with you.”
     “You could be Princess Leia. I could be Han Solo.”
     He did not have a picture posted. So, unfortunately, at this point, I’m imagining he’s probably more like Jabba the Hutt. And I have a strong aversion to chains. And I would not be caught dead with a pair of Cinnabons covering my ears. “I’m sorry, no. I wish you luck in finding a match.”
     “I’ll be anyone you want me to be. Just name it. I have an awesome costume collection.”
     Oh yikes. I’m sure you do. I pity this kid. “I am not interested. However, in the future, when contacting other women, I suggest that you be yourself. Save the characters for later.”
     “OK. Thanks.”
     Call me old-fashioned, but I think you should know the guy’s name and perhaps meet him in person before delving into role playing fantasies and discovering whatever else he is hiding in his closet. This poor guy is going to need the full power of The Force behind him to find a woman.

     Oh ladies! I wish I could post Bachelor #14’s picture. He was a very handsome man. In his profile picture, he was impeccably dressed in a classic black tuxedo. That 28 year-old could have had a spread in GQ, or any other magazine his heart desired. He was absolutely, positively gorgeous and quite the catch for someone. An MBA wasn’t enough for him. He’s currently pursuing a law degree.
     “I would love the opportunity to speak with you.”
     Why couldn’t you be ten years older? “Thank you. But I think I’m too old for you.”
     “Please don’t dismiss me yet. I am looking for a mature woman. I’m not interested in needy, clingy girls. I’m looking for a woman who I can have stimulating…”
     Oh geez. Here we go.
     
“Conversations. I’m looking for a woman who I can have stimulating conversations with. Sorry. My finger slipped and it sent before I was finished.”
     Good recovery.
     
“I like intelligent conversations on a variety of subjects. I’m looking for a sophisticated woman who can hold her own and would make a good impression at black tie events, law firm events, symposiums, etc. You seem to have a wide range of interests, you’re educated and you’re very attractive. I need someone like you by my side.”
     Searching for smart arm candy, are you? Now that’s something that would be great on a resumé — Intelligent Arm Candy, well-versed in a variety of topics.
     
“Thank you. But this sounds more like a job than a romantic relationship. I am not the right woman for you.”
     “I’d like to object. I believe you are.”
     Seriously? You objected? “Sorry, you’re overruled. We are at different stages in our lives. Trust me; I know what I’m talking about. This is not open to debate. I wish you well.”
     “Thank you for your time. Best of luck to you.”

     At this point, I’ll take luck or The Force. Whichever works more quickly…

     Stay tuned for the next chapter in my ongoing saga, “Bait and Switch.”

 

Copyright © 2014 by Suzanne Purewal

 

 

The Lewd, The Crude and The Ugly

good, bad, uglyThis is the second installment of my “Mis-Matched to Miss Matched” series. If you missed the first installment, this series is about my adventures on the Match.com dating website. Here is the next group of colorful, uncouth guys for your reading pleasure.

First up is my banter with Bachelor #6. His profession wasn’t listed. This 43-year old managed to pass the email phase, so we decided to talk on the phone.
In a strong voice, he said, “I’d like to meet you in person.”
“Okay. What day is good for you?”
“Well, I coach my son’s baseball team. We have practices or games every day.”
“I see.”
“You could come watch me coach the double-header this Saturday, and then I could come to your house, and you can make me dinner.”
Is he kidding? “You want me to watch you coach all day, and then make you dinner? Did I get that right?”
“Yeah. I’d make you dinner, but I’m living with a buddy until I get back on my feet.”
“I’m sorry, but that doesn’t work for me.”
With indignation in his voice, he asked, “Just because I don’t have my own place?”
“No. It’s everything else.”
“Whaddya mean?”
Wow! Where to begin? “I don’t know you, so there’s no way I’m telling you where I live, let alone cook you dinner. And spending an entire day sitting with strangers on hard bleachers watching you coach a bunch of 12-year olds is not my idea of a date. Shall I go on?”
“You’re high maintenance, aren’t you?”
“Not even close. We’re done here. Good luck finding a match.”
“Whatever.”

Bachelor #7 was a sales representative in Indy. His profile listed his age as 89 years old. However, his picture showed he was much younger. He was seeking women, ages 24-36.
He emailed me, “You have a fantastic smile. I want to get to know you.”
“Thank you. I am definitely out of your “Seeking Women” age range. And I can not have children. So, if you need to have children, then I’m out. If you’re still interested, let me know, and be kind enough to tell me your real age.”
“I’m 46. Let’s chat.”
“Ok. On the phone or in person?”
“U look a little innocent.”
That was an odd comment. Hmmm…“That innocent look is a result from 12 years of Catholic school.”
“I may be too wild for your taste. I may corrupt u. I did read fifty shades.”
Huh? I read it again. Oh, good Lord! I responded quickly, “I read the first book in the 50 Shades series. I am not into S&M or bondage. So, if you like it rough, you’ll need to look elsewhere.”
“Ok”
Yikes!!! Dodged a bullet there. Or at least handcuffs…

Moving right along…Bachelor #8 was a 35-year old in advertising.
“I’m looking for a woman who can handle me. You look like you could.”
“Not exactly sure what you mean by that. I’m not looking for a bad boy.”
“I’m a good boy most of the time. Trust me. I need a woman who can handle me. I’m enormous and I can keep it going all night long.”
Laughing as I typed, “With an ego that big, I’m surprised you haven’t hurt yourself by now. It must be tough dragging that bravado around everywhere you go.”
“Bitch”
Oh well, I’ve been called worse!

Bachelor #9 was 51 years old and worked in communications. Normally, I do not judge a book by its cover. But this guy took the creepy, scary, stalker troll look to a new level. He should have stayed under the bridge. God forgive me.
“You’re pretty. I want to meet you.”
“I’m sorry. We don’t have enough in common. I wish you luck finding a match.”
“I can like new things. Please meet me.”
“I’m sorry. No.”
“Really. I think you’ll like me once you meet me.”
“I’m sorry. No.”
“Give me your number and I’ll call you. I’ll change your mind. I’m sure of it.”
“No.”
A week passed.
“I see you’re still on here. You haven’t found anyone yet because you’re supposed to be with me.”
“Please stop contacting me. I’m not interested.”
“I’m very interesting in person. You will love me. I’m sure of it.”
“No. Please do not contact me again. I don’t want to report you.”
“You will regret not meeting me.”
I was regretting ever responding to him in the first place. He kept contacting me. But I did not respond to any more of his messages. I eventually reported him because he would not stop emailing me.

Bachelor #10 was 42 years old and worked in the entertainment industry. I agreed to meet him for a drink. He looked much different in person. And he lied about having animals. His shirt was covered with cat hair. So, I sat as far away as I could and popped some Benadryl. I honestly can not tell you what we talked about. I was too preoccupied with the appearance of his leathery skin. He must have spent every minute of every day in the sun, baking himself until extra crispy. And his mannerisms were beyond quirky. I kept thinking he looked and acted reptilian, like a Star Trek character.

I drank most of my drink. I just wanted to get out of there. As I got up to leave, he tried to hug me. I pushed him away. He looked hurt. Annoyed, I blurted, “You’re covered in cat hair. I told you I was severely allergic to animals.”
He replied, “I can fix that.”
Then, he did the unthinkable. He took off his shirt. So there he was – standing there in a white, “wife-beater” T-shirt. His scrawny, over-tanned body was covered with ugly, disturbing black tattoos. And I mean covered.
I rolled my eyes and shook my head. “Put your clothes back on.”
“But…”
“Sorry. I’m going home. Thanks for the drink.” And I walked away.
He actually had the nerve to contact me for another date.
Oh, hell no!

Then there were the bachelors who felt it necessary to send pictures of themselves. Yes, I am talking about those kind of pictures. Why? Why? Why? Why do men think it is appropriate to send strangers pictures of their genitalia? I do not, I repeat, do not want to see these pictures. I know politicians do it all the time. But these guys are not politicians. And I am sorry to say, but these men did not have anything impressive to be exposing in the first place.

My computer felt dirty after viewing those pictures. I really wanted to wipe the screen off with Lysol antibacterial wipes. Just even thinking about it now makes me want to clean something.

Stay tuned for the next exciting installment, “Hot For Teacher.”

Copyright © 2014 by Suzanne Purewal

Mom’s Thoughts on Online Dating

     This is not a typical Mother’s Day post. But, it does have to do with my Mom’s deep love and concern. I love her dearly for her advice and for wanting the very best for me. And sometimes, I find humor in our daily exchanges. Yes, I talk to my mother (and father) every day. Despite the 600 miles that physically separate us, we are a close-knit family. And I would not want it any other way. (The close-knit part, not the distance part!)
     The mere thought of me plunging into online dating has sent my mother into a bit of a tizzy. But for those of us over 40, let’s face it, we do not have many other alternatives.

     “I don’t like the idea of you doing this online dating thing.”
     I sigh heavily. “Uh huh.”
     “Did you see Criminal Minds this week?”
     “Yes.”
     “You saw what happened to those girls?”
     “Yes.”
     “I’d feel better if one of your friends set you up with someone.”
     “You know they tried. But the guys were all old.”
     “Age shouldn’t matter.”
     “In theory, I agree. But I’m not attracted to old men.”
     “They all weren’t that old.”
     “They were closer to your age than to mine. That doesn’t work for me.”
     “How will you know if these online men are who they say they are?”
     “I don’t. But that could happen no matter how I meet a guy.”
     “Don’t ever meet a man at his house.”
     “I know. I’m not stupid. I would meet him at a restaurant or some public place.”
     “One with good lighting in the parking lot.”
     Rolling my eyes, I reply, “Yes, one with good lighting.”
     “So how does this work exactly?”
     “Everyone fills out a profile with interests and stuff. Then some computer program matches us up based on our profiles.”
     “But they could lie and use someone else’s picture.”
     “Yes, they could. But that would be pretty stupid. And I wouldn’t sign up for a free site. I’d use one you have to pay for. That should weed out some of the riff-raff.”
     “I love you, and I just want you to be happy.”
     “I know. I love you too.”
     “Let’s change the subject.”
     “Okay. Thank you.” I am relieved.
     “So, did you see the segment on the news about The Villages?”
     (The Villages is a popular retirement community in Florida.)
     “No, I didn’t.”
     “Well, there has been a drastic rise in STDs among the residents. Since the women can’t get pregnant, they’re not practicing safe sex. The men are spreading venereal diseases around like wildfire.”

     And that’s my mom – master of subtlety!

Copyright © 2013 by Suzanne Purewal