Tag Archives: dating sites

Pulling a mate from a candy machine


Okay, I know my kids don’t want me writing about this. So they should perhaps skip this post entirely.

I just read Anne Lamott’s excellent article in Salon.com about her year on Match.com :http://www.salon.com/2013/03/31/my_year_on_match_com/

I could identify with it all. The men who are not as described, the ones who never call again, the ones who call too much. The ones who think they know more than you about everything. The ones who use up the 1728 minutes (or whatever) she describes, while you do your shopping list and think longingly of the ice cream in your refrigerator that seems oh so much more rewarding than what you are doing just then.

The “social smokers” who keep vanishing to suck back another tube, thinking you won’t notice that all of them smells and tastes like an ashtray. The political hounds who tell you about the world as if you have lived under a rock forever. The ones who are looking for a sympathy partner, to listen to all their problems with their “crazy” past partners. The ones who end every conversation with, “Shall I take the blue pill?”

My favourite was the guy who was an artist and wanted to discuss the shades of white. But found fault with my silver hair. “I’m visual” he said.

Or the other guy who texted me all the time but who had naughty pictures animate with his text so when I told him I was going skating on the Canal, it would change it to c-something else. Eww. Strangely, I felt I had to meet both of these guys. For research. In very public places, mind. Using an assumed name. Curiosity, you know.

One of my girlfriends says “What is it about over 50-year-old men? They all patronize!” Now I thought it was just me, at my height of 4’11 3/4″, that got the patronization thing.

vulpix_used_flamethrower_by_firecloak-d4u0gnrI’ve been patronized all my life and have developed a tendency to incinerate the patronizer. No mercy. Ever.

But she’s tall and gorgeous and they patronize her, too.

What IS that?

Like Anne, I think I am looking for someone to spend evenings with, not in acrobatic sex scenes involving pulleys and elaborate body positioning, but reading, watching TV, talking. Curling up in bed with. Getting up in the morning with. Lifting heavy objects with. Travelling with. Laughing with.

NOT someone who has spent too much time with online girls and expects me to shave every hair off my body and indulge in unusually strenuous activities while keeping up a potty-mouthed commentary. (Not that I’ve met any of those folks, mind – they just send me messages). Also NOT someone who tells me he is still married and looking for fun outside his marriage, because he no longer gets it together with his wife.

Fish or cut bait, fellah. Sheesh.


It makes me tired. I’d give it all up except that I still have this silly thought that I might actually meet someone interesting this way.

It’s obviously insanity. I should stop, but like the men, I suspect, the tendency to shop is too much. It’s like looking at one of those candy bar machines. Yeah, this one tastes okay, but I’d really like to try this other one…

And then it’s my cheapness. I paid for one site and I’ll be darned if I am going to take my profile off and let them have my money until I have used up every minute. I’m going to wrestle that chocolate bar out of its spiral if it kills me. At least for another few weeks, til my subscription runs out.

Besides, it’s spring. Hope springs eternal. Or is that Spring, hope eternal?


Dried up and sick to death of love…

LiverpoolStation-dWell, here it is, February 4th and already I am on the dried up and sick to death of love post. It’s from Elton John’s song, “This train don’t stop there anymore”, which has spoken to me ever since it came out, as I struggled through the last years of my marriage.

(I’d alternate between this and “The Bitch is back” depending on how feisty I felt)

There’s something quite horrid about the breakup of a marriage. It usually doesn’t end with a bang. It’s more like the years of piled up hurts gradually start an avalanche that is impossible to stop. And while it is piling up, there’s the heartbreak, the happy memories that crumble to the ground, crushed in the ugliness of what is happening right then.

It’s been many years and still his abandonment of me hurts.

He’s remarried, and I hope he is happy. I’ve not, and I hope I am. I think, overall, though there’s the need for touch, I don’t think I’ll let my heart be taken again.

You may not believe it
But I don’t believe in miracles anymore
And when I think about it
I don’t believe I ever did for sure

So what’s started this new onslaught of bitterness after my hopeful posting yesterday?

Ah. The online dating sites.

Gruesome. Totally gruesome. I don’t think I can stand them anymore, and yet, how does anyone meet anyone in their fifties?

It’s sad – all these men smiling hopefully into the camera, not noticing the gawdawful mess in the room behind them, matched by women done up to the nines, wearing push-up bras and enough makeup and hair dye to support a third world country. Men who are seriously 4’s on the 1-10 scale, demanding 10s. Smokers demanding healthy people. People who are substance-ly retired (e.g. alcoholics) sending me messages saying “Hi sexy” as if I am panting for attention and would take even them on for a night. And among them, me, probably feeling more like a loser than I ever have, being round and disabled and grey-haired in a perky breasted world.

It’s fecking ridiculous. I am worth more than this foolish tarting of my qualities to appeal to a dreg of humanity.

So I decide to back off, cancel my profile, step back, hide. Focus on the things that make me feel good about myself.

But it’s addictive. Like chocolates, I can’t help but peek, though I know it’s not good for me.

And even now I find myself saying, “not that there’s anything WRONG with the ‘dregs’ of humanity”, and it’s true, I don’t mean to sound judgmental. Well, except for about the “Hi, sexy” people who just want to get laid without having to pay for it. They need a good slap upside the head.

It’s all fine and good to get together for an evening to talk or whatever with someone totally unlike you. But there’s no staying power, and so it ends up being a waste of my time and theirs. (Although I do like to understand how people live their different lives…). And difference can add spice, as long as there is a connection somewhere, but too much spice burns the tongue.

When I said that I don’t care
It really means my engine’s breaking down
The chisel chips my heart again
The granite cracks beneath my skin
I crumble into pieces on the ground

My engine is tired. I think it may be time to close down this station for renovations.