DC Damsel

I’m a Michael Phucking Phelps Phanatic and I’m not ashamed to admit it. There are dozens of reasons to love this American Adonis, but here are my top ten:

1. Winner of 8 gold medals in the 2008 Beijing Summer Olympic Games

2. He eats 12,000 calories a day and has the flattest fucking abs I’ve ever seen (for this man, I would surely learn to cook)

3. His crooked smile and lisp help remind us he’s human

4. Size 14 feet (God help me)

5. 6′7 wing span

6. He helped kick pompous French ass

7. Possible threesome with Aaron Piersol or Jason Lezak

8. He loves his Mom

9. Baltimore is in close geographic proximity to DC

10. U.S. Mens’ Swim Team poster above my bed will provide countless hours of masturbatory material

Here I sit in my parents’ office (which used to be my bedroom, but got converted years ago) in Waukesha, WI, drinking a so-so pinot grigio and eating cheese curds. Yes my friends, you may be able to take the girl out of Wisconsin, but you’ll never take the curd out of the girl.

It’s Day 6 of my respite here in the Heartland and for the most part it’s been calm, quiet and fruitful (even at 31 - Mommy still likes to spoil me when we shop - god bless her and the patient sales girl at J Crew). I’ve read two books, sat in the sun, taken long naps, eaten a huge cheeseburger, visited with a few girlfriends and gotten some large, albeit less-than-surprising news.

For the first time in over a year, I saw my ex-husband. It was quick - 30 minutes of conversation on a sidewalk outside his office (which coincidentally is in the same building in downtown Milwaukee where I worked for 6 years) catching up on the plethora of our friends’ new babies and mortgages, my ex-in-laws’ lives, and of course, my goings-on in DC. And then, he looked at me, took a deep breath and said, “I have some news.” Well, I knew what was coming, in fact, I had dreamt about it 3 weeks earlier. I said to him, “You’re engaged.” He nodded. I gulped. And then in standard and appropriate form, I hugged him (less tightly than I had 20 minutes prior). I was all smiles and congratulations and 80% of what came out of my mouth I meant. I am happy for him, happy he’s found another partner, perhaps a more deserving one this time. He’s living the life of Midwestern domesticity I couldn’t, I wouldn’t, the life I left to do something that I envisioned was more my style, my speed, my heart.

He’s been dating his girlfriend for 2 years I think, I’ve lost track of time a bit, living a hectic life in the District. He wants me to meet her and I suppose eventually, because it’s important to him, I will.  Perhaps it’s to show me what I could have had, perhaps it’s to prove he’s fine without me, perhaps he still thinks enough of me to seek my approval, whatever the reason, I will at some point have to introduce myself to my replacement. I can only hope, with the will of God’s sweet grace, she’s at least a little bit beastly. I mean, she doesn’t need to have elephantitis of the face, perhaps just a lazy eye and fat ankles. (Give me a break people - I’m gracious, but I ain’t a fucking saint).

Needless to say, I set forth to lunch with my girlfriends, thanking God they knew my history so I didn’t have to explain the slightly stunned, mildly pained smirk on my face when I showed up at the restaurant. I had two drinks, laughed a bit, teared up in the stall in the ladies room, sucked it up, and went on with my day.

Yesterday, on the way home from the mall, my Mom and I drove past the street where my ex and I used to live. I turned my head as we drove by, and looked the other way. We drove through the park where he and I had driven almost everyday of our lives together. The park, in the middle of the city, is a refuge for any number of Northern woodland creatures, and at dusk, bunnies come out of the woods by the dozens to munch on grass. I used to think that was where I would have my ashes scattered when I died. It was just 3 or 4 years ago I thought that was the place my life would play itself out. Whitefish Bay, Wisconsin, a home on Birch Street, a comfortable job at the public radio affiliate, maybe I could hope to be on the air full-time one day, perhaps we would vacation in Hilton Head with my parents twice a year.

In less than 48 hours I will be aboard a plane, headed to Reagan National. Back to my 500 square feet on Connecticut Avenue. Car horns and sirens. Conventions and election stress. Newsrooms and cocktail receptions. The Beltway. The Metro. The Hill. Online dating.

It’s funny, how quickly things change.

 

 

 

I’m headed home to Wisconsin today.

Going home always makes me happy. It’s the Midwestern cure to everything that ails me living in the District.

Back home I have a handful of friends (the ones I didn’t relinquish to my ex-husband in the divorce), my parents, the house i grew up in, the high school I attended right down the street, the bedroom window I used to sneak boys into, the crab apple tree that blooms each Spring, the smell of yeast as I drive south down I-94. The place where I was made but not contained.

For eight days I’ll read my book in the sun on my parents deck, I’ll snuggle on the couch and watch TV with my folks while they endure my rolling eyes and verbal torment over their choice of programming. (You can only take so much Murder She Wrote and Walker Texas Ranger before you implode). I’ll play with their hyperactive dog, lunch with my friends, shop with my Mom, and exchange the noise of Connecticut Avenue with the quiet of Oxford Road. I’ll head back to the life I knew for almost 30 years, drink the Kool Aid, regress slightly into the mild Milwaukee accent, see a few friends, hug and kiss my mother, tear up as I pass the church where I was married, laugh with my cousins, eat a brat, and then say one of what will become thousands of goodbyes in my years to come.

I was riding in a cab early this morning through S.E. (in an attempt to retrieve my car left on Pennsylvania Avenue after a hearty round of drinking last evening) and I couldn’t help but think how lovely it is that I’m still so enamored with the District. It’s home now, but it still feels new in so many ways.  Perhaps what I feel is pride, less of it having to do with the stature and gravitas of this city and more to do with what it represents for me at this point in my life. I’m 31-years-old, successful, single, a bit lonely. I’m equal parts self-sufficient and needy and willing to admit I’m still searching for something I can’t quite put my finger on. It’s a life all of my own making. And despite my daily anxieties and frustrations over my lack of love and career stress, I own it outright.

An imperfect journey, with a promising pink slip wedged deep in my pocket. Home defined anew.

I did it.

I signed back on to Match.com

After 10 months, I once again swallowed my pride, took out my Visa, and paid my $39.99 for one month of access to the the biggest leveler of self-esteem I have ever encountered in my 31 years.

I’ve been on and off Match for 2 1/2 years. First using it as a vehicle to meet people in my new city, then as a way to boost my ego, once in a search for something meaningful, and now in an attempt to distract me from my current status of “broken-hearted.”

Online dating in any city can be tedious, exciting, a bit nerve-racking, occasionally bad for one’s health (a lot of cocktails and appetizers). It can even be a tad scary at times (trust me, if you met the guy I was out with who was obsessed with his three ferrets and twitched every time I asked what he did for a living, you’d understand the level of danger I speak of).

But online dating in DC is an experience onto itself, and one I have learned to look upon with equal parts horror, intrigue, and laughter. I’ve made 3 or 4 life-long friends through Match and had one two-month long lovely courtship. But for the most part, I’ve come to think of Match as self-imposed punishment for not finding a boyfriend in the real world. It’s like virtual self-flaggelation and I’m a sucker for its sting.

Some swear by the magical powers of online dating. One can hardly blame them. It really does work for some people. I currently have two best friends, both of which have steady girlfriends they met on Match. And look at the couples in those commercials, they look so god-damned happy I could throw up. Apparently they never went out with guy who requested a picture of my feet or the guy who, after speaking to me for 20 minutes in a bar, declared (on the spot) I wasn’t a long-term prospect. The online dating world coupled with the overgrown hubris of DC men is like a huge swimming pool full of douche bags. And after several years of participating in this sociological experiment from hell, I have become more than adept at pointing out the guys who are peeing in the pool right through their Brooks Brothers swim trunks.

So, from my mouth to the Online Dating God’s ears, here are a few things I’ve discovered while prowling for eligible men on my laptop:

Building the Perfect Profile

99.5% of Match participants include the following in their online introductions:

1. I really love to travel, favorites include Italy, the Bahamas, and Southeast Asia. But there’s so much more I want to see and I’m in search of a travel companion who is willing to throw caution to the wind and hop a plane with me at a moment’s notice.

(I love this - honestly, who the fuck can hop a plane to Machu-fucking-Picchu on a moment’s notice? No one I know, but perhaps I’m hanging with the wrong crowd. I’ve got 200 bucks in my checking account and at least 2 dozen deadlines I need to meet in the next week, the couples’ mud massage spa will have to wait.)

2. I’m a glass-half-full type and I’m really looking for a mate who is an optimist at heart. No baggage please!

(First of all, anyone who admits they’re a glass-half-full type needs to calm their perky ass down and jump out of the ether and back onto Planet Earth. And seriously, who the fuck doesn’t have baggage??! I mean I want to grow roses from big piles of shit too, but I’ve got plenty of fertilizer to feed the seeds. Know what I mean? When I encounter these sentences in someone’s profile I can’t hit the “delete” button fast enough).

3. I’m a physically fit and active type who likes to take care of his body and expects the same from a partner.

(I don’t know about you, but when I’m online dating I don’t expect dick from anyone, except a hope that they’re not bat-shit crazy and that they bathe on a routine basis. I don’t need a man who spends more hours in the gym than I do, so if they list “workout 5 or more days a week,” 9 times out of 10, I run my chubby little ass for the hills).

Smoking

If you smoke, do not admit it. Lie about it, hide it, chew Nicorette gum and wear ten patches, but if they list a “non-smoker” preference, take it to heart and seriously think about whether you can get through a date with a stranger without reaching for your pack of Marlboros. Cuz once you do, there’s no turning back. Take it from a girl with the ultra-light hanging from her mouth as we speak.

Drinking

I’m a regular drinker. I like alcohol. I like men who drink alcohol as well. So if you’re one those guys who lists themselves as a “social drinker, one or two a week,” I’ll either assume you’re lying or popping something far better. It’s DC people, if you’re not a regular drinker, you’re either a recovered alcoholic or someone I simply can’t trust to tell the truth.

Income

The unspoken rule is, don’t list it. Especially if you fall in the “25K-a-year or under” category. I really don’t want to know ahead of time I’m going to have to spring for your Starbucks latte. And if you’re in the “150K or higher” category, don’t brag about it in your profile, only assholes with penis envy have to point it out that they’re richer than the majority of the unwashed masses.

Weight/Build

I always trust the guys who list “about average” more than the ones who list “athletic.” I’m not sure who told men that they qualify as “fit” just because they run a few bases in the company softball game while getting shit-faced in the dug-out. If bending over to lift a High Life from first base to your lips counts as working out, I just found my heaven. If you’re Michael fucking Phelps and have hipbones that can cut glass - by all means - list yourself as “athletic.” But mother-of-god, please no shirtless snapshots - don’t be a tool - you can show her your abs later while doing body shots at Aqua.

The weight category is an even bigger bitch for women. I myself have a build you can’t categorize as any one thing. I’m not “slender,” but I don’t qualify under the “few extra pounds” slot either. I have a big chest and nice legs and list myself as “curvy.” But the “curvy” category comes with one huge caveat. Most of the men who contact me on Match are highly suspicious of the adjective. Believe it or not, I’ve had at least 2 dozen men ask me for  head-to-toe pics to prove I’m not a beached Orca. I know when it’s going to happen too because they always lead with “you’re so cute, why don’t you have more pics up?” When I tell them I don’t like having my picture taken (the God’s honest truth) they rarely believe me. If they’re insistent, it’s usually such a turn-off I send them a picture I saved on my Blackberry of “Happy the Hippo” from the National Zoo and call it a day. There was one guy who flat-out asked me once if “curvy” meant “fat.” I gave him points for bravery and ended up going out with him. He even got to feel me up, so in the end, “curvy” worked in his favor.

The Napoleon Factor

There is a very high percentage of short men on Match (under 5′8). Short men tend to get overlooked (sometimes literally) in the regular dating world. Women like tall guys with limbs they can wrap around them. I’m only 5′2, and I’ll be the first to admit, I’d rather date the guy who is 6′3 than the guy who is 5′6. So short men flock to online dating sites to increase their prospects. No harm, no foul. I totally understand it. And as nice as it is to have someone who can reach the box of Life cereal from the top shelf at the grocery store, short guys deserve love too. So polish up your step stools and give him a whirl.

Pictures

A lot of guys like to post pictures of themselves with infants and dogs, and for some women, this really works. I tend to favor the guys with pooches, but my maternal instinct is in the sub-zero category, so pink, drool-filled babies in onesies don’t really do much for me.

Guys also like to include pictures of themselves with hot chicks. Perhaps it’s to show they can attract super-models, perhaps they really like the picture with their sister in the string bikini, whatever the case, it’s a common occurrence and can work in your favor as equally as it can work against it.

I’ve already addressed the “shirtless pic” phenomenon, but one more tip when it comes to pics in your profile. No matter how hot you think you looked in 1998 when you had hair or were 20 pounds lighter or before you grew that dreadful mustache, no matter what, include current pics. There is nothing more painful than going on a date with someone who doesn’t resemble at all the picture in their profile. It sucks for both of you and unless you like rejection on the spot, cop to the extra pounds, admit to the shaved head and hedge your bet. I guarantee it will work out better in the end.

Coming up in Part Two of Online Dating in the District…

The Wink vs The Email.

So here-in lies the tale

That’s cost many a good woman sleep

It’s the story that haunts girls near and far

Of the Pervert and the Creep.

————————–

You may not want to admit

But you know who they are

They lurk in your hallways

The grocery store or corner bar.

————————-

The Pervert does the recon

While the Creep moves in for the kill

They have names like Radiation Rick

Or Big Ball Sac Bill.

—————————-

They blame it on the dog

When they belch and fart

They’re the ones who do the tongue tangle

With that bitchy little tart.

——————————-

They never put the seat down

And often forget to flush

The ones who turn up the game

When you’ve pleaded and begged for hush.

——————————-

They’re the assholes in the office

Who like to converse with your tits

The ones who never hold the door

Always scratching their naughty bits.

——————————-

He’s the guy you slept with

That one, really vulnerable night

Who promises to call you

But vanishes out of sight.

——————————

The Creep is the one

Who never gives in bed

The Pervert is the guy

Who pushes down your head.

———————————

The schmuck who refuses to tip

The looser who never picks up the check

The asshole who takes up two parking spaces

And deals from the bottom of the deck.

————————————-

He’s the one who made fun of you

In grade school or junior high

The one who gave you that horrid nickname

Which made you want to die.

————————————

The ones with the roofies

And mirrors on their shoes

The Peeping Toms and Slimy Sids

Polygamist Peters and Douche Bag Drews.

—————————————

The dude who broke your heart

The asshole who screws the other chick

The one you gave another chance

Despite his roaming dick.

———————————-

He’s the fucker who won’t buy you Ben and Jerry’s

When you’re in bed bloated with cramps

The guys who don’t remember your name the next morning

The cheaters and the scamps.

———————————

So listen to me ladies

My cautions and caveats

Or you may end up in tears

Your stomach tied in knots.

——————————-

The Pervert and The Creep

May be prevalent coast to coast

They may shiver in New England

Or frequent Miami to roast.

——————————–

But their fate will be inevitable

Their price will someday be paid

For in Hell they’ll surely land

Where they’ll never ever get laid.

Fanny packs.

Toilet seat dribblers (you know who you are).

Bread pudding.

Segways.

People who ride Segways.

The term “carbon footprint.”

Any opposition to the flying monkey brigade I’m quietly forming.

Bald men with ponytails.

Drew Barrymore.

Women who don’t wear bras.

Men with yellow toenails who wear sandals.

Political correctness.

Foodies.

Passive aggressive mother-in-laws (I divorced mine).

Cliched references to scaling Mount Everest.

Darfur.

Power lunches.

The guy that swallowed my face when he kissed me.

The biter (WTF Dude?)

Pink eye.

Spilled beer.

Parking enforcement.

The person in the other lane who’s had their blinker on for the last 5 minutes.

That bitch at the DMV in SE.

Back fat.

The woman with that really gross mole on her chin (Cut it off!)

Water-boarding.

Anything written by Nicholas Sparks.

Boys who make me sad.

People with Tweety Bird tattoos.

The girl who never smiles back at me in the elevator.

The hard thing in my Whopper I bit into last night.

Gas prices.

Those hospital socks with the treads on the bottom.

People who don’t think I’m funny.

Finding that centipede in my bathtub that one time.

Third nipples.

The trick mirrors in Banana Republic dressing rooms.

Turbulence.

Our nation’s crumbling infastructure.

The Pepto Bismol dance.

Water parks.

Bad stand-up comedians.

Cover charges.

The declining value of the dollar.

Neocons.

My bathroom scale.

“It’s been a bad day, please don’t take a picture.” -REM

You want me to move mountains

And I want to know the going-rate.

And so goes the search

For fairer weather.

My lips on your sweaty forehead.

The sweetest feast.

Teasing me to taste.

And now I know

That tainted truth.

So, I’ll silently

Beckon for the breach

Until the waters give way.

Those three words we wait a lifetime and then some to hear.

Not everyone gets to be happy?

No.

But you fight for it.

That’s the point.

That’s the epic battle.

Something Jesus wouldn’t dare tell you.

But I’ll whisper it in your ear

Every chance I get.

Sacrilege

Can kiss my ass.

Reverence

Without reward.

At some point you’ll have to swap

Joy for fear.

So I’ll wait.

For you to awaken

From obligation.

And find your way

Into my imperfect arms.

Into redemption

Of a different sort.

“And we sit here in our storm, and drink a toast, to the slim chance of love’s recovery.” -Indigo Girls

I lost my virginity on M.R.’s waterbed December 26, 1994, with Freebird playing on his stereo

I sing Johnny Cash songs in the shower.

I only know 3 women I truly trust

I have a crush on the guy from “Dirty Jobs.”

I enjoy giving more than getting.

I’ve written bad checks to buy new shoes when I’m broke and depressed.

I steal cable.

I don’t brake for children, cats, or Jesus

Sex with conservatives is better.

I don’t recycle.

I cheated on my 12th grade Honor’s English paper and got an A+.

I online shop at work when no one is looking.

I have no idea what the tattoo on my left ankle means.

I flirt with old married men.

I prefer dogs to people.

I loathe couples that jog together and fantasize about tripping them.

I love Will Smith movies.

I’ve never kissed a girl and never want to.

I see you staring at me and I like it.

I’m a slob.

John Denver songs make me cry.

Size does matter.

Taco Bell kicks ass when you’re high.

I wish I would have worked harder at my marriage.

I don’t really get Monty Python.

I dream about eating ice cream a lot.

I’m a fucking sap.

I still sleep with a blankie.

I judge people.

I smoked a whole pack of cigarettes today.

I don’t get lost much driving in the District anymore. I mean, it took me a while for those quadrants and numbers and letters and states and fucking traffic circles to all make sense, but for the most part, I travel in the right direction now.

I’ve even managed to dominate the Beltway during rush hour, Diet Coke, cigarette, Blackberry, and middle finger at the ready. I’m a master of the HOV lanes. Correct toll change calculated and counted.

I was confident in the car, solid on the streets, focused on the freeway, a graduate of gridlock.

Lately, I’ve been fantasizing an awful lot about that last morning in your kitchen, before I hit the road. You put coffee in my hand, and I kissed you goodbye.

I had been drunk on asphalt and orange cones for a while. I was 80 miles per hour and never wrong.

And now, I find myself wanting to ferociously scrub away at the lines on the map. Thumbprints and pink erasers crumbling, improvised red crayon detours, all at the behest of my surprising no-through-street regret. 

I would give a lot to be back on 270 on a Friday night.

“With a love so hard and filled with defeat. Running for our lives at night on them backstreets.” - Bruce Springsteen

 

 

It’s dangeorus territory to tread I realize. But I’ve found that forming and maintaining a solid work crush can help make the hours pass more quickly at the office. It also gives me something to look forward to everyday, even if it is a minor detail.

The work crush, if at all successful, needs to roll out in a number of subsequent phases. Here’s the model I most often employ:

Phase One: Establishing your divine presence. This can be as easy a task as a handshake and a clever quip when you first meet (please be advised, this meeting should only take place after subject has been thoroughly vetted and properly scoped out by sympathetic coherts). “Pleasure meeting you ‘blank.’ Welcome to our dysfunctional daily.”

Sometimes a more blatant introduction can be appropriate, it all depends on your style. A just-short-enough-skirt and the desk-sitting method can be effective.

I find the inter-office jabber instant messaging system can be handy as well. A quick note that pops up in the corner of his PC. “Howdy newbie, let me know if I can help you get situated. I’m a great tour guide ;-)” I think the well-employed ‘wink’ symbol exudes just the right dose of breezy flirtatiousness without going overboard.

Phase Two: Make it apparent how funny and well-liked you are among your office mates. Flirt with the old men, compliment the receptionist on her pink sweater, bring donuts to the guys in the IT department, make a wise crack at the news meeting.

Phase Three: Make use of props. My flirt arsenal is well-stocked and I wholeheartedly advise investing in toys (no, not those kind of toys ya perv). My current favorite is the screaming slingshot monkey (available for $4 at Amazon.com … I buy them in bulk). Please note, props can be used in a number of ways, but are not always appreciated by intended target. I find that screaming slingshot monkey isn’t always well-received when said work crush is crashing on deadline. Sometimes it’s nice to include chocolate from the office candy bowl or a funny little note tied to monkey’s neck. (I really can’t say enough about that little bugger - he really is a handy little pet).

Phase Four: This phase is optional. If you have no desire to carry-through with the new work crush outside of the office, then disregard this next set of instructions. But for you willing participants, Phase Four involves taking crush out of office and into the real world. Working in the District makes this phase much easier than in suburban areas or less Type A cities. Watering holes tend to be a quick jaunt away and as most of us young DC hopefuls can attest to, we take our work home with us, so asking to discuss a story or a promotional strategy outside the office isn’ t the least bit out of the ordinary.

So, if a regular weekly office happy hour hasn’t already been instituted, this is a good opportunity to organize one. This can be done with a simple email to colleagues, something like the following, “Hey guys, I know this presidential election has us all stressed to the max and on edge, so why don’t we grab a few beers and have a bitch fest on Thursday? Let me know who’s in!”

Taking the crush outside the office is a good way to establish if he has his eye on anyone besides you. So don’t be afraid to invite a few cute gals to the bar. I realize this may end up complicating things in the end, but nothing risked, nothing gained people!

If you have a car and your crush Metros to work, this is the perfect opportunity for a few minutes of alone face time with him - so offer him a ride and a bit of juicy office gossip to make the trip worth his while. But if you’re driving him home after the happy hour, be sure to taper the drinking a bit, cuz there’s nothing less sexy than getting pulled over for a DUI when trying to establish a firm flirt foundation.

Phase Five: After you’ve properly established a substantive flirty friendship with your new crush and after one or more group-setting functions have gone successfully, then it may be time to strap a bit of armor on, sharpen the blades and go in for the proverbial kill.

Be sure you have taken the time to casually inquire about your crush’s favorite past times. Perhaps he’s a baseball lover and you just happen to have two tickets for the Nats game that evening. Or maybe he really likes a good burger and a beer and you happen to know a great place for cheap eats and micro-brews after a long, hard day of muckraking. Here’s your opportunity to invite him, in as nonchalantly a manner as possible (making it look like a spur of the moment invitaion is best), out for a one-on-one.

Phase Six: A May New England wedding, the two-story row house with a garage on a quiet street in Georgetown, and a lifetime of laughter remembering your first encounters with screaming slingshot monkey.

Really? Nah. Who am I kidding? I’ve never gotten anywhere near Phase Six. I’m still waiting for my new work crush to stop checking out the 21-year-old intern every time she sashays past his frigging desk (I wish that bitch would go back to school already).

But I’m committed to my cause. And shit, with the turn-over in my field what it is today, if this work crush doesn’t pan out, I’m sure a new contender will come along in due time.