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It’s like a seven year itch. Only it’s usually every 3-4 months, and it’s a new subscription to one of the biggie online dating sites. My latest foray into winkdom led me down a slippery slope… With a douchebag. Went something like this.

Cute guy winks at me. Check out his profile – he passes the typical pre-reqs: single (you’d be surprised), employed, educated, can use spell check or at the least has a tenth grade grammar ability, doesnt claim to work out daily or confess to a love of the clublife, and a profile pic where I can see his face.

Wink back.

He emails- short, polite. Fine, I answer just as shortly and politely as I’ve learned you have to “mirror” communication style much like my psych 101 class taught me to mirror non-verbals… I digress. He asks for more full length photos. Being the over-analytical pessimist I am, I come close to deleting, but decide to go against my better judgement and refer to my consultants, also known as my office mates. They convince me it may be perfectly innocent and men are visual beings. I reluctantly stand up, hand on hip for a photo by said officemates turned Ms. Bossys, hand over my phone number to Mr. Body and hold my breath as four minutes later a text pops up. It’s a simple hi, hello, and I reply with a pic and ask for his in return. Ten minutes later and I hear the familiar faint buzz of my phone and can’t bear to look, fearing the worse….the obligatory penis pic. Thankfully it wasn’t Mr. Body’s “mister” but rather two bathroom mirror shots of his top half…and a mighty fine one at that. And then…another text comes through, asking for me to send a bit more.

Seriously? Couldn’t you just defy the laws of gravity for once and not be the total douchebag I was expecting? I held back my usual snarky self and simply responded I didn’t think we were a match and good luck. He responded and asked why at first, then three minutes later he couldn’t help his over inflated ego and responded sayin, “never mind, don’t really care anyways. Good luck.”

Gee, thanks Mr. Totally Predictable Douchbag that gives Good Guys a bad name.

No shoes is no news….

It’s fact. It’s hard and true.  When one has a few extra bucks in her purse and she’s raring for a new pair of heels, there will not be one cute pair on the shelves.  Though we all know that when the budget won’t allow it, we’re swimming in adorable stems at top costs.

And so, I cannot find a cute new pair of shoes.  Not a one.  Because for me, when I find a pair of shoes I’m going to take home, I fall in love.  Not like, not just ok, not even like/love (stinkin Courtney from the Bachelor), but head over heels (!) totally smitten kitten in love.

Much like dating. 

You find the standard straw wedge with a bright pop of color.  Expected for spring, and just not what I’m looking for.  Much like my starbucks Barista who may make a mean latte, but conversation genuinely revolves around yesterday’s weather and the new blonde blend.  Predictable.

Then there’s the black patent peep toe sling backs.  They show up in different heights every season, in every cost point, and while tried and true, just don’t hold the “it” factor for a girl like me.  Sort of like every other dude in Chandler that goes clubbing every weekend, even though he’s ten years outta his frat boy duds and can plan a good date or two, but after that, you’re just left with boring.

And the newest platforms that stand ridiculously high in purple, cobalt and fuschia suede?  Even a shoe-lover like me won’t dare trot around in those 6 inchers all day.  They’re the equivalent of the high-maintenance type that works out twice a day, has more skin products than I do and won’t be seen in public shopping at the Gap.  Sucka.

Where o where are you my shoes I dream of?  Where o where are you sweet quirky, funny man o mine??

Won’t you be my valentine?

Let’s all celebrate national “singles awareness day” by appreciating the little things in life that those not-so-single don’t get to enjoy.  Yes, there are advantages ladies to going solo, and let me kindly remind you of those things youre currently taking for granted and our tied-down girlfriends are secretly jealous of…

1. Not having to plan a damn thing on Feb. 14th.  I could sleep in, stay in my jammies with a barrette in my hair, and order a pizza while watching re-runs of Jersey Shore all day if I really wanted to.  And since this year it falls on a workday, I can wear all black, hand out lollipops to students and co-workers alike and eat chocolate all day as flowers are delivered because I don’t have to worry about squeezing my ass into a pair of spanx that night.

2.I can rest my creative juices as I do not have to rack my brain to come up with the most creative gift possible for my sweetpea.  I take pride in gift-giving, so the idea of purchasing the usual cologne or watch just doesn’t scream thoughtful, and coming up with some grand idea of a hot air balloon ride with jimmy johns sammies and a 6-pack of stella is not my idea of a romantic eve.  Take a rest dear brain.

3. Finding a hot new outfit for V-day is bad enough, but I’ve said it once, I’ll say it again – no worries over the outfit after Valentine’s dinner.  Tee-shirt & boxers will do just fine, thanks. I’m sorry, but have you seen the window in V’s secret lately?  Not. my. style.

4. More money in my pocket to spend on the munchkins…. OK, maybe a lil treat for myself, too :)  New neon cardi, necklace and lipgloss and I’m a happy camper.

5. No stressing over not eating all day, then nibbling on a measly salad so I look my best all night, then drink one too many martinis and accidentally pass out on the couch watching True Blood.  Talk about a let down.

6. The gift disaster. Ohhhh, to open his gift.  Ever sit there with wrapped gift in hand in total and complete fear that you just can’t tear the wrapping paper?  Is it going to be another gift set from bath & body works?  Or a gift card, completely unorginal and thoughtless gift?  Or a tacky number from Castle Megastore that you will NOT even try on.  Or perhaps an engraved photoalbum from Things Remembered…. Or worse yet, the ugliest diamond encrusted heart-pendant necklace that is SO not your style, and you know you’ll have to wear it once every 12 days so he thinks you love it.  Yes, I know we should just be grateful for getting a gift, but sometimes, I think I’d rather he just skip the damn thing alltogether.

7. No expectations, no disappointments.  Just the hope of finding love for V’day 2012.  Anyone seen Cupid?  Send him my way….


I went through a phase where Id say “quality” all day long…… It was my response to anything. Here’s what I would NOT describe as quality….

The dude who emailed me, “sup?.” I then curiously perused his photos starting with a classic bathroom mirror shot in his tank top flexing his roided out guns. Shot #2 was a close up of his lips. Parted. And his tongue. Ewwwww. Then shot # 7, yes, I flipped through them all, was of about 12 lipglosses with the caption, “MAC lipgloss for sale, message me.” Hmmm, interesting. Perhaps it was his wife’s he was selling since his status read “separated.”

And then, then I get this email from tatted out rockstar:

Whoa. I hope you’re into 29 year olds.

Come onnnnnn! Dude- it’s a difference of 4 years at the most, excuse my language but WTF!?! Jackass. My first gut response:

Whoa. I hope you’re into illiterate prostitutes.

Latte, stat!

I’m going to have to get a bit more strategic in my coffee shop-quest for love.  Strategic in my location choices, visit times, and plan of attack.  Hitting up a quaint shop in the middle of a shopping mecca is likely NOT going to land me standing behind Mr. Friday-night date.  It put me right between the cute couple straight outta their land rover with bugaoo baby carriage stuffed with a future baby Gap model and the two sorority chicks fresh from yoga class at lululemon.  Having a “hot” day, aka those fantastic days where you feel cute and confident?  Well, this is the day to have coffee with every meal, and at three different shops.  And while the mother-ship of coffee shops at Kierland is sure to guarantee some great looking dudes, it’s also highly unlikely to result in a first date with a gentleman that is not known to the bouncer at Dollhouse and doesn’t use perezhilton and espn for his newssources…

So pending I find the right coffee shop, and stand in just the right line, however will it start?  I can’t quite base my hopes and dreams on my favorite lifetime movie “Lucky 7” where she overlooks the bagel guy (McDreamy) only to find he used to work on Wall Street and love blooms.  Riiiight.  I can’t quite ask the time, as I’ve done in the past even while wearing my trusty watch and iphone in hand… um, embarrassing.  And do I ask him if he’s ever tried the newest flavor of cake pop?  Bo-ring. 

You can’t plan it, you can’t practice it, it just happens.  You’re nervously waiting for your turn to order, hoping he’ll smile at you when you catch eye contact, then he softly touches your shoulder for your attention.  You turn around, smiling sweetly at green eyes and he kindly tells you that your big ‘ol bag just knocked over five bags of organic fruit snacks in the display behind you, and that you better pick them up so nobody trips.  Gee, thanks.

Now what?

Online dating has exhausted me, with very little results to show for it.  So, now what?  What’s the plan of attack for a singleton who just lost her last singleton friend to engagement and works in an office surrounded by women.  No people, get your mind outta da gutter.

I need a strategy that removes my smiling face holding a cocktail from the world wide web and gets my ass in the real world where real men live.  I shall start…. at coffee shops.  Sure, I’ll drain my bank account with latte after mocha-chinos, but wasn’t I doing that anyways by subscribing to the joke of online dating?  And, yes, I’ll be jittery to the point of causing grave concern of co-workers who will wonder why I’m shaking so much I can’t type an e-mail, all in hopes and dreams of Mr. Psuedo-Intellectual-wearing glasses-with-a-bow-tie and jamming out to some indie band I’ve never heard of buying me my TNSVLXH (tall nonfat skinny vanilla latte extra hot).

Going after two plan of attacks.  Repeat locations and valley-wide.  Repeat locations meaning hitting up the same coffee shops around the same time to help increase my chances.  Psych 101 taught me allllll about proximity, people.  And valley-wide to help increase my statistical sample size.  Sure I’ll incur added costs of gas and wear and tear on the old Vibe, however we all know Chandler is brewing with single engineers just looking for a hot thang to take home to meet mom.  Me.

And one last added variance to the scheme of all schemes – corporate vs. mom & pop.  Starbucks vs. Lux.  Intel vs. graphic design consultant.

Can I get a cuppa Joe?

New Years past….

I have a strong distaste for New Years Eve.  STRONG distaste for it.  It’s worse than Valentine’s Day in my world, and I’d really just like to wake up on the last day of the year, take a big swig of Nyquil, and sleep the day away and wake back up on January 1st.  Yippee!  At least on Valentine’s Day I can get away with my sarcastic barbs at the halllmark-holiday and pink-glitter cupids that don every front door.  New Year’s… not so much.  If you’re single, you’re stuck with one of the following scenarios:

1.  A Set-up/blind date.  Tried this a few years’ past when our crew hit up the block party.  Decent enough, the guy was cute and polite, held my hand through the crowd and I had enough Tejas margaritas to give him a sloppy kiss at midnight while Bare Naked Ladies serenaded us with fireworks in the background.  We parted ways, and he texted me through 3 AM with sweet compliments, get home safely & “can’t wait to see you agains”.  Then he disappeared… swell.

2.  Party girl!  Slip on that sequin mini, sky-high stilettos and red lips and off you go.  Two shots before the party starts and I’m as chatty as the not-so-hot but super-confident girl at the bar.  And then, you realize that everyone AT the party is with their wife, fiancee, significant other, or is actually the hired taxi driver to take everyone safely home.  Midnight strikes, and you wait for a good 120 seconds until your hostess friend finds you and lays one on ya outta pity, then retreats to her hot hubby on the couch.  super.

3.  We be clubbin… This was the choice of a many a NYE in my twenties.  Hot outfit, I do recall a backless silver top with fake black leather pants one year, and a gaggle of your single-girlfriends and you hit up the latest “it” club in oldtown and dance your booties off until you bump into a cutie that will work, and hold onto him until midnight.  Somehow make it home around 3 AM where you dig out remnants of glitter from your top, and find his smeared phone # on your wrist since you lost your phone around 11:15 PM.  Is that a 3, or an 8???