online dating

Get your motor runnin', Day 7: Letting your freak flag fly

cheesy smile

If you were online in a wanting-to-date capacity roughly four years ago, and you were man enough to be aged 38 to 48 and actually seeking same instead of a 12-year-old, and you lived somewhere within a 10-mile radius around the Undisclosed Location that serves as communicatrix HQ, you might have stumbled upon this:

Loyal, fierce, sunny, slight, myopic & astigmatic, mildly obsessive, eternally optimistic. Adherent of no man's dogma; unapologetic devotee of the Truth. A self-actualized diva-dork with enough of a past to keep things interesting; a student who is eternally ready for the next teacher to appear.

The usual folk: smart, kind, interesting, self-evolved. Anyone who makes my heart beat faster when I have them in my sights, who lingers in my head afterward AND who can make me laugh...hard. People who will introduce me to beautiful new sights and sounds. Fellow travelers who make my heart sing. You know: the good stuff, baby...

The first paragraph was my "About Me"; the second, my "Who I'm Looking For." Yes, this was my online dating bio on the Onion personals, part of the now-defunct Spring Street Networks, which also incorporated the LA Weekly, Nerve and Salon personals, the latter being the entry point of choice (so to speak) of The BF.

You might have emailed me; more often than not (after the beginning, anyway, when all new ladies are chum in the online dating waters), I would have emailed you. For a while, when you put in your search parameters, the photo at the top of this post would have been what you saw, not, even I knew, a typical online dating key photo, which is exactly why I picked it.

Sometimes, you have to put out a hoop to see who will jump through it. Even if doing so flies in the face of all the great advice from all the people who have gotten somewhere before you. Sometimes, without even knowing why, your inner freak tells you it's time to hoist the flag and see who salutes.

What's interesting to me about this bio, this "what I want", this crazy-ass picture, is the thread that they are a part of. They're not about what I want in a date or a mate; they're about what I want, period. They're about who I am, what moves me and what deep, deep down gets me going. Re-read the paragraphs: they are not about walks on the beach or hot sex (not that there's anything wrong with that) or getting partnered up. Take them out of context and they're nothing more and nothing less than ABOUT ME. They're about the thread. They are the thread.

It's a thread that's been running through me as long as there's been a "me" to me, and that thread weaves that freak flag which is mine alone to fly. Not that I flew it all the time; I didn't fly it much at all for months or years at a time. I folded it neatly and stuck it away somewhere, like the memorial flag presented to the military widow. Freaky me was in indefinite suspended animation, so what the hell did I need (or want) to be flying that flag for?

You fly it anyway, though. You do. And by "you," I mean "me." I mean everyone.

We're all us of us big, fat, hairy, circus freaks, and don't let anyone tell you otherwise. We're all crazy, five-year-old genius-artists somewhere way down deep, who don't know yet that you have to shut the hell up because GROWNUPS are TALKING, or because WE DON'T DO THAT IN CHURCH, or just BECAUSE I SAID SO, THAT'S WHY.

Kids aren't stuck, and they don't need to get motivated to do their work. Which they excel at, by the way. All kids can draw. All kids can sing and write plays and build castles. All kids can write stuff that makes you laugh and cry at the same time.

All kids run around, until they're stopped, buck-ass nekkid, letting their freak flag fly.

And sometimes, in tiny little steam-valve surprise releases, we do it as grownups, too. They're the moments you respond to in movies, and the things that make you laugh in real life. Comics make a living holding up special mirrors so you can see your freak flag. Writers, the good ones, do the same thing.

So like I said, I had mine safely packed away for many, many years, but every once in a while, I'd pull the drawer open and you'd get a peek. Sometimes, someone would be there to witness, like the proverbial chance pair of ears in the forest when the proverbial tree gets heard: the head shot photographer who took the above photo, or the better half who catches you talking to the rye toast. More often than that, I'm guessing, the drawer-cracked-open moments passed without notice.

Of course, to the rest of the world, I'm sure that most of the time, I still looked like a stone goofball. I worked it, you see, because it was my angle. But the authentic stuff came out so rarely pre-Crohn's-induced epiphany that I totally get why I was "difficult", as one close friend told me later, to be around before.

If you get stuck (and really, who among us doesn't), consider letting your freak out of the closet. Just for a spell. For a few moments, maybe, in 250 words or 3 minutes of stream-of-consciousness writing. In private, you know, at least, at first. Because if the perfect is the enemy of the good, the freak is often, oh, shit...is ALWAYS the engine of it. The freak makes things happen.

Make it a (brief) freak holiday. Let the flag fly, just for a bit. Salute the freak in whatever fashion feels good to you.

Then go ahead and (neatly, kindly, gently) fold the flag back up and (slowly, carefully, gently) ease it back into the drawer.

For now. Like the lady said, tomorrow is another day...

xxx
c

This post was inspired by an exhilarating phone call with my new almost-real-life friend, the fine and brave writer and thinker Dave Pollard. Pick up the phone, people. Even if you hate it. Especially if you hate it.


The Wayback Machine: Advice to the lovelorn

Between coming off a lollapalooza of a trip and the crapload of work staring me in the face upon my return, I've been kind of overwhelmed and under-motivated. Happens.

But in a twin stroke of magic from the Serendipity Fairy, I got an infusion of inspiration on a trip to Ojai visiting a lady-homey, and another jolt while trying to clean out the Fibber McGee's closet that is the innards of communicatrix-dot-comâ„¢, official bloggity-blog of Colleen Wainwright and the communicatrix empire.

Specifically, at the tail end of my journey, I ended up talking about...tail: where one gets some and how to procure the quality version. (If you're a lady-homey, you already know how to procure quantity: walk into a bar and flash any portion of your ladyparts.) And tonight, I came across this unpublished bit which had been languishing at the bottom of a pile.

So for those nice ladies I got caffeinated with at Ojai Coffee Roasting Co. the other day, and for any of the rest of you who might be on the prowl, romantically-speaking, I offer the following. Mostly still sound, mostly not too poorly written. Some updates in brackets [like so]. It's more general than tactical, but I think it's no less useful for it. Maybe you'll confirm this; maybe you'll tell me otherwise.

Me, I'm going to enjoy some of the fruits of my own online labor of many years ago and head over to The BF's for some...um...weekend. Yeah. That's it.

Have a lovely "weekend," all y'all...

I'm not prone to giving advice, wait...yes, I am. Well, not unsolicited advice, shit, I do that, too.

Sigh...

Okay: I love giving advice. I've been addicted to advice columns since I found Dear Abby on the funnies page (her hipper twin, Ann Landers, was in the Sun-Times and we were a Trib household all the way).

I especially enjoy advice on matters of the heart since I find love fascinating, although as regular readers know, I spout off on pretty much anything within arm's reach. I loved Em & Lo, the erstwhile Nerve gals who write so well about sex, and subscribed to Salon.com not so I could keep up with their excellent news coverage but because I got tired of reading the Daily Pass ad to get to my Cary Tennis. [Today, I'm an ardent (haha) fan of the magnificent Dan Savage, whose excellent sex/relationship advice column is widely syndicated in alternative papers and whose out-loud version of the column (a.k.a. The Savage Lovecast) is so true and funny it makes me snort things out my nose even as I pound the dashboard in assent with his uncanny insight.]

Ironically, though, ever since I actually have had some clue about How These Things Work, I have questioned my right to be an authority on (insert topic here). I'm definitely one of those women who suffers from Imposter Syndrome, as Jory Des Jardins describes it:

(Imposter Syndrome) is a fairly common condition that affects many women, particularly those who are achievement-oriented. It's a belief that one's accomplishments are not deserved, that one has somehow fooled the system and will inevitably be found out for the fake that she is.

As a well-under-30 pup selling ads to clients twice my age, I remember having frequent "When Will They Find Out We Are Frauds" discussions with my then-boss back in the go-go '80s.

But, as usual, I digress.

I think that my youthful zeal for offering advice had more to do with my needing to be seen and valued than with any selfless desire to share the wealth. These days, I find it easier to resist offering unsolicited advice one-on-one. I figure if someone wants my goddam opinion, they can goddam well ask for it; if, on the other hand, they're just jaw-flapping, as The Chief Atheist used to say, and I have an excuse to walk away and not waste my valuable time and energy.

As an avid reader of Craig's List, however, I used to find my advice-giving buttons pushed pretty frequently, and the lure was strong. Fortunately, they make you jump through so many hoops to reply to a post that often, my ardor cooled in advance at the prospect. In fact, I'm always shocked at how many people will jump on a lame thread in the Rants & Raves section; they must have really, really boring jobs.

But every once in a while, a post would cry out to me. The poster seemed to genuinely want an answer to a problem that spoke to my experience, and I'd have an extra ten or so minutes to devote to the issue. I always considered it another way of giving back; lord knows enough people have helped me through the dark and murky times.

I won't repost this guy's entire plea for help since I don't have his permission, but suffice it to say he was experiencing some bewilderment on the dating front and, having given up entirely on meeting people in real-life venues like bars, he had now come to the conclusion that even the people looking online weren't really looking for a relationship. Worse, I could sense he was on the precipice overhanging The Dark Place; one stiff wind and we might lose him to the other side.

Here's what I had to say:

You know what? You're absolutely right...and you're absolutely wrong.

I'm a fairly cool chick (or so I've been told by some fairly cool people who didn't stand to gain anything by saying it) and I've met some pretty great guys online. And in bars. And through friends. And even, one unusual time, standing in front of a burning bus.

I've also met some equally heinous guys in each of those places. (Well, I only met the one guy in front of the burning bus.)

Point being, there are asshat chicks *and* cool chicks *everywhere*. If you're really looking for a cool one, why close off any reasonable avenue? Two caveats, though. First, in my experience, you do better if you're open but not Looking. Cool chicks can get a little turned off by guys too much on the prowl. (And nobody likes a needy person.)

And second, if you are burning out on any part of the process or developing any kind of an attitude about a particular avenue, stay away from it until you can jump back in with a better attitude. Don't date angry!

Now, I know Em & Lo [or Dan Savage] would have been way funnier, and that Cary [or Dan Savage, can you tell I'm queer for the dude?] would have done a much more thoughtful job of dissecting the guy's modus operandi and even analyzing his intent. But sometimes, the best "advice" you can give is a little reassurance that this, too, shall pass, and that maybe it's a good idea to cool one's heels until one can approach the "problem" with an open mind and a fresh perspective. Especially when you don't really know the person asking the question. And as someone with extensive experience in online dating who had experienced burnout and the falling rate of return that accompanies it, I felt uniquely qualified, nay, compelled, to speak up. So I'm pretty sure I wasn't talking out of my ass.

Hopefully, I wasn't just flapping my jaw, either.

xxx c

Image by anniejean via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

Top ten dating tips I found cleaning out my files

red

As most of you know, I'm off the dating train, too far off to write a book or a blog that would be of use, and yet I cannot stand for my hard-won knowledge to go unused.

So when I came across this random list in my mini-purge-fest, I figured that at the very least, I could slap it into a blog post without looking ridiculous.

There are whole books, nay, shelves upon shelves of books these days, you can read on the topic of dating. If you're looking for more, I'd suggest If the Buddha Dated. (There's some good advice in He's Just Not That Into You, too, but it's mostly in the title, with a few extra tips easily extracted in a half-hour, in-store read.)

And like I've said before: better to rent than own! Or at least, rent first!

Okay, on with the list.

The communicatrix's Top 10 Tips for Dating If You're Doing It to Find a Happy and Successful Relationship (as opposed to just sex, which is also great)

  1. Never date anyone better looking than you are.
  2. This goes double if you are a chick.
  3. Character is revealed in the first 5 minutes of meeting someone, and does not change.
  4. If someone tells you he's crazy, he is.
  5. If someone tells you he doesn't think he ever wants to get married, he doesn't.
  6. If the sex is sporadic in the first six months, it will never be plentiful.
  7. You cannot change how a person kisses.
  8. Under no circumstances should you move in with a person before you've known them for at least one year.
  9. Better to make it two.
  10. And wait at least one more to get engaged.

Remember: you may need to switch up your shampoos until you find one that leaves your hair shiny and manageable. Once you do, I advocate cultivating brand loyalty.

xxx
c

Image by shutterbug, inc. via Flickr, used under a Creative Commons license.

The online dating, she has tipped

Tasked with the challenge of designing a fake online dating site for a TV show, I registered with a few dating sites to gain access to their page layout.

Now before any of you cranks jump down my throat, I signed up (a) as a man (the fake site was supposed to be a chick's profile) and (b) with full disclosure to The BF, who was the one who commissioned the work in the first place.

I'm sorry to report that things have changed, and not for the better. I've already reported about the decline of the deliciously quirky Spring Street Network, but it's far, far worse now. Now, there is Chemistry.com.

An offshoot of its ho-clearinghouse cousin, Match.com, Chemistry is clearly born of Tickle's heavy 'psychological' profiling and the eHarmony pestilence that Dr. Neil Clark Warren has rained down upon us. Sign up for Chemistry and you will be led through a half-hour battery of personality tests. Tests designed to unearth the true you, so deep and probing and mysterious, you will marvel at the truths they reveal. Deep, probing, tests like this:

dating_2_hands.jpg

In hindsight, it's a miracle The BF and I have lasted as long as we have, what with our reckless disregard for digit compatibility. Neither did we have the benefit of prescreened testing for real-life assessment skills:

dating_1.jpg

Again, it's a good thing I gave The BF some extra-strong non-verbal cues on our second date, like inviting him in for a drink and having sex with him on the floor. Because I just quizzed him on the above picture and he was dead sure they were a sleeper anarcho-communist cell plotting the overthrow of the Mall of America.

To be fair, the fine scientists at Chemistry aren't leaving all the chemistry up to their psychological profiling. After running the test gauntlet, I had to fill out the extensive questionnaire so that my prospective matches could feel me via my charm and wit, and vet me for height, weight and eye color deficiencies. As I do not look much like a man in any of my current photos and am understandably reluctant to use certain others (I want my prospective dates to love me for me, not my proximity to celebrity), I elected not to upload a photo. But the magical matching computers at Chemistry did their thing and provided me with upwards of 50 matches, any of whom I could email right now if I forked over a membership fee.

I pulled up the first profile, the cleverly named "Mary" (remember, for our purposes here, I'm a man, albeit a very short, very slight one). Based on the extensive tests we'd both taken, here was one of my soul mate matches:

dating-mary.jpg

Well, as anyone who is even a semi-habitual reader of communicatrix-dot-com knows, it was like reading a mirror! Or maybe, reading something I held up in a mirror, only like maybe in a dream, so everything wasn't backwards. I injoy cildern a lot! I'm more a fan of dinning in than out, but hey, for someone who can turn me on to wica (pagan) and midevil reinactments, I need to make a few compromises! The chemistry is profound!

Alas, my profile was ultimately rejected. Apparently, they didn't think "Colleen" was a suitable name for a gentleman on the rarified rolls of Chemistry. Ah, well.

I'm sorry, "Mary." Sorrier than I can say...

xxx
c

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How to get the man of your dreams: make a list, check it twice

heartIt's been awhile since the c-trix blogged about dating. This is only natural, given that she has been blissfully, if somewhat surprisingly, ensconced in a monogamous relationship with The BF for the bulk of 2005. Plus it's the holidays and stuff, people have Black Friday and E-mail Monday and other important issues to wrestle to the ground. At the same time, the management is nothing if not sensitive to the fact that the holidays can be an especially difficult time for those who are single and wish not to be. Hell, the management has spent more than one holiday with nothing but a camera up its ass to keep it company. So when a recent check of the stats turned up an interesting dating-and-the-single-woman blog that's recently linked here (thank you, Dr. Annie), we here at communicatrix were impelled to action.

The post in question raises the question of "dealbreakers": must-have accessory of the self-actualized gal or blueprint for foolish pipe dream?

The post links to an entry on another blog written by a young Adventist Christian hussy (God bless the internets) who very much knows what she wants. In fact, she's enumerated it, in minute detail, for which I applaud her. It can be very scary asking for what you want, but also very, very powerful. I know; I myself wrote a series of these lists in the year before I met The BF. The way I see it, when I finally got the list right, bam! I got the guy who matched the list.

However...

There are two caveats to keep in mind if you want the voodoo to work.

First, you can't be cavalier about the list. The list needs to be a distillation of the things that resonate in the deepest, darkest parts of you. That list needs to be s-e-r-i-o-u-s.

That doesn't mean things like "makes my heart thump from across the room" or "can pound me till the top of my head comes off" can't be on there; they should, if those things matter to you. Anything that really matters should be on the list. It just means you must not sully it with frivolous, superficial bullshit your frivolous, superficial ego has on its shopping list.

So, in this brave new dating universe, "attractive to me" replaces any specific trait you may have found hot in anyone to date (pun intended). "Gets it" replaces a specific level of schooling you think is the benchmark of smart. And be very judicious about your inclusion of lifestyle line items: unless you are a porpoise, best to leave "MUST love the water" off.

Part II of the love juju operation is what most people leave out, and the thing that generally insures against frivolous line items: you, the asker, must be ready for the askee. Not ready as in "I am so fed up with all these stupid mens who don't appreciate my fine self" but with the heightened state of readiness a martial arts master knows his instrument. You have read the books, shrunk with the shrink, risen from the ashes of devastion like a self-evolved phoenix. You have, most likely, spent months or even years at a stretch with naught but your loathesome self (and maybe a camera up your ass) to keep you company. You know humility from false modesty from self-loathing; you take shit off of no one because you have the deep confidence in your choices that comes with time and thought and meaningful action, not because you bad.

In a quick fix world, Part II seems cumbersome, inelegant and tedious. It lacks the can-do, Tools For Livingâ„¢ sexiness of listmaking.

But there is no substitute for knowing oneself, and the alternative, a world full of people with the extraordinary and unprecedented luxury of time for self-evolution who instead choose Doritosâ„¢ and trips to Cabo and other disposable bling of our modern era, is far more horrid to contemplate than even a lifetime alone.

So for the good of the planet, of the rest of us who share it, of the people you and your future love-monkey might put on it, before you make that list of everything you want in another person, make a list about everything you want in a best friend. Or a list of all the traits the most amazing teacher/family member/heroic figure you've ever met possesses.

Take a long time with that list: write, put aside, live your live, come back to it. Rinse, repeat. It is a lengthy process and yes, sometimes a tedious one. But it can also be a thrilling, challenging and even joyful process.

Become that list, and chances are the right person will fall right into your self-actualized lap.

xxx c

A Song of Thanksgiving, Part 2: The BF

Ten-and-a-half months ago, I woke up hungover from what I hope will be my last New Year's Eve alone. Not because I have a problem with being alone or even being alone for New Year's Eve, but because on January 1st, 2005, I was lucky enough to meet someone so wonderful and so brilliant and so perfect (for me), the only hope I have left is that I'll die before he does because the idea of a life without him breaks my heart.

I use the word "meet" loosely. I emailed The BF via The Onion personals; he answered via Salon's personals. I, you see, am a dork and a hussy. The BF, on the other hand, is a geek and a gentleman, far, far too polite to turn a lady (or even me) down flat.

Sometimes we joke-wonder about why we didn't meet each other 10 years ago. And whatever the reason, the truth is I wasn't ready for the likes of him, so gentle, so true, so tolerant and supportive. Do you need something? Do you need it now? Or worse, the Hollywood version of 'now', which is yesterday? The BF's got your back. I have learned to be careful what I wish for out loud around him, lest it show up on my doorstep, metaphorically or literally.

And of course it goes without saying he's in the 99th percentile when it comes to brains, sense of humor and sheer sex appeal.

Let me tell you this: I don't generally go in for corny sentiment. I'm generally a guy's gal, the kind of tough, hard-talkin' dame that makes John Wayne look like Jake Gyllenhal. But when my friend, Vic, inquired as to details of this fine romance, I replied without hesitation: The BF is the answer to a prayer I didn't know I'd been praying.

A-fucking-men.

xxx
c

Me and my two cents

I'm not prone to giving advice, wait...yes, I am. Well, not unsolicited advice, shit, I do that, too. Sigh...

Okay: I love giving advice. I've been addicted to advice columns since I found Dear Abby on the funnies page (her hipper twin, Ann Landers, was in the Sun-Times and we were a Trib household all the way).

I especially enjoy advice on matters of the heart since I find love fascinating, although as regular readersknow, I spout off on pretty much anything within arm's reach. I loved Em & Lo, the erstwhile Nerve gals who write so well about sex, and subscribed to Salon.com not so I could keep up with their excellent news coverage but because I got tired of reading the Daily Pass ad to get to my Cary Tennis.

Ironically, though, ever since I actually have had some clue about How These Things Work, I have questioned my right to be an authority on (insert topic here). I'm definitely one of those women who suffers from Imposter Syndrome, as Jory Des Jardins describes it:

(Imposter Syndrome) is a fairly common condition that affects many women, particularly those who are achievement-oriented. It's a belief that one's accomplishments are not deserved, that one has somehow fooled the system and will inevitably be found out for the fake that she is.

As a well under-30 pup selling ads to clients twice my age, I remember having frequent "When Will They Find Out We Are Frauds" discussions with my then-boss back in the go-go '80s.

But, as usual, I digress.

I think that my youthful zeal for offering advice had more to do with my needing to be seen and valued than with any selfless desire to share the wealth. These days, I find it easier to resist offering unsolicited advice one-on-one. I figure if someone wants my goddam opinion, they can goddam well ask for it; if, on the other hand, they're just jaw-flapping, as my ex-husband used to say, and I have an excuse to walk away and not waste my valuable time and energy.

As an avid reader of Craig's List, however, I find my advice-giving buttons pushed pretty frequently, and the lure is strong. Fortunately, they make you jump through so many hoops to reply to a post that my ardor cools in advance at the prospect. In fact, I'm always shocked at how many people will jump on a lame thread in the Rants & Raves section; they must have really, really boring jobs.

But every once in a while, a post cries out to me. The poster seems to genuinely want an answer to a problem that speaks to my experience, and I have an extra ten or so minutes to devote to the issue. I consider it another way of giving back; lord knows enough people have helped me through the dark and murky times.

I won't repost this guy's entire plea for help since I don't have his permission, but suffice it to say he was experiencing some bewilderment on the dating front and, having given up entirely on meeting people in real-life venues like bars, he had now come to the conclusion that even the people looking online weren't really looking for a relationship. Worse, I could sense he was on the precipice overhanging The Dark Place; one stiff wind and we might lose him to the other side.

Here's what I had to say:

You know what? You're absolutely right...and you're absolutely wrong.

I'm a fairly cool chick (or so I've been told by some fairly cool people who didn't stand to gain anything by saying it) and I've met some pretty great guys online. And in bars. And through friends. And even, one unusual time, standing in front of a burning bus.

I've also met some equally heinous guys in each of those places. (Well, I only met the one guy in front of the burning bus.)

Point being, there are asshat chicks *and* cool chicks *everywhere*. If you're really looking for a cool one, why close off any reasonable avenue? Two caveats, though. First, in my experience, you do better if you're open but not Looking. Cool chicks can get a little turned off by guys too much on the prowl. (And nobody likes a needy person.)

And second, if you are burning out on any part of the process or developing any kind of an attitude about a particular avenue, stay away from it until you can jump back in with a better attitude. Don't date angry!

Now, I know Em & Lo would have been way funnier, and that Cary would have done a much more thoughtful job of dissecting the guy's modus operandi and even analyzing his intent. But sometimes, the best "advice" you can give is a little reassurance that this, too, shall pass, and that maybe it's a good idea to cool one's heels until one can approach the "problem" with an open mind and a fresh perspective. Especially when you don't really know the person asking the question. And as someone with extensive experience in online dating who had experienced burnout and the falling rate of return that accompanies it, I felt uniquely qualified, nay, compelled, to speak up. So I'm pretty sure I wasn't talking out of my ass.

Hopefully, I wasn't just flapping my jaw, either.

xxx c

I Am Mrs. Potato Head

mrsphead.jpgBetween a long bout of enforced relaxation and finding the true love of her life (ooooo...izza good widdle bloggy blog?...yes, it is! yes it is!), the communicatrix did a little online dating. Correction: a lot of online dating.

Yes, before I was the communicatrix, I was Mrs. Potato Head. And tiny_monkey and mrs. nom de plume and ETICKET399 (yeah, I know I was dating myself...no pun intended). It's a point of pride with me to apply the same zeal to all my gigs, paying and non-paying. And yes, this was a non-paying gig.

Anyway, there is a heap-load of dross to sort through online and I got emailed by a lot of it. I imagine gals in the under-40 set have their own trash to sort through, and given my own volume of mail, I can't imagine how the under-30 gals ever get to the bottoms of their in-boxes.

But the over-40, reasonably attractive, female online dater has her own set of peccadilloes to deal with. I was generous at first, but after a few (several...countless...) "interesting" experiences, I became a bit more ruthless. At this point, it's unlikely that anyone could scale my online wall of "don't"s, so I've pretty much given up on the online proposition. (Note that I did not say "completely," so I can't divulge where I'm still trolling these days with information like the portal is VERY FUNNY and I am listed under my ACTUAL AGE and LOCATION. Sleuth away, suckahs!!!)

Part of my mission on this blog is to share my path that others might find shortcuts. In this case, the ladies will have to read between the lines, but I am s p e l l i n g o u t for you gentlemen some of the more egregious red flags I've found in profiles, emails and even first dates.

And so...

10 Sure-Fire Ways to NOT Get Into the Communicatrix's Pants:

  1. Post a picture of yourself standing next to your car, boat or plane.
  2. Wear your sunglasses!
  3. Make sure the photo is at least three years old.
  4. Be at least 10 years/50 lbs. outside of my search parameters but email me anyway because you're sure I'll make an exception in your case.
  5. Post your profile in a younger age category because you don't want to get aced out of some hot young chick's search parameters.
  6. Be sure to tell me in your profile that you look MUCH YOUNGER than your photo because I have NO EYES with which TO SEE THIS FOR MYSELF.
  7. When I email you a polite "no, thanks" to your query, be sure to email me back berating me for not going out with you because bellicosity is a HUGE turn-on and will for sure change my mind about dating you.
  8. If I meet you at a speed-dating event, try to see how much venom you can spew about "money-grubbing bitches" and "cheap whores" before the bell rings.
  9. When we finally talk on the phone, repeat over and over that you're not sure if we'll be a good match because I'm so petite, and when I still don't get it, shout out that you're afraid you'll rip me apart with your huge cock.

And finally, the surest-fire way NOT to get a date with the c-trix:

10. Send me a picture of yourself on your bed holding your (tiny) penis.

Happy hunting, everyone!

xxx c