How men react when they find out about this blog, or: “I’m going to be famous!”

In my last post, I mentioned this guy from college who verified my finding that short men don’t post their height on Tinder and carefully frame their photographs so that you can’t easily compare them to objects with known heights (Shaquille O’Neal, for example, or Yao Ming, or the Space Needle, or a great dane). Since he is also short, and I named the original subject of my height research Michael Dukakis, let’s call this one Dennis Kucinich.

Kucinich is the only person I know who I’ve come across on Tinder that I have swiped right to say hi to. I also immediately texted a screenshot to my old college roommate, who almost birthed her second baby right then from laughing so hard.

Have I mentioned that being on Tinder in the city where you grew up, when that city is Seattle, where a lot of people stay forever, is both awesome and terrible? My friends are horrified by it. “I would never Tinder in the city where I grew up! What if you see someone you know? What if you see someone who you have tons of Facebook friends in common with?”

Um. I’m here to tell you that I not only see people I know regularly, I sometimes have entire nights where I have mutual Facebook friends with literally every profile that comes up. I wouldn’t call it ideal but I definitely am still alive.

The mutual Facebook friends thing is tricky. If I don’t like the mutual friend, I might be tempted to swipe left. On the other hand, clearly being Facebook friends with someone isn’t indicative of whether or not *I* actually like that person, and the same might be true for the Tinder profile I’m looking at.

I think there should be an option for this on Tinder. “Yes, I know this person but I dislike them / feel neutrally about them / barely know them / generally don’t want to be judged on association. Swipe right if same.” If someone also clicks that button, then you match. You already have so much in common!

I swiped right, Kucinich swiped right, we matched, and I’m like, “I’M JUST SAYING HI” in a direct way that you might call it unnecessary but I would characterize as very necessary.

And I continued to text with my friend about boys we knew in college and what she’s going to name her baby, who at that time was about to pop out any day (now safely popped).

It was basically the most 2015 late-twenties-something moment possible. My life right now: other people’s babies, boys, Tinder.

So let’s talk about fame, the other Millennial obsession. Kucinich asks if I’m writing, and I send him a link to this blog.

Kucinich: …my ticket to fame!

(Welcome, Kucinich. After 40 years in politics, you’ve finally made it.)

I’ve told several dates about this blog. If they’re savvy enough to say, “Do you write about Tinder?”—not a huge leap—I don’t lie. Then I end up giving them the blog name, because I think maybe it’s less scary once you see that I’m mostly writing about behavioral patterns and Tinder profiles rather than writing date reviews.

OH WAIT.

Ok. I didn’t write date reviews for a few months. I was trying to figure out if it was something I could do without victimizing my poor, hapless dates. JK, I was more worried about having to reveal personal details of my own life that I don’t want my dentist reading.

But also the thing about respecting other people and their privacy. But what’s the point of writing about something—Tinder—if you’re not going to reveal anything that’s actually happening—my sordid love life? But then…how do I write about dates in an interesting, entertaining way without saying too much about them or myself?

Because: Feelings. Sex. The Internet. Some small measure of privacy. Also my mom reads this blog.

How do I explain that I never want to see someone again without sounding mean? How do I express liking someone who has maybe since proved themselves unworthy of that liking? That is okay in theory but scary in reality (just like dating itself). How do I write about feelings that I haven’t yet or will never choose to express to a person—a person who might read this blog and therefore gain access to feelings I don’t want them to know about?

How do I write honestly about you when you’re reading?

Yes, it’s my life, it’s my truth. But I’ve written this blog for 6 years without losing any friends, and I’d sort of like that to continue. And kind people deserve kindness. I’ve been on dates with kind people.

(Yes: If someone shows up and acts like an asshole…then anything goes.)

I’ve always been interested in art with boundaries. I like writing poems in form. It’s an interesting set of parameters that challenges me and gives me an intellectual problem to solve—which has always been a good way from distracting myself from the emotional vulnerability in which I’m about to engage. This isn’t an original idea. Many writers who work with form use it as a way to create a safety net for risky content or scary territory.

(Look! Keep your focus over here—good. Now solve this math problem while you slowly undress.)

We’re all voyeurs. I know why *I* read the Internet. I’m hoping for Seventeen-style most embarrassing sex stories. Yes, even when I’m reading Wired, secretly I’m hoping someone will confess to sleeping with her boyfriend’s twin in a hot tub while his parents were inside ten feet away and pretending she didn’t know the difference, even though she totally did. You are too. Why do you think The New York Times’s Modern Love column is so popular?

I’m still disappointed that my friends aren’t having Seventeen-esque escapades as adults for me to hear about. Step up your game, guys. We all know I won’t do it. Too many germs.

The point is—there is a point—we are deeply into celebrity culture. Our privacy standards have been radically changed by the Internet, and our comfort levels with media have been altered in less than a generation. No one has panicked when I’ve told them that I have a blog, nor when I say that yes, I do write about Tinder. In fact, the typical response is similar to Kucinich’s: “I’m going to be famous!”

And then: “Wait, are you really going to be write about me?”

I can’t tell if this last is said with eagerness, fear, or a thrilling mix of both. Tone is hard to read over text. That’s why we have emojis, but no one’s sent me one so far in this context, fully illuminating the emotional condition of their reaction—because we all know emojis are the eyes of text, and eyes are the window to the soul, and windows can be used when the door is locked and you can’t get in and that’s when God was carrying you down the beach during your journey to womanhood, because a woman is like a [cup of tea emoji].

Grade Kucinich: Fail. He “broke up” with me in college after we’d made out twice—on 4/20—while he was high out of his mind. (I was just going to ghost. No, ghosting wasn’t a term back then, but it’s always been a thing.) I spent the whole time he was talking trying to figure out how to communicate my apathy towards the situation in general and disinterest in the conversation in particular.

Then he asked if he could still come to a house party my roommates were throwing that night. 

Review of Date #6: Dukakis

He liked cats. He was a philosophy major in college. He came from the Midwest. He was short, so let’s call him Michael Dukakis.

We set up a date. Then Dukakis posted a picture of himself on Tinder—let’s pause here while I explain Precious Moments.

Tinder doesn’t allow you to send pictures one-to-one. This is basically how they a) got around being sued for ripping off Grindr and b) pretend that they’re friendly to women: no dick pics, ladies!

(We can get into Tinder’s terrible corporate culture and history later, or not at all, because you can read about it elsewhere and I can feel guilty about using the app anyway on my own time.)

So you can post a picture to Tinder, and it’s called a Moment. It’s their version of Snapchat. It lasts for 24 hours and it goes out to all your matches. Only people you’ve matched with. But all the people you’ve matched with. I haven’t heard of anyone posting a dick pic as a Moment, but I’m sure it does happen. Your matches can then swipe left (dislike) or right (like) on your moments. In keeping with Tinder’s zero-rejection ethos, you don’t get notified for dislikes, and you do get notified for likes.

The men I’ve matched with who use Moments? They post sunsets and pictures of food. There’s one guy who pretty regularly posts pictures of views from his Belltown apartment saying things like, “Home sweet home.” He also posts pictures of his sports injuries: an Ace bandage around a knee. An electrode wire linking up to his thigh. A brace with the caption “Surgery it is.”

Another guy regularly posts pictures of his roommate on his phone with things like, “Just two dudes tindering away.” Once it was a picture of their two dinner plates: “Two lonely dudes with too much broccoli! Come eat with us!” A picture of their trivia scorecard: “Come help us win trivia! We don’t know anything about pop culture!” Their trivia team name: Future DILFs of America.

I call them Precious Moments. I judge people for using them at all. And clearly, while they disappear after 24 hours, they never leave my memory.

I once saw a guy Tindering at Pettirosso during brunch. He was wearing a plaid shirt and a beanie. He had dark hair and a beard. In other words, he looked like 90% of the men in Seattle right now. He didn’t look like someone who I would categorically refuse to date. And he was flipping through his Precious Moments, which were all selfies taken by girls with hair down to their waists, full make-up, duck lips, and giant boobs pushed into the camera.

This is my competition on Tinder, you guys. I don’t stand a chance. Or—alternatively—it’s no wonder none of my dates have completely missed the mark. By the time I go out with someone, we’ve weeded through fields of tall grasses to find each other. We may be in the wrong acre, but we’re not on the wrong farm.

Farms don’t have tall grasses, you’re yelling at me. Hey, man. This is America, the land of the free and mixed metaphors.

Back to Dukakis, who I’ve already made a date with. Dukakis posts a Precious Moment of himself the day before our date holding a baby with the caption: Friend’s new baby. Hold onto your ovaries ladies

Me: Did you really just try to use your friend’s new baby as a move on Tinder?!

Dukakis: Haha, just came from the hospital. Thought it was cute, hold onto your ovaries is funny though, right?

Me: So if I was holding a [football emoji] and I captioned it hold onto your sperm would that be a) cute b) funny c) super weird

Dukakis: Point taken

Dukakis: It was an impulsive decision…So we still on for tomorrow? : )

Me: Damn right we are

As I’ve mentioned before, I’m interested in how men take push-back. You take it well? Game on.

In person, he turned out to be nice, earnest, and generally fine all around. Let’s just say he’s an emoticon sender, not an emoji user.

WHY DO YOU FAIL ME, TINDER… is how some people react to dates they aren’t immediately, crazily attracted to but who otherwise behave in socially acceptable ways. This is not my reaction. My reaction is either a) another pleasant hour spent with a person I would never have otherwise met! or b) I should have ordered french fries.

This date was when I realized that if someone’s height isn’t posted on Tinder, it’s probably because he’s short, and this can be verified if he has avoided standing next to objects in pictures (telephone poles, cars, basketball stars) that might give you an indication of how tall he is.

I’m not super tall, so I don’t care if a guy is short. But if you’re really asking, ok, fine, the shortest guy I’ve ever dated was still 5’10”, a full four inches taller than me, so I’m not exactly pushing social convention here. But it’s still a good finding, later verified by coming across a guy from college who I know for a fact is short. He also did not list his height and he employed similar spatial strategies in his pictures.

Grade Dukakis: I wasn’t as attracted to him as date #1 and I didn’t want to be his friend as much as date #2. : (

Tinder is a hook-up app

There’s this thing people do when they’re on Tinder dates—they talk about being on Tinder. I think at some point on every single Tinder date I’ve been on, the guy has been like, “So….what’s your experience with Tinder?”

I wait for it, and then I take the opportunity to grill them about what women on Tinder are like. Responses vary from, “Every woman has a picture of herself doing a handstand on top of a mountain” to “Lots of pictures of tigers” (et tu, women?!) to “Tons of drunk Seahawks selfies” (gender parity for the win, Seattle) to “Lots of duckfaces.”

My general answer to “What’s your experience with Tinder?” is generally positive, generic, and vague. “I’ve met some really nice people!” “People are interesting.”

Men: “But they’ve all been nice?”

Men are worried about other men’s behavior online. This is good.

Me: “All polite, nice, gentlemenly types.”

A couple of guys have essentially congratulated me on screening out the creeps. This is not good. I’m wary of this, and always go to the trouble to explain why: it’s a slippery slope from “I have a good filter” to “other women don’t filter as well as I do” to “other women don’t prevent the abuse they get online” to “other women ask for the abuse they get online.”

Welcome to rape culture, where women get congratulated for not getting raped. Fuck that.

I think I’m careful, sure, and predators are generally lazy, but I also think I’ve been lucky and it’s just a matter of time before I’m on the receiving end of nastiness online. I tend to try to think of myself as the rule, not the exception to the rule (you hear that, New York Times writers ranting about millennials?). I don’t think anyone “deserves” the abuse they get. I think women should be able to be online, asking for whatever they want or don’t want and looking however they want or don’t want, without being made to feel uncomfortable or unsafe. Maybe if women were actually safe in the world we would be having a different conversation, but women are not physically or emotionally safe in the world. Until they are, that’s not the conversation. Get in this conversation.

Do you guys follow @instagranniepants on instagram? Heartbreaking, hilarious, brave, important.

So let’s talk about the hook-up culture of Tinder. Everyone thinks it’s a hook-up app. It started as a hook-up app. Some people still use it as a hook-up app. This is great! We’re all allowed to ask for what we want, including sex. Sometimes we want different things. This is ok too!

My friend swiped on a guy and he asked her about hooking up, and she said, “Whyyyyy?” I took her phone and looked at his profile and it said, “Just looking for casual fun.” So her bad on that one. But also—she wasn’t actually upset. Because asking if you’re interested in hooking up isn’t abuse. It isn’t a threat. It isn’t telling her what filthy thing he’s going to do to her without her consent. It actually was a question, genuinely phrased, that revealed his interest while asking her about hers. She said no. He moved on. Consent!

Plus—isn’t all of this dependent on meeting a person anyway? Even if you’re someone who’s out for random sex, and you’re someone who is attracted to a lot of people, don’t you still have to meet someone and see? Don’t you have to see if they look clean, or if they have a random tic you just can’t get past, like, say, bursting into song during conversation, or calling you “sweetheart”? Aren’t there enough other people in the world that you can sleep with that there is something that could make you go, “eh, not for me”?

Maybe not. In which case, happy swiping and happy schtupping.

But for the rest of us—there’s a lot of grey area that remains to be covered in meeting someone and seeing where things go. Some people you want to be friends with. Some people you want to meet and talk to and never see again. Some people you want to see again and find out more. Some people you want to be close to.

I guess I just don’t think social cues are that hard to read, even online. If a profile says, “hedonist who lives every day to the fullest, fun-seeker, just passing through town for one night only,” then maybe that person isn’t seeking a quiet, non-sexual first interaction. But maybe they are. If you can’t tell from their profile, why not see what you can tell from a conversation? If you can’t tell there, why not ask once you’re having an interaction?

I’m not against direct communication, I just think that most people are going to have to find out in person anyway—and what we want might vary from interaction to interaction, so why not go for the “meet and see”? (I almost spelled that “meat and sea” which is much more entertaining now that I think of it…)

You really can’t waste the 4 text messages back and forth? Your Netflix queue must be really long and urgent.

A real conversation I had:

Him: I was going to say we should hook up but if you can’t do handstands…

Me: Wow! An offer for a hook-up AND a preemptive rejection. Must be my lucky day.

Him: Haha. It’s a crazy world out there, maggie

Grade: A+ 

If he’d continued the conversation past that, I would have written him back. I was much more interested in how well he handled the push-back than anything else.

This sort of easy, low stakes interaction is part of what I like about Tinder. In fact, I get annoyed when guys plaster “not here to hook up” all over their Tinder profiles.

First of all, I have one foot in the world of marketing, where a basic maxim is to always phrase things in the positive. Saying that you’re “looking for something with real potential” or “hoping to meet someone for a serious relationship” accomplishes the same goal as “not here for hook-ups so don’t bother” without the a) ego b) judgment c) dismissive tone.

Sure, you can tell me what you want, but can you do it in a way that doesn’t also attempt to establish what’s ok for me to want or not want? Quit swinging your dick around while claiming you’re keeping it in your pants as an incentive.

I’ve asked for male perspective on “not here for hook-ups” and to the letter, all of the guys I’ve asked have said, “Oh, that’s a move to try to get even more play.”

It’s nice to know men think so highly of each other.

My basic response can be boiled down to: “What’s with the slut-shaming, guys?!?”

It’s really awkward when we can’t all be humans safely

This culture of violence against women that the world has been rocking for the last couple of millennia has a lot of downsides.

One of the downsides is the awkwardly imbalanced conversations that happen when online dating.

Me: So what do you do for work?

Him: I’m a Project Manager in the Video Games Division at Amazon. I work on the fourth floor, office C. Here’s my email and mother’s maiden name. What do you do?

Me: I’m a writer.

Him: Cool. So have you lived in Seattle long?

Me: A while. You?

Him: Moved here last December 13. Live in a nice apartment in the Central District on 19th and Union. Third window from the left. Lock doesn’t work very well. Do you like your neighborhood?

Me: Yes. (*frantically googles to make sure every neighborhood in Seattle has pizza*) It has good pizza.

Him: Do you want to go out for pizza sometime?

Me: Sure! Does Capitol Hill work for you? Not saying I live there, just saying it’s a busy public neighborhood that’s conveniently located to most places so I could live basically anywhere, but I can meet you there.

I actually had a guy—on a first date—say, “So you’re a writer—what does that mean? I mean, you don’t have to tell me where or anything.”

I really appreciate that the men I’ve interacted with on Tinder have avoided asking me identifying questions—or at least been chill about my vague answers.

To some extent, I think nice men who date online go out of their way to appear un-creepy. Re-read that sentence with me and really let it sink in.

My friend Nicole says her guy friend who dates online always avoids asking his dates anything personal.

No one’s suggested picking me up at my house or walking me home. One date who I was otherwise having a really sweet, easy time with wouldn’t return the gesture after I’d touched his arm several times. I think one dude avoided looking at me for the hour and a half we spent together. Sometimes I get confused and sort of feel rejected, then I re-orient to what’s going on and I really appreciate it.

This is the new gentlemanly code of conduct. Welcome to the world we’ve created, folks.

When I first joined Tinder, I was explaining how it works to a friend. His first question was, “But wait—what if I match with some girl and she messages me and she says, u r cute—??”

He said u and r with so much disgust in his voice that I knew how he was spelling them.

“Let’s just take a second,” I said, “and recognize that your greatest fear about online dating is that someone will compliment you using letters in place of words. My greatest fear about online dating is that I could be raped and murdered.”

We sat there, eating french fries and nodding for a little while. Then I acknowledged that you could always unmatch someone if they messaged u and u didn’t like it—whether cuz of the way she spells qt pie 4 lyfe or a threat against your physical safety and life.

Then we talked about whether or not his girlfriend was likely to understand that he just wanted to go on Tinder for the entertainment of swiping, no really, and wasn’t trying to meet someone. I think Tinder would make for a great couple’s activity.

But you should hear the rage that fills my single girlfriends when they see people on Tinder who aren’t on there to actually meet people. YOU’RE CLOGGING UP THE SYSTEM, they yell. GET THE F*** OUT.

Because they have hope. Because we’re humans, and humans like humans on an individual-level. I hope you’re being safe. I hope you’re being persistent. I hope you get lucky.

Reviews of Dates #3, 4, 5

Let’s write about Dates #3 and #4 together. To be fair, this post is going to be more Dudes #3 and #4, because both of them got second dates. I know.

I really lined up my first four dates very efficiently. Friday, Friday, Sunday, Monday.

Dude #3 was the Sunday. He’s a software engineer who I later found out majored in music (saxophone) and has since switched to playing the keyboard in a low-key way.

Dude #4 is a computer programmer who majored in music (saxophone) and has since switched to playing the keyboard in a more committed way.

Let’s start at the beginning. Dude #3—let’s call him Spiderman—asked me if I was into pinball and I told him I was more of a skee ball girl. Right before I got there, he texted me that there was literally no one at the bar, which I appreciated. I prefer to meet serial killers in not only public but busy places. But I really like skee ball so I stuck with it. And then skee ball was broken.

We ended up playing pool instead. This was a terrible idea. I warned him repeatedly about how long it’s been since I played pool and how awful I am at it.

I was actually decent at playing pool in high school, when a friend’s grandparents had a pool table in their basement in Seattle, and a house in Arizona for the winter, which meant we spent way too many hours playing pool. It being high school, sometimes my friends played strip pool, which meant you could either refuse to play, get really good at pool, or end up in your underwear for about 10 minutes before putting your clothes back on. It was basically the winter version of skinny dipping.

I suddenly got really good at pool. Have I mentioned I’m kind of competitive?

But I haven’t played since then, and I didn’t have as much motivating me for this game. Except, it turns out, ending the game in a reasonable timeframe, because Spiderman did not warn me that he was only marginally better. Nor did he ever acknowledge it, a testament of will that I found very impressive.

Spiderman did admit to working for a dating start-up at one point and I may have grilled him about dating sites. He was the first of, well, basically everybody since then who has been on both OkCupid and Tinder. He also helpfully tipped me off to the fact that Tinder, OkCupid, and Match are all owned by the same company.

Did you know that? If you’re getting high percentages on OkCupid with someone you’ve already matched with on Tinder, it’s not because their dating algorithm works or that you’re good at picking people out. It’s that, you know, computer servers. They talk to each other.

That’s my operating theory, at least.

Spiderman and I parted with an awkward hug.

When I met Dude #4—let’s call him Batman—the next night, I was thoroughly exhausted of small talk and really glad we’d agreed to meet for tacos so that I would at least get tacos out of the deal. We’d had a comically mistaken conversation a few days before wherein he said, “Is it too late to get coffee?” and silly me, seeing as we were on a dating app chat and he’d initiated a conversation with me earlier in the day, I thought that he was asking me out. He wasn’t. The end result was that I offered tacos on a different day instead of coffee, and he agreed because I’m irresistible and also tacos.

This is what you need to know about that date: for some reason I was talking about doing yoga at work, and how yes, it can occasionally feel awkward to stick your butt in your co-worker’s face, but you just sort of have to get over it. And one of the ways I comfort myself is by telling myself that if my boss is doing it, it’s definitely okay for me to be doing it. And then something about wanting the day off.

He suggested that it’s all in how you ask, and perhaps the best chance for securing approval in this case would be to just go ahead and slide under her while she was doing cat/cow—maybe on a flat scooter, such as is used in auto body shops.

I laughed so hard I snorted salsa up my nose and cried.

After I stopped crying, I got an ice cream cone at Dick’s and bought a copy of their 50th Anniversary book, which is filled with awesome/boring/hilariously awful memories people have of Dick’s. People are weirdos and intensely passionate about Dick’s and it’s glorious.

Batman: ENJOY YOUR BOOK.

Me: Who is this?

Batman: Shut up, jerk. I want to see you again.

As I was walking home from the date, I looked up and realized one of my Tinder matches was going the other direction in the crosswalk. I looked hard at him. He glanced at me. I looked hard at him. He looked harder at me. He did a bobblehead move after I passed him—a full 180 swivel like a cartoon character. He’s a baker, so let’s call him the Gingerbread Man. I’d talked to this guy on one of my first days on Tinder, and he’d asked me out for pizza. I said sure and then he never messaged me again. He’d picked up the conversation a few weeks later and we’d again ended up at pizza. He again didn’t continue the chat into that whole date-and-time thing which is rather essential for seeing someone.

Gingerbread Man: Did I just pass you on the street?

Me: Ha! Yes.

Gingerbread man: Wow 

Gingerbread man: Here’s my number. Text me sometime.

Me: I’m not going to do that but we can eat pizza!

Gingerbread Man: Ok. When works for you?

Me: *falls over in a dead sarcastic faint from shock but schedules a time anyway*

Batman: I’m here for the jokes

Me: I’m here for the dick pics OH GOD PLEASE NO I WILL BURN THIS PHONE TO THE GROUND

Then I sent him a suicide story told entirely in emojis.

Batman and I went on one more date and then called it. He really loves going to all-night techno parties, which I understand to be raves without the glow sticks, which seem like the best part of a rave to me. Clearly fundamental differences of opinion there.

I think we’re friends? I hope so. We like each other’s jokes, I know that for sure.

Gingerbread Man cancelled our pizza date the day we were supposed to meet. I’m counting this as date #5 anyway, because I went to the pizza bar with a friend and we had a great night and a slow, tipsy walk home.

Spiderman texted me intermittently for the next 6 weeks, super innocuous things that I always eventually responded to. He asked me out again one Friday when I was in a great mood, taking a long weekend, on the ferry with my dog on the way to Lopez. At that point, I’d taken a break from Tinder dating to, you know, do other parts of my life, and was feeling open to reconsidering. We went out for a drink and it sort of felt like being on a first date again, but more comfortable and with someone you’ve already met and hopefully can recognize.

I think Tinder dates—by the way—are more like pre-dates. You haven’t even met yet. For all you know, one of you could be lying about everything—what you look like, what your name is, whether you’re going to show up. I think Tinder dates tend to be called Tinder dates for a reason. It basically translates to “as low of expectations as possible.” You meet somewhere convenient for a drink or two, you generally call it quits after that even if it’s going well. If you’ve met someone in real life and determined they’re someone you might like to go out with, you might commit a little more—a full meal, maybe. Someone might treat instead of splitting the bill. I don’t know. You do what feels right, but—Tinder dates are like 1/2 to 3/4 of a first date. First date vs. pre-date.

Have I mentioned I develop facial blindness syndrome when I’m meeting Tinder dates? No matter how often I look at their picture beforehand, I still walk into a bar and freeze.

So because I’d met Spiderman before, this felt more like a first date. But it had also been over a month, so we were starting at square one and asking some basic questions.

So I’m chatting with Spiderman, and playing pinball, and in walks Batman.

This is what you need to know about that date: right as Spiderman was a) reminding me that he was a software engineer and b) majored in music (saxophone)—facts these two superheros have in common that I must have blocked the first time I met them within 24 hours of each other—Batman walks by and says, “SMELLS LIKE SOUP IN HERE.”

Grade: Dammit, skee ball, I just can’t quit you, but you treat me so badly. Tacos are delicious. You should try the ice cream at Dick’s if you haven’t. I know the milkshakes are great, but try the ice cream. You won’t regret it. That book is the best thing I’ve ever bought for under $7. Pizza makes me think of Rome. Dating is confusing. People are mysterious and unknowable. I still don’t know the difference between a programmer/coder/software engineer. 

Some sexy things I’ve said on first dates recently: please form a line, boys

I just don’t understand why anyone would intentionally get into techno music.

I think I’ve thrown up on every small plane I’ve ever been on.

I thought you lived in Ballard. . .Why don’t you live in Ballard?

What’s the difference between a coder, a programmer, and a software engineer?

Are you trying to tell me your family isn’t full of Bible-thumpers even though they live in the Bible thumping belt?

I’m a classic youngest child. I get all of the attention and none of the respect.

Tap class is my favorite hour of the week. It’s right over Molly Moon’s and then I eat ice cream for dinner on Sunday nights.

Have you ever shown up at a bar and not been able to recognize the person? I once stared at a man’s back for about 5 minutes, trying to decide if I should go up and tap him on the shoulder. Then a full plate of food arrived for him and I thought it’d be pretty weird if he’d ordered dinner—without me—five minutes before I got there—when we were meeting for drinks.

Have you read the okcupid blog? It’s the best thing on the Internet. No, I’m not on okcupid.

Do you miss Florida?

Where did you say you’re from?

You haven’t been to Dick’s yet and you moved to Seattle 5 days ago?

Who’s your favorite philosopher? I like Helene Cixous.

When I was in middle school, I went to Italy with my family and all I ate was gelato. And every time I ordered chocolate. Every time, I spilled on my shirt. My main memory from that trip is of washing out my shirts in tiny European hotel sinks.

Do you get a lot of dirty jokes about that picture of you holding zucchinis?

So you do experimental theater in your down time. How interesting.

Why do you have a cat?

I’m more of a skee ball girl.

I’ve been thinking about wine and cake all day.

I don’t have hobbies… I like TV.

What do you put in your garage?

I’m on Tinder for the blogging material. And because I got bored of Solitaire. And to find love. But mostly for the blogging material. But also the love thing.

Review of Date #2

Date #2 was fine. I mean, it was fun. I liked him. I wanted to be friends with him. I didn’t want to see what smashing our faces together would be like.

I keep trying to tell myself, kiss all the boys! But I just don’t want to.

You know how there’s that thing called pheromones and this plays out in all sorts of ways, but one of the most obvious ones (to us) is whether we’re drawn to or disgusted by someone’s smell? We’re animals.

I don’t have a sense of smell. Or rather, I have a terrible sense of smell. This is from four years ago, 3 months before I had sinus surgery. Note the reference to my aching sinuses. This is from 2 months before. Note the 3 sinus infections, for which I was prescribed the 5 courses of antibiotics.

The point is: I had sinus surgery, and it was awful, and then it was amazing, and then I found out I had allergies. I haven’t had a sinus infection since. I can smell flowers and fresh-baked cookies and garlic and onions and mown grass and dog poop.

I can’t smell people.

Perhaps as compensation, my pheromone-meter appears to run on voices. And just like people’s smells, I can’t quite detail what it is I’m attracted to. There it is.

But I had a lovely night getting to know a person who seemed nice, kind, fun, and interesting.

Grade: …Is it weird that I have a thing against people who live or have lived in co-ops?

Review of Date #1

I went on my first Tinder date very spontaneously. Also I broke my own rule.

He didn’t have anything written in his profile. But I thought he was really cute, proving that we’re all shallow assholes when it comes down to it, and I swiped on him mostly to prove my own theory that someone that hot wouldn’t also swipe right on me, proving we’re all insecure wimps who love rejection. Turns out I was wrong. Then I laughed like Ursula in Little Mermaid.

HAHAHAHAHAH! You’re mine now, you fool!

And then I opened by saying something earnest, like, Hi [redacted]! You have beautiful pictures. Are you a photographer?

And then he said he was in the area and oh hey, if you’re free, we could get a drink tonight / right now? And here’s my last name so you can google me if that helps. So thoughtful! If google returns a bunch of articles about serial killers, I definitely will hide under my bed and research how to best smash the GPS on my phone so he can’t track me that way instead of going.

I asked my sister if she thought he was a serial killer and texted 3 people his picture and then I went. Because I’m practicing saying why not? And sure, I say it in the same tone of voice that 5-year-olds say, “Broccoli?” but still. Practice!

And no, he wasn’t a photographer, but a cinematographer. I probably haven’t told you guys about my biggest crush of all time, this cinematographer who was a graduate student the year that I did film studies in college, who taught me how to frame a shot (instantly forgotten). We had long conversations about what it means to be an artist (lost with my college email account), and how to tell stories visually and verbally (still practicing), and he told me I could be an artist if I wanted and I believed him in that way that you do when someone who makes beautiful things looks you in the eye and says you can too. And he smoked cigarettes constantly, which was the only time I avoided him, and he stayed away from me like he knew exactly how head-over-heels I was and liked me enough not to make a mistake.

So, yeah: I heard this guy was a cinematographer and, like all people you meet online, he was 20% less hot in person than he was in his pictures, which in his case meant he looked like a very good-looking person and not a YA book cover.

While we had a drink, we talked about our jobs, and being in creative fields. When he heard it was my first Tinder date, he insisted that a true first Tinder date had to involve more than a drink at the bar, and at least must also have a walk around the city. So we went walking. On busy, well-lit streets in a neighborhood I know well (see: serial killer. I didn’t get to page 2 of the google results, and you never know). He asked how I felt about cigarettes—I may have made my broccoli face—but he said he was trying to quit. (You guys at home are like, liar!) We talked about a film festival he’d been in (I’d probably be yelling liar! with you, but remember, I’d googled him), and he made me name journals I’d had poems in and then pretended he’d heard of them. We stopped at another bar and played Pinball and Ms. Pac-Man until we ran out of quarters and then meandered up the street. While he talked about his favorite Robert Frost poem.

If this was meant as a move, it wasn’t particularly effective. Don’t get me wrong, I love Frost, but I’m not particularly attached to talking about him at 11:00 at night with some guy I just met whose opinion on Frost I really couldn’t care less about. And it’s not like Frost is a particularly impressive poet to name. I was more interested in the fact that he asked me if I hated Frost, and so I asked him if he hated Spielberg, and the answer on both sides was no I love him and then we both got to act like excited idiots about idols that are so popular we’re supposed to disdain them as “sell-outs” and instead my heart is singing When I grow up, I want to be famous! I want to be a star! I want to have boobies! 

He swung me around on a quiet street and kissed me under a streetlight.

Then I split off at a random corner because I wasn’t about to let him know where I lived because I want to live to go on another Tinder date, hello. He immediately sent me his phone number over Tinder—so good! I can decide whether to give him mine or just reply without awkwardly refusing as I might have if he’d asked for mine. We exchanged perfect emojis the next day while I was doing laundry and we made a joke together about speed walking.

Frost may not be the road less traveled into my heart, but jokes about speed walking definitely are a footpath.

Beautiful! Cute! Texting perfection! Who cares that he actually lives 40 minutes away and must have fooled Tinder by being in my area temporarily when I swiped on him! Who cares that he smokes and I think smoking is disgusting; he’s trying to quit! That’s always successful, right? Who cares that I just got on Tinder and maybe am interested in going on more than one date before I hang up my Tindering hat; I can keep dating other people for at least a few months while also kissing this one because kissing is fun and that emoji was really well chosen!

When I texted him the next week about getting together again, he gave me a vague “maybe” and I haven’t heard from him since.

Grade: F minus minus. He’s dead to me.

Why I will never (again) date a 25-year-old

Because they look like babies. Literal infants.

Because they wear tank tops in every picture.

Because they list their college majors as their defining characteristic.

Because they post pictures of themselves wearing a cap and gown.

Because they post pictures of themselves with beer bongs.

Because they haven’t lost the baby fat off their faces.

Because they remind me of being in college. Or maybe high school.

Because when they write profiles they include the words holla, hella, or tight, which might be why they remind me of being in college (or maybe high school), and how are there not new terrible slang words yet?

Because just looking at them makes me feel like eating pizza and macaroni and cheese.

Because this one wrote, “3 things I like in a girl: boobs / someone who pushes themselves / butt.” He also classified himself as “not that big of a douche I think.”

Because they call themselves enigmas.

Because they quote Thomas Pynchon and Quentin Tarantino. And Ron Swanson. As if.

Because while I may think I’d be down to find a hot 25-year-old and see what happens, I’m not actually interested in their idea of “what happens” on Tinder.

I really need to up my age range, but it’s just way too fun to look at their baby faces and manly arms and terrible tattoos.

Plus, I never run out of people to look at. I don’t know the exact stats of ages on Tinder, but my friends who have their age ranges set to 30 and above often get the message that “there is no one new in your area.” I have never once seen that. The supply of 20something boys on Tinder is endless.

It’s not just that “there’s always another fish in the sea.” It’s that Tinder isn’t the sea. It’s a fish hatchery.

Dear Parks and Recreation

I just watched the Parks and Recreation finale, and it was both heartwarming and heartwrenching. This show has so much damn heart in it, and it is smart and kind in equal measure.

You have made Leslie Knope, April Ludgate, and Donna Meagle—strong, smart, realistic women who work and love and fail and succeed—into heroes for women aged 9 months to 90. (I have no idea who actually watches this show.)

You have spread the gospel of Ron Swanson so successfully that he is the most oft-quoted person on men’s Tinder profiles. He would be horrified.

It is a truth universally acknowledged (to borrow a phrase from Jane Austen) that it is harder to write a meaningful happy ending than a touching sad one.

And it is hilariously easy, if one goes by how often it happens, to completely destroy the finale to a good tv series.

So congratulations, cast of Parks and Rec. I’m going to miss each and every one of these characters. Congratulations, writers. I’ve never seen better.

With the exception of Dawson’s Creek.