Online Dating Nightmares 1: Psycho Therapist
As someone who is self-employed at home, I spend a lot of time by myself with my cat. This is not very conducive to meeting new people, and while I have a lot of affection for my cat, there's just something missing in our conversations.
Thus I have found myself more than once dipping into the dark, dank well of the online dating world.
Yes, it's true. Charming and devilishly handsome as I may in fact be, that long line of lovely women outside my front door is deceiving -- they are merely waiting for the bus. Friends have fixed me up occasionally, but I'm usually left wondering what the hell they were thinking. "Well, you guys seemed to have so much in common." Like what? That we're both single? That we both have to shave above our upper lip?
So I have ventured forth into the grab-bag dreamscape of half-truths, unrealistic expectations and downright squalor that the online dating experience can be, if only you'll let it.
Now don't get me wrong; I've met some wonderful folks that way. Some of them are even my friends to this day, and are no doubt reading this missive at this very moment. And I am happy to have met them, surely. But GOOD experiences make for boring stories, mostly, so I am going to concentrate on the BAD ones. OK?
And so, without further ado, I bring you: PSYCHO THERAPIST.
I met her on one of those matching sites that shall remain nameless. You can probably guess which one. No, not that scary E-Harmony thing; the guy in the commercials freaks me out. Would you want to date anyone that guy fixed you up with? I didn't think so.
Anyway, so she wrote me. She sounded cool enough, and her picture was cute enough, so we exchanged a few notes and decided to meet up. Grabbed a drink at a local pub, and it was obvious she wanted me bad. That should have been my first clue that something was horribly, horribly wrong. Call it the Groucho factor if you want, but though I'm certainly not an unattractive or uninteresting chap, I find that the ones who want you right away are usually Bad News.
But did I listen to that inner voice of mine? The one that is almost always right about shit like that (though it can't seem to remember where it left my keys at any given moment)? Nope. Of course not. I listened to the bulge in my 501s, like usual. Goddammit -- I don't want a vasectomy; I just wanna remove the damn thing's vocal chords.
OK, so I played it cool and ended up back at her place. Duh. Rule Number Two: if you're both over 30 and she lets you go to Pootie Town on the first date while claiming to want a Serious Relationship, you are asking -- no, begging -- for trouble. See my 'Male Sexuality' posting for more on this exciting topic. Yeah, the wise, quiet voice in my head said "she's gonna stalk you, man" -- but the Loud Voice Down There said "Me want penetrate something NOW." Guess who won? What a stupid fucking asshole I am.
We dated for a total of approximately 30 days. The first week can actually be considered 'dating;' the last three weeks consisted of me attempting to exit the situation gracefully and without any permanent scarring or vandalism on my car.
The woman (we'll call her K, which can stand for a lot of things but in actuality was the first letter of her name) seemed interesting at first. She was/is a therapist, working with troubled teens. We were around the same age; we had similarly eclectic taste in music, film, and other things that interest me. She seemed pretty intelligent and got my jokes. Even laughed at the really awful ones, seemingly sincerely. That was a good sign; can't be with a woman who doesn't find my shit funny. That's just me. We'd get stoned together and watch 'Plan Nine From Outer Space' with the sound turned off and Iggy playing loudly while we danced on her coffee table and pretended to be Glam Rockers. It was fun. For about a week.
Then her constant sniffling (which she attributed to a sinus infection) turned out to be the telltale sign of a coke problem the size of Conan O'Brien's head. And her constant complaining about the parents that were apparently alarmed at the way she was 'treating' their young daughters in therapy began to smack of denial.
On top of all that, she needed constant affirmation and instant intimacy. In other words, I was supposed to shower her with compliments and romantic gestures on a regular basis. After a week. Call me crazy, but after a week I could barely remember her name -- and she expected me to hire a crop duster to write it in the sky. I mean, she was nice and all, and she had a first-rate body, especially for forty. She worked hard to keep it that way. But simply saying "you look nice" wasn't enough; like I said, she needed CONSTANT affirmation, and she would fish for it in the middle of conversations about unrelated topics in which other people were involved. One time she met some of my friends, and during a discussion about music or something, she said, out of the blue, "Brian really digs my tits -- don't you, Bri?" Everyone sorta laughed it off uneasily.
I dunno. I thought that was weird. Maybe you don't.
Anyway, it turns out that she was all coked-up for the entire time I knew her, which explained a lot. But It took me awhile to figure this out. I hadn't done any powder in like 20 years, but she offered me some once and I said "OK, what the hell" and did it. But this was apparently her green light, since after that she was offering it like every fifteen minutes every time I saw her. Sorry, but I ain't no Tony Montana, babe. Once a decade or so is fine with me.
On top of that, she was on anti-depressants. All I can say is, the synergistic effect was intriguing from a scientific perspective, but not much fun from a dating standpoint. It was like going out with a cartoon character. I forget which one was Ren, and which was Stimpy -- but she was sorta like both of them together in one package. And if she got pissed at you -- oh holy christ you were so unbelievably screwed. She was the type to make a big scene in a restaurant -- which she did, in my favorite place, on my birthday. Because I hadn't complimented her on her new dress. How could I know it was new? I'd known her like 2 weeks. And anyway, I distinctly remember saying something good about how she looked earlier in the evening, but it had been a whole hour since then and she was apparently feeling neglected while I focused on carefully slicing my ornately-presented Chilean sea bass.
I could go on and on, but suffice it to say that I decided it just wasn't working out, and tried to extricate myself from this doomed quasi-relationship without too much collateral damage on either side. I used a variation of the 'it's not you, it's me' approach, coupled with the 'not quite over my ex' approach. The first one was a lie. it most definitely WAS her. But as to the second, I can honestly say that one of my fatal flaws is that I never stop loving anybody, so I can pick an ex at random in my head and still feel a tiny twinge of longing for her, when it serves my purposes to do so. Like an actor, crying on cue in a movie by thinking of something that really makes them sad. Did I call it a flaw? It probably is. But I like to think it adds to my charm as half hopeless romantic and half curmudgeonly jaded bastard (which is really just a hopeless romantic with a few sucking chest wounds to show for his trouble anyway).
OK, so we had The Talk. After all, it had only been a few weeks; surely she hadn't yet imprinted on me like a baby duck, right? Surely she'd be able to pick up the pieces of her shattered dreams and move on without too much of a fuss, right?
You know better than that. That's why you're still reading.
She called me day and night. Left messages alternating between "fuck off you bastard!" and "please come back; I'll change." Sent long, rambling, coke-addled emails that were difficult to decipher and seemed to have been written by around 14 completely different personalities, like the Old Testament. She called my friends, who had only just met her a few times and didn't really know her or care to -- and begged them to talk to me about her. How had she gotten their numbers? Well, apparently she borrowed my phone and, um, copied them when I wasn't looking. Yikes.
So finally I was forced to get nasty. I called her up and said, "listen, you're freaking me out, ok? So leave me alone and especially leave my friends alone, or else I swear I will call whatever board is responsible for handing out therapists' licenses and I will tell them everything I know about you, which is way more than I wish I did. OK? Thanks."
Apparently the thought of losing her career was enough of a wake-up call. I haven't heard from her since. I've often wondered if I should have turned her in anyways; after all, she's an insane cokehead who works with TEENAGERS. But then again, if I had to deal with teenagers all day, I'd probably become a drug addict too.
* * *
Thus I have found myself more than once dipping into the dark, dank well of the online dating world.
Yes, it's true. Charming and devilishly handsome as I may in fact be, that long line of lovely women outside my front door is deceiving -- they are merely waiting for the bus. Friends have fixed me up occasionally, but I'm usually left wondering what the hell they were thinking. "Well, you guys seemed to have so much in common." Like what? That we're both single? That we both have to shave above our upper lip?
So I have ventured forth into the grab-bag dreamscape of half-truths, unrealistic expectations and downright squalor that the online dating experience can be, if only you'll let it.
Now don't get me wrong; I've met some wonderful folks that way. Some of them are even my friends to this day, and are no doubt reading this missive at this very moment. And I am happy to have met them, surely. But GOOD experiences make for boring stories, mostly, so I am going to concentrate on the BAD ones. OK?
And so, without further ado, I bring you: PSYCHO THERAPIST.
I met her on one of those matching sites that shall remain nameless. You can probably guess which one. No, not that scary E-Harmony thing; the guy in the commercials freaks me out. Would you want to date anyone that guy fixed you up with? I didn't think so.
Anyway, so she wrote me. She sounded cool enough, and her picture was cute enough, so we exchanged a few notes and decided to meet up. Grabbed a drink at a local pub, and it was obvious she wanted me bad. That should have been my first clue that something was horribly, horribly wrong. Call it the Groucho factor if you want, but though I'm certainly not an unattractive or uninteresting chap, I find that the ones who want you right away are usually Bad News.
But did I listen to that inner voice of mine? The one that is almost always right about shit like that (though it can't seem to remember where it left my keys at any given moment)? Nope. Of course not. I listened to the bulge in my 501s, like usual. Goddammit -- I don't want a vasectomy; I just wanna remove the damn thing's vocal chords.
OK, so I played it cool and ended up back at her place. Duh. Rule Number Two: if you're both over 30 and she lets you go to Pootie Town on the first date while claiming to want a Serious Relationship, you are asking -- no, begging -- for trouble. See my 'Male Sexuality' posting for more on this exciting topic. Yeah, the wise, quiet voice in my head said "she's gonna stalk you, man" -- but the Loud Voice Down There said "Me want penetrate something NOW." Guess who won? What a stupid fucking asshole I am.
We dated for a total of approximately 30 days. The first week can actually be considered 'dating;' the last three weeks consisted of me attempting to exit the situation gracefully and without any permanent scarring or vandalism on my car.
The woman (we'll call her K, which can stand for a lot of things but in actuality was the first letter of her name) seemed interesting at first. She was/is a therapist, working with troubled teens. We were around the same age; we had similarly eclectic taste in music, film, and other things that interest me. She seemed pretty intelligent and got my jokes. Even laughed at the really awful ones, seemingly sincerely. That was a good sign; can't be with a woman who doesn't find my shit funny. That's just me. We'd get stoned together and watch 'Plan Nine From Outer Space' with the sound turned off and Iggy playing loudly while we danced on her coffee table and pretended to be Glam Rockers. It was fun. For about a week.
Then her constant sniffling (which she attributed to a sinus infection) turned out to be the telltale sign of a coke problem the size of Conan O'Brien's head. And her constant complaining about the parents that were apparently alarmed at the way she was 'treating' their young daughters in therapy began to smack of denial.
On top of all that, she needed constant affirmation and instant intimacy. In other words, I was supposed to shower her with compliments and romantic gestures on a regular basis. After a week. Call me crazy, but after a week I could barely remember her name -- and she expected me to hire a crop duster to write it in the sky. I mean, she was nice and all, and she had a first-rate body, especially for forty. She worked hard to keep it that way. But simply saying "you look nice" wasn't enough; like I said, she needed CONSTANT affirmation, and she would fish for it in the middle of conversations about unrelated topics in which other people were involved. One time she met some of my friends, and during a discussion about music or something, she said, out of the blue, "Brian really digs my tits -- don't you, Bri?" Everyone sorta laughed it off uneasily.
I dunno. I thought that was weird. Maybe you don't.
Anyway, it turns out that she was all coked-up for the entire time I knew her, which explained a lot. But It took me awhile to figure this out. I hadn't done any powder in like 20 years, but she offered me some once and I said "OK, what the hell" and did it. But this was apparently her green light, since after that she was offering it like every fifteen minutes every time I saw her. Sorry, but I ain't no Tony Montana, babe. Once a decade or so is fine with me.
On top of that, she was on anti-depressants. All I can say is, the synergistic effect was intriguing from a scientific perspective, but not much fun from a dating standpoint. It was like going out with a cartoon character. I forget which one was Ren, and which was Stimpy -- but she was sorta like both of them together in one package. And if she got pissed at you -- oh holy christ you were so unbelievably screwed. She was the type to make a big scene in a restaurant -- which she did, in my favorite place, on my birthday. Because I hadn't complimented her on her new dress. How could I know it was new? I'd known her like 2 weeks. And anyway, I distinctly remember saying something good about how she looked earlier in the evening, but it had been a whole hour since then and she was apparently feeling neglected while I focused on carefully slicing my ornately-presented Chilean sea bass.
I could go on and on, but suffice it to say that I decided it just wasn't working out, and tried to extricate myself from this doomed quasi-relationship without too much collateral damage on either side. I used a variation of the 'it's not you, it's me' approach, coupled with the 'not quite over my ex' approach. The first one was a lie. it most definitely WAS her. But as to the second, I can honestly say that one of my fatal flaws is that I never stop loving anybody, so I can pick an ex at random in my head and still feel a tiny twinge of longing for her, when it serves my purposes to do so. Like an actor, crying on cue in a movie by thinking of something that really makes them sad. Did I call it a flaw? It probably is. But I like to think it adds to my charm as half hopeless romantic and half curmudgeonly jaded bastard (which is really just a hopeless romantic with a few sucking chest wounds to show for his trouble anyway).
OK, so we had The Talk. After all, it had only been a few weeks; surely she hadn't yet imprinted on me like a baby duck, right? Surely she'd be able to pick up the pieces of her shattered dreams and move on without too much of a fuss, right?
You know better than that. That's why you're still reading.
She called me day and night. Left messages alternating between "fuck off you bastard!" and "please come back; I'll change." Sent long, rambling, coke-addled emails that were difficult to decipher and seemed to have been written by around 14 completely different personalities, like the Old Testament. She called my friends, who had only just met her a few times and didn't really know her or care to -- and begged them to talk to me about her. How had she gotten their numbers? Well, apparently she borrowed my phone and, um, copied them when I wasn't looking. Yikes.
So finally I was forced to get nasty. I called her up and said, "listen, you're freaking me out, ok? So leave me alone and especially leave my friends alone, or else I swear I will call whatever board is responsible for handing out therapists' licenses and I will tell them everything I know about you, which is way more than I wish I did. OK? Thanks."
Apparently the thought of losing her career was enough of a wake-up call. I haven't heard from her since. I've often wondered if I should have turned her in anyways; after all, she's an insane cokehead who works with TEENAGERS. But then again, if I had to deal with teenagers all day, I'd probably become a drug addict too.
* * *
posted by brioSphere at 1:43 AM
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