Hymie The Robot

If you're aiming to be 100% certain that I will never respond to a message you send me on OkCupid, you should probably make your screen name HymieTheRobot.  Is this a pop culture reference?  A tribute to your favorite engineer?  I don't know, and I SOOOO don't care.

Then, write this:

"It makes me so happy to see someone looking at a flip phone, good for you.

A couple of line breaks should be segue enough. I was wondering, would you care to join me for cocktails? I'll get the first round or two."

A couple of line breaks should be segue enough?!?  You are socially awkward, and you are a shitty writer.

Also, in your profile, when you write "I'm no braggart, but if I have the mind to get good at something I usually do," you are bragging, and you are still a shitty writer.

If there was any doubt in my mind that I made a mistake by passing up the opportunity for you to buy me 1-2 drinks, it was completely erased when you put up a picture of you and your (all male) Xbox One design team on launch day.

Usually a person's lack of response to a request for a date is a pretty good indicator that he or she isn't interested, but not in your self-entitled Microsoft world!  JUST IN CASE I was thinking it over and needed an extra push to get you to buy me those cocktails, you had to send one more message, a day later:

"I bet we'd have fun; not to toot my own horn, but I'm pretty good at showing a good time."

I believe that counts as bragging, Shitty Writer.

 

We Had IPAs at Third Place Books

#74 was just as amazing as I thought he'd be- and by "amazing," I mean he was totally normal and attractive and could hold a conversation.

Unfortunately, I seemed to disappoint him.  We had a nice, intelligent conversation, but I could tell from the moment we met that it just wasn't there for him and therefore, it wasn't there for me either.  "Am I appropriately representing myself online?", I second-guessed.  All of my pictures are from the last two years, but maybe they could use an update?  I don't know where I went wrong, but I sensed that he felt he'd wasted his time.  I could see him going through the same motions that I do when I'm not into my date, trying to find meaning in an encounter that would otherwise be meaningless.  He wanted to learn about the Affordable Care Act and taking the ferry to Alaska, yet less because he cared about me and my experiences and more because he was using the date as an opportunity to get information.  I would feel worse about that except I have wasted my time on so many dates that I reason I owe payback to the men of Seattle.

"Did he have a good time?" is a less relevant question at this point in my dating career than "Did I have a good time?"  I did, so that's that.

Be Hopeful!!!

... I have to remind myself.  Always, always have hope.

So, I'm gonna totally psych myself up for my date this weekend with a History PhD professor who hiked the Appalachian Trail and, according to his OKC profile, spends his time thinking about justice.

Chemistry gods, rain down on me because this guy seems amazing.
 

12th Avenue

Seattle is being overrun by some horrible, horrible men and living on Capitol Hill, I seem to be caught in the middle of them.  They gather in herds in the bars and on the streets on weekend nights, ages 22-28, mostly White, obviously Northwest newbies, almost certainly working in tech.  My feelings towards them are hostile at best, and it has nothing to do with The Seattle Freeze.  I just want my city back.

I was walking home from my gym at 9 pm on a Thursday, red-faced and sweaty, eager to shower.  As I approached Chavez- the latest ridiculously overpriced restaurant with giant windows and an industrial aesthetic- I saw two men in plaid collared shirts standing outside, clearly eyeing me.  One of them struck up a conversation as I passed by, "Have you been here before?"

"No, I haven't." I responded somewhat cautiously, knowing there was a catch.

"Well, do you want to get a drink?"

"No," I answered, firmly this time around.  "I just finished working out and I'd like to go home and shower and sleep."  I'd also like to be able to walk down a street in my neighborhood wearing workout clothes without being ogled, but I kept that part to myself.

"Hey, no problem," he said, although I knew he didn't really care.  He was tipsy enough that he'd forget his rejection within a minute.  Then a man walked out of the restaurant and, within hearing range, Drunk 20-Something Year Old Tech Man pointed to him and said to me, "He's Black."

Way to fucking go!!!  Within the span of 30 seconds, in a historically gay neighborhood, you managed to be both sexist and racist to two complete strangers! 

The Black man and I gave each other "Did that just happen?!?" looks, and I responded with the first thing that came to mind.  "Yes, yes he is.  That's a weird thing to say."  In retrospect I should have released my feminist anthropology major wrath, but I was exhausted and sweaty and not expecting to- you know- have an argument about race and gender while making my way home for the evening. 

Thank you White Male Privilege, and thank you to the companies that are bringing the privileged white males to Seattle.


 

Didn't See This Coming

It was Saturday night at 10 pm, and I was with the man I'd sent a rejection text to a week ago.  Casual, we'd agreed, which meant that he hadn't been part of my weekend plans until a few hours beforehand, when I'd decided I wanted male company.

We walked through the open gate to Discovery Park and as far as I could tell, had all 534 acres to ourselves.  At 40 degrees and cloudy it was a typical January night in Seattle.  I'd never been to Discovery Park after sundown, and once my eyes adjusted to the darkness I saw the silhouettes of bare trees against the hazy sky.  We slid down a sandy bluff 150 feet to the beach.  The tide was low.  No one was around.

Together we searched for branches and he lit a fire.  For two hours we sat on a log bundled in our jackets, drinking wine from the bottle, watching the tide come in and the ferries shuttle back and forth across Puget Sound.  He talked about how his mom read him The Little Prince as a child and ignited his love of books.  After his father passed away she had a few boyfriends, but none of them worked out because "she's high maintenance."

"What do you mean?"  

"Well, one of them bought her a new washer, and she was upset because it was too big of a gift."

I liked his mom already.

I liked him too, more than I did the first two times we went out.  We shared a core value of simplicity that I'm having a hard time finding in men...  I will never be wooed with gifts, fancy meals, or explanations of an amazing corporate benefits package.  Let's lay outside, drink wine, and share stories.

The sex that night and the next morning felt easy and comfortable.  We stayed in bed talking until noon, and his honesty and kindness impressed me.  I, of course, made a completely inappropriate comment about how if we ever had kids their curly hair would be amazing, and he didn't totally freak out because I talked about our hypothetical offspring.  "Did I just mention children that we're never going to have together to a man I've been out with three times?", I mused out loud.  "Yes," he said, "but you're right.  That would be some crazy hair."

I know that what I need from a relationship isn't there, but when I dropped him off at his south Beacon Hill home and missed him the rest of the day, I had a smile on my face because I felt something.  If love is a continuum, a little bit grew.