Dating Update: Eating Cheetos and Xanax in My Pajamas Edition

Dropped off the face of the earth:

1.  The Republican

To recap, we talked on the phone regularly for several weeks before meeting.  Had a couple of very good dates, despite his horrific politics, which is no small thing for me to overlook.  Then we made the beast with two backs, and he was suddenly overwhelmed with a crazy workload of hating on Obama and making tweet, tweet love to our nation’s military leaders. (Yes, I did add his Twitter feed and blog to my Google Reader, for my anonymous stalking pleasure. Like you wouldn’t.)   “Be patient with me…Can’t wait to see you.”  Then…nada.  Bupkes.  After about two weeks went by, I was sitting at the bar one night alone enjoying a hoppy adult beverage when I was suddenly filled with a righteous anger.  And a wee bit of beer courage.  So I texted him.

Just want to say for the record that sleeping with me and then never calling me again, after we had discussed the myriad reasons that was NOT going to happen, is really a dick move.  I’m sorry I misjudged you so badly.

His immediate reply:

I totally agree with you, C.  But it’s not what you think: I have wanted to call you and write you and see you, but I’m a workaholic.  But it’s not what you think.

Two “it’s not what you think“s!  If only there were a bonus for repetitive faux earnestness.  So I shot back:

It is exactly what I think, actually.  The one universal truth of dating is that if you want to see someone, you find a way to make it happen.  Everything else is excuses.

End scene.  Unfollow.

2.  This guy.

Eh, easy come, easy go.  He cancelled our date at the last minute, swore it was because he was ill and that we would re-schedule very soon.  Of course, we  did not.  Probably for the best.

3.  Presumably, this guy as well.

It might conceivably be argued that this drunken caper was not my finest hour, and that my decision-making process vis-a-vis the end of the evening was…off.  However, I seem to recall having a lovely time and laughing a lot, and we had semi-planned a repeat this week.  Yet again…nada.  Another continent lost.  A real shame, as I need more fun in my life, and we could definitely have had it, in some fashion.

It does become difficult not to take these things personally, at a certain point, yet one perseveres, as one must.

Resolved

1.  Lieu

I have been good as gold.  Well, gold-plate at least.  I removed him from my GChat list and I have not shed one single tear.  That you know about. I miss him.

On the Horizon

Onward and upward, I posted a remarkably successful CL ad that has yielded a truly astonishing four (4) seemingly non-psychotic gentlemen with whom I’m still corresponding.  Doubtless one is married, one has the herp, one has permanent and paralyzing commitment issues and will spook after one good date, and one smells funny.  Care to lay odds on which is which?

1.  The Georgetown Lawyer

My age, just my type physically, and smart and seemingly grounded.  Little too much suggestive dialog for this stage of the game, but this is a warning sign–a big flashing one–that I routinely ignore, so why stop now?  He’s also literate and tall and very responsive via email, which I like.  And he’s totally a type-A, workaholic attorney, so what could be wrong with…oh.  I should read my own blog sometimes.  No date set yet.

2.  The Journalist

Meh.  I like this guy, but at 45 years old he is brushing up dangerously close to the Daddy Issues Danger Zone.  Let’s hope he is uncommonly youthful.  On the plus side, he is hyper-literate, very respectful, and–hosanna on high–actually asked me out on a fucking date, at a set time and everything, and I don’t think he’s going to flake.  (Famous last words.)  I’m cautiously optimistic…but only a little bit.

3.  The Foreign One

This is a Brit, 33, with whom I briefly talked last fall.  He is very, very funny and his humor is dry as a bone.  Also, I am famously weak-kneed for the accents of those from the British Isles, as evidenced by everyone I ever loved/stalked/drunkenly threw myself at for a five-year period in my twenties, as well as the three trips I took to Ireland during that time.   My head spins around so fast when I hear a brogue that I sometimes fear whiplash.  However, he hasn’t pulled the trigger on asking me out yet and I’m not sure what the hold up is.  Accent whoredom aside, I don’t know how much potential this has as a love match, but I would be completely geeked if I could acquire some new drinking buddies in the ‘hood.  Mama likes happy hour.  And needs some new blood.

4.  The Cub

What’s the definition of a cougar again?  This kid is 28, but that seems to be his only flaw.  In my experience, I really do best with people who are very close in age to me, but I am tilting at windmills and skipping rocks wherever I can.  I like this child’s mellowness, and his…oh, I ran out of things.  Curls?  That’s probably not a good sign.  I feel a date coming on maybe next week.  Another downside here is that he lives in the ‘burbs.  The red line burbs, but still.

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Tune in next week to find out what happens when all of these people disappear too and I spend the week in my pajamas eating Cheetos and Xanax and wondering why no one ever loves me when I have so many cool hobbies, like eating Cheetos and Xanax in my pajamas and Tweeting about it.  Tell me that is not sexy as hell.

Bonus: My college roommate is getting married this weekend in a plain Plains state, so look for updates about me sitting in my hotel room eating Cheetos and Xanax and cursing a cold universe that is forcing me to attend another fucking wedding by myself.  I get to be the plus-one of the boy I pined for for four years, his wife, and their new baby.  I am really well over that situation, but forecast that maybe attending my millionth nuptials celebration alone might leave me feeing a little fragile.

Hold me.