The Queen of Soul Was on to Something…
Photo courtesy of Sukanto Debnath on Flickr
Ladies, we need to talk.
Some of you are acting in a way that is hurting your sistahs. Big time.
It’s all about respect. Yes, that same R-E-S-P-E-C-T that Aretha sang about in the 1960s. Except, some of you aren’t demanding the respect that is owed to you. And it’s making it pretty rough on the rest of us.
When I first jumped back into the dating pool, I hadn’t been actively looking for love for about 7 years. I figured it would be similar to the last time, when I would go on a couple of winner-dates, and then hit it somewhat lucky and meet a man I could stand to be around for more than an hour at a time. And he would court me, like guys do when they have enough respect for you to actually try to let you know they might care.
Was I wrong.
Apparently, a lot of you are putting up with a ridiculous amount of crap, just in the name of not being lonely. Because the guys out there seem a little, no, make that a LOT, surprised each time I’ve called them on their crap.
And what “crap” am I talking about? To be fair, I must admit, I am very high maintenance…I am talking about a man having enough respect for me to refrain from discussing his oh-so-average manhood until I’ve known him for more than 10 minutes. I am talking about not lying about something major, such as your age, or the fact your marriage actually failed once were convicted of securities fraud. I’m talking about basic manners, where you call someone if you have to cancel on plans, rather than blowing someone off altogether.
I’m talking about seeing me as a successful, intelligent woman, not a pair of boobs. I’m talking about dressing in more than a ratty T-shirt with your oil-stained flannel from 1983 the first time we meet. Out in public. Not in your garage.
I’m talking about something as simple as holding the door open for me, not because you want to get into my pants, but because it’s who you were raised to be: someone who is man enough to still respect a woman.
But back to you, ladies. You know who you are. The one who says it’s OK that he calls only once or twice a month for the booty call that leaves you feeling like crap the next day. The one who ignores the fact that pokes fun at your weight, or your family, or your clothing, during the first date, because it’s better to feel small and be with someone than be alone, right? The one who makes excuses for why he is treating you like an afterthought (the truth on that one? He treats you like an afterthought because you let him).
Ladies, you may not expect respect. That’s your choice. But you’re ruining it for the rest of us who have an ounce of self-respect left. You making it seem as if it’s OK to treat a woman like a piece of meat, like a toy. Because you enable this ridiculously bad behavior every time you agree to see him again, every time you let him off the hook for his thoughtlessness, every time you demean yourself for the sake of being in a “relationship”.
So, ladies, please do me a favor. Do all of us self-respecting women a favor. Look at yourself in the mirror. Really look at yourself. And I want you to repeat to yourself, over and over again, until you believe it: “You are worthy of respect. You deserve to be treated better. You will not allow him to diminish your self-worth.”
Once you believe the message, send it loud and clear to those men who want you to accept their crappy behavior. Make it known that you deserve everything Aretha was singing about. Don’t accept anything less.
A year later & VD still sucks…
Valentine’s Day, you pervs. Valentine’s Day still sucks (though it goes without saying that Venereal Disease is certainly a unfortunate event as well).
But I am woman enough to admit that if I did have a significant other, I would so be expecting some candy, a car and a Ferrari. See, no one can live up to my expectations.
So in celebration of the little fat bastard, a.k.a Cupid, I give you some special Valentine greetings from those of us not so keen on the bloody holiday (and no, I have not become British…the mascot of the holiday is a non-toilet trained toddler who shoots *arrows* people, how could it not get bloody?)
Easter Graphics
Anti Valentine Day graphics comment
You know what’s hot? Literacy.
See this guy? He's hot, 'cause he can *read, * people!
Forget the sports car. Forget the rock hard abs. Forget the dashing good looks (what the hell are “dashing” good looks anyways? Sounds kind of funny to me).
The hottest thing out there today is being able to freakin ‘ read. Sad, isn’t it? And I’m not just talking about the online dating world, either. In this world of online text, the printed word is all we have people. So take the time to freakin’ read what’s there, whether you’re dealing with an auction listing, forum post or blog.
Because reading is sexy. Punctuation is sexy. Grammar can be sexy if you involve whipped cream and chocolate. But most of all, letting the person you’re interacting with know that you actually took the time to read their words–that’s the sexiest of all. Try it.
Photo of sexy literate guy courtesy of Rob Boudon
eHarmony Sucks…just sayin’
I think the people who run eHarmony are delusional. You know that old guy in their commercials, who claims to be a “doctor”? Yeah, I’m pretty sure he’s a robot.
So I’ve been a customer of eHarmony. Only a little ashamed to admit it, mainly because it means I got played by a robot. I figured, if people are paying for a dating service, they might be a step up from the “hey baby, wanna get busy” crowd that lurks at bars and on free dating sites. Instead, I get a ROBOT sending me my perfect matches–of whom I have found maybe two out of 200 remotely interesting. So apparently, I don’t know what I want, because the robot assures me I should give people who don’t ever read books and work out 18 hours a day a chance, because that *is* what I really want. Thanks Mr. Robot. You suck.
Then Mr. eHarmony Robot has the nerve to invade my Facebook page.
What the evil eHarmony Robot wants you to believe...
If I ever find his little robot cave, I will do whatever it is people need to do to stop evil robots. I just need to do more research on that front. Promise.
That’s What He Said…
Photo Courtesy of Mark Hillary
One of the most frustrating things about trying out the online dating thing is decoding “guy speak.” Because it would make things way to easy for people to be upfront and honest. Because reading between the lines is fun…if you’re Sherlock Holmes…which I’m not. But if Sherlock Holmes looked anything like Robert Downey, Jr., I’d be all over that like a fat kid loves cake. But, I digress.
After amassing much, much, way too much, experience in trying to figure out exactly what the hell guys are really trying to say, I think I may have a handle on it. And because I am such a giving person, I felt the need to share my newfound knowledge with other women who may be navigating equally muddy waters.
So here is my offering: common themes that appear in mens’ profiles, and what they *actually* mean…which are very different things apparently.
“I am a fun-loving guy, who is looking for a companion to share the good times with.”
What he means: I want to get laid.
“Family is very important to me. There is nothing I wouldn’t do for my kids.”
What he means: I want to get laid, but only on the weekends I don’t have custody of my kids.
“I would like to find someone real, who wants a relationship.”
What he means: I want to get laid with a real human being…Blow-up Barbie is getting worn out.
“I am a romantic at heart–one of the last men left who knows how to treat a woman.”
What he means: I will buy you flowers, and open the door to the bedroom for you, because I want to get laid.
“I am truly a nice guy.”
What he means: Please. I want to get laid. Please.
“I am on this site just to have sex.”
What he means: He is obviously the only honest man left online, ladies. Grab. Him. Up!
Feel free to send any puzzling “guy speak” messages my way and I will decode them for you…but really, he just wants to get laid.
Best Dating Site Message. Ever.
Not really sure if I was supposed to just find this funny, be impressed, or be horrified…but this was definitely one of the most entertaining messages I’ve ever gotten on a dating site:
RandomDatingDude: lol don’t you dare lose those lovely ladie lumps your very sexy the way you are
Um, yeah. Thanks…I think. Maybe not.
Also, thanks for getting “My Humps” stuck in my head for the day. Jerk.
I Think My Dog May Go Bald
You know what does not mix? Nair and Dogs.
So here I am, rushing around earlier this evening, trying to get ready to go out. Like usual, I am running behind, because I tend to forget that time passes. And, wouldn’t you know it, I need to do pretty much the only primping ritual I take part in–the removing of the leg hair.
That’s where the Nair comes in, or goes on, I should say. Nair is nasty stuff that eats away at your skin if you don’t remove it within 5 minutes, and sometimes it actually removes the hair. At the point where I literally finish applying this hair removal miracle, my lab decides it would be a great time to bust into the bathroom…and rub against my leg.
My first reaction is to yell. Loudly. I have never seen my dog give me that look before, which makes me think people in New York city may have heard me. Now, I’m no scientist, but it’s a pretty safe assumption that if Nair can dissolve hair, it’s not going to be too gentle on a dog’s gastrointestinal tract.Which is why I yell. I’m scared I have somehow just killed my dog in an effort to conform to society’s expectations.
After I am reasonably assured that Zoe did not ingest any of the nasty stuff, I take a look at her. She has Nair smeared on her head, down her neck, and onto her back. My first thought? She’s going to look really freaky if I don’t get that crap off of her. That is not something I want to explain to the vet.
So I grab a towel and begin to wipe it off, when I realize you usually have to rinse the Nair off. But I’m running late. I don’t have time to hose her down. I run downstairs, and wet some paper towels and succeeded only in rubbing the Nair around a bit. It’s about this time that the Nair on my underarms begins eating through my flesh.
So now I am faced with a choice no one should have to make. Do I choose my dog’s hair or my own skin? I figure, she’s got a lot of hair, and I’m really getting a little tired of her shedding anyway, so I choose my skin. Sorry, Zoe. We’ll laugh about this some day, really.
Please note, no animals were harmed in the making of this blog. And my dog really isn’t going bald from the Nair experience. At least, not yet.
Rachel Baron Writes 