Halfway Point: Worrying and Learning by Doris

When Rock and I agreed to start No Way, Cupid, I suggested we step back and evaluate three months into the six-month experiment. Granted, it's been a little more than three months, but self-analysis is never a bad thing, right?

Three months in, I am really, really trying to keep an open mind. For me, that is sometimes hard. Not that I'm a prejudiced person or anything, but I've been called "stubborn," "bullheaded" and the like more often than #winning has been trended on Twitter (by the way, we have a Twitter account. You should follow us!). I maintain that if I were a guy, my, um, strong personality would be less of an issue. However, I'm not only a girl but a girly-girl who likes to wear dresses and paint my nails. When I open my mouth, people are often in for a shock.

Before No Way, Cupid, I thought Ex-calibur and I were meant to be. I didn't always admit it, but deep in my heart I figured we would be together eventually. Now I know that will probably not happen. Believe me, for that realization alone this experiment has been worth it.

Back to the open-minded issue: I get worried I'm too picky.

I mean, I basically canceled a date Thursday night. My date Saturday canceled on me, but I'd kind of written him off anyway, so I was more relieved than anything else. Since I signed up on okcupid, I've rejected those who message me more often than not (sounds harsher than it actually is. By "rejected," I mean I don't message them back. I'm not mean or anything).

And cancellations aside, I enjoy being alone. If I am going to give up what little spare time I have, even for a coffee date, I need to at least like you a bit.

Then I worry I'm not picky enough. Neither guy I was going to go out with this week were real winners. I almost messaged a guy back last night (more about that later), but then I realized there were several factors that I could tolerate for a few dates, but would present big problems sooner or later.

I worry a lot. Can you tell?

But I think about the Russian, who I really did like even though he had a lot of faults and didn't end things well (or at all). I liked Straight Anthony Rapp and Rivers-a-like, the energy just wasn't there for me. So this gives me hope. I've just had a run of crappy luck lately, which if my online dating-veteran friends are to be believed, happens from time to time.

Here's the biggest thing I've learned so far, though:

I want a little bit more than casual sex.

I still don't want to get married. I still don't want kids. I still don't even want a relationship where someone's in my face, bed and life every day of the week. On the other side of the coin, I still don't have a problem with booty calls or one-night stands.

However, I'd like sex and spending time together out of bed to go hand in hand. I'd like a guy who doesn't use me and disappear (even if we are using each other). I'd like a give-and-take, even if it only lasts a few weeks. I'd like closure if and when the relationship ends.

Yes, I just used the word "relationship." Rock and I have had endless arguments about this word. Previously, I hated it because for me it connoted whining and angst and more work than play.

Now, I get it. The word can mean many things.

And a relationship, on my terms?

I wouldn't be opposed.

LEARNING.

Good Luck to You, Making Your Judgments, by Doris

Last night I told a coworker/friend about the Russian's marital status.

Even though it's over, I'm still careful about who I tell, and what I tell them. While it was going on--and remember, because of the holidays we communicated for about a month before we actually met--some of my friends knew I was seeing somebody. Only about four--Rock, my roommate Stan, my sister, and a friend who reads this blog--knew he was married.

Now that it's over, I will tell a few more friends. Many will never know.

It's not that I associate with a bunch of judgmental douchebags. However, more and more of my social circle is getting married. More and more have children. Some are very traditional in their views of relationships. I don't mean anti-gay (because if that's the case, they are not my friends), but I do mean I have a close friend who didn't even like me joking about making out with Joel McHale, because this A-list celebrity who probably wouldn't give me the time of day, is in fact married with two children.

I don't want anyone thinking I'm a homewrecking piece of shit, or that I'm after their spouses, or that I get off on dating married men. First, I would have never let it go that far if I suspected the Russian was lying to his wife. He was full of shit a lot of the time, but was always sincere when it came to his relationship. Second, I'd never pursue the spouse of a friend, even if it were an open relationship situation. That would just be weird for me. Third, though I was intrigued by the open relationship idea, it wasn't the sole reason I dated the Russian. I liked his profile. I was attracted to him. The conversation, both written and spoken, was always good.

Moreover, I don't want anyone pitying me, seeing me as the poor lonely misguided unmarried who is being taken for a ride by a cheater. I knew the score from day one. I wish it could have gone on longer and I would have gotten some closure, but I was never under the impression it was going to be a lasting relationship.

As it happens, my coworker/friend had the perfect reaction:

"I've always thought that it's on the married guy," she said, taking a sip of her beer. "He chose to go outside the marriage. Any fallout in that relationship, it's on him and not the woman."

Yay for non-judgmental friends!

I Know It's Over, by Doris

So Rock and I are getting back in the saddle on the ol' OKC.

To bring you up to speed, the Russian was supposed to contact me this week about hanging out again. Well, it's Thursday and I haven't heard word one. I got a feeling on Monday that it wasn't going to happen, but Rock said to give him until Friday before I truly gave up.

Not going to be necessary.

Here's what went down: just a little while ago, I logged back onto OKCupid for the first time in over a month. (I know, I know, I said I was going to keep looking while involved with the Russian, but then vacation happened. Then sick happened. Then busy week at work, third date with Russian, and awkward second date with Straight Anthony Rapp happened. Before I knew it, January and half of February got away from me.)

I was checking through my messages when I saw it:

Sorry, [Russian's username] no longer has an account.

Huh.

When I got the feeling it was over, I didn't get a feeling as to why. I wasn't sure if he'd met someone else or what. And I don't know how OKCupid works--maybe if someone blocks you it says they no longer have an account. Anyone know?

But something makes me think his wife put the kibosh on the whole open marriage thing.

Don't get me wrong--this is not me blaming some woman I don't even know for ruining my relationship. Not at all. He's her husband, a fact I was aware of from the beginning. She has every right to stop something she's not entirely comfortable with. And to be honest, after the first and second date, I halfway expected never to hear from the Russian again. I figured with a married man, it could end at any time.

That said, I do wish he would have contacted me personally. After a first or second date, with anyone, if you're not feeling it I'd rather you just let me figure it out. Otherwise it's just too awkward.

But in this case, after three dates, a helluva hickey, and having him over to my apartment, a text saying he couldn't see me anymore would have been nice.

At any rate, I clicked around, shook my head at some, messaged others.

Time to move on.

Not That Kind Of Girl, by Doris

So the Russian is supposed to get in touch this week. Two days after the hickey incident, I got a text (seriously, I always get a text exactly two or three days after we hang out. It's like the guy's living Swingers) saying he had a great time, he was busy the next week, but did I want to hang out the week after?

As luck would have it, I was charging my phone and didn't see the text till the next morning, so there was none of that should-I-text-him-back-now-or-wait-a-few-minutes? anxiety. (Hm, maybe I'VE watched Swingers too many times). I told him I'd had a great time too, and that sounded good.

Well, it's only Monday of the aforementioned week. And maybe I'm burned out or paranoid or something, but I'm not sure if I'm going to hear from him again.

And I'm a little sadder about that than I'd like to admit.

It's not that I wanted to build some emotional foundation. I mean, the guy's married for God's sake. And I can't say I'm really hankering for another ten-minute description on how Hitler screwed over the Russians in WWII. I can only pointedly play with my phone for so long.

True, the guy was a grade-A blowhard.

But he was a really good kisser. I could do with another makeout.

Whatever. We'll see what happens.

I tell you what, though: I'll eat glass before I become one of those whiny Grey's Anatomy-type neurotichicks who stress about not getting texted by some douche.

I'm not that kind of girl.

Like a Hallmark Card, by Doris

I spent most of this week wearing makeup in a place I usually don't, and it's all the Russian's fault.

You can probably guess what this is about.

I have had very little experience with hickeys. Once in high school, I really did burn my neck with a curling iron, and people teased me about it for DAYS (even, embarrassingly, my guidance counselor). Didn't matter that Excalibur was in college a few hours away at the time, so no one was around to provide me with an authentic hickey. (That same year, there was a rumor I was pregnant--started, ironically enough, by an underclassgirl who got knocked up a couple months later. Karma's a bitch, babe.)

Then, in college, I burned my neck with a curling iron AGAIN. Really. This time it was actually Excalibur's fault--it was a Saturday morning and I'd spent the night at his place. I was a freshman, so we were very new to the whole we-can-actually-spend-the-night thing. He didn't realize that it wasn't cute to hug me from behind while I was fixing my hair with a Burning Hot Rod of Death.

One scream and he learned.

(Incidentally, no one teased me for this fake hickey. I was, after all, a college freshman.)

In the years since, I've dealt with a few love bites: most of the guys I've fooled around with haven't been suck-ily inclined, and Excalibur gave me several, but only in places that could easily be covered.

The Russian? Not so much.

After a long two weeks during which I went on vacation with my family AND got the cold/flu/sinus bug that's rampant right now, the Russian and I were able to coordinate our schedules and meet up for drinks in my neighborhood. Per usual, he started out the date by being really annoying.

Can I just say I HATE when people rip on TV? Seriously. Like anything else, it's fine in moderation, and for every piece o' shit like Jersey Shore (sorry, Rock), you have a well-acted, awesomely written series like Mad Men or Community.

Yes, I do watch Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. Shut up.

However, the Russian has this habit of becoming quirkily charming and self-deprecating juuuust when I'm about to throw in the proverbial towel. It's like he's got Doris Is Annoyed Radar, which takes many people years to develop.

And on drink number two, just when we were trading our best impersonations of Shirley on Community, he leaned over and kissed me.

In the words of NeNe on Real Housewives of Atlanta (yes, I watch that too, shut up):

BAM.

The Russian then expressed a desire to be alone with me. Per his agreement with his wife, who was out of town for the week, he could fool around with me above the waist only, and he couldn't spend the night.

My reaction: "You allergic to cats?"

"Nope!"

"Cool!"

I was actually fine with his wife's edicts. It showed that a) she knew about me, b) they were communicating, which is a big part of an open relationship.

Plus, I was looking at a twelve-hour workday the next day, and I wanted my bed to myself.

So we fooled around. As first semi-sexytimes go, it was pretty awesome. He's very limber.

Also, we compared foot injuries and geeked out about movies. He was very impressed by my DVD collection and asked for recommendations (among the Top Five Ways to Get in Doris' Pants Again).

Plus?

He really liked my cat.

Excalibur hated my cat. Not because of the cat itself, but because Excalibur is allergic. No fault of his own, of course, but it was really nice to be with someone who paid attention to the pussy. Cat.

After I kicked out the Russian ("You have to leave now." "Yes, ma'am!"), I started getting ready for bed.

That's when I discovered The Mother of All Hickeys on the left side of my neck.

Dammit, Russian.

Cue makeup, an elaborate necklace, and a cardigan with a shawl collar the next day.

Though I did tell my coworker, who thought it was hilarious.

In a weird way, I considered it a badge of making-out honor. A tangible mark to commemorate the end of a dry spell.

However, we WILL be having a talk on our next date.

What Is Happening to Me?, by Doris

Before we get into that, here's an update on Straight Anthony Rapp: we'll be going out for a second time next Saturday afternoon (I have dance class early and plans with friends in the evening--it's literally all the time I can give). I don't think there'll be a third date, but you never know.

I consider myself pretty cynical. Not all of it has to do with boys--in fact, I first learned the meaning of the word in sixth grade, when someone said I was cynical, and this was way B.G. (Before Guys).

So why the HELL, when the Russian sent me a random text Friday night, did I start sparking like the Fourth of July?

*blush*

*giggle*

*ughIamjustlikeeveryoneelseandIhateit*

I'm Alive!, by Doris

Thanks to Rock for holding down the fort in my absence. As he stated in his last post, I was on a super-awesome vacation with my fam. I'm at the point in my life where for the most part I get along really well with my parents because, well, we're all adults and they're not trying to tell me what to do anymore. My sibs and I have always been really close. So a good time was had by all.

Mostly.

The bad news is, I was sick for the entire vacation. What I thought was a head cold only got progressively worse as the trip went on, resulted in a doctor's appointment the day after I got back, and still hasn't gone away (though now I have antibiotics and a get out of work free pass, thanks Doc!).

The good news is as follows:
1) Though I didn't stay out as late as my night-owl self would have normally, and I only got drunk once, on the last night of the trip, I managed to pull it together and have a ton of fun. (This also eliminated any chances of making out, because I'm not that mean.)

2) Said drunk last night of the trip was partly due to TWO MEN BUYING ME A DRINK! As in, the cocktail waitress came over and said, "the gentlemen on the right want to know if you'd like anything else." I stared at her openmouthed for about ten seconds before blurting my cocktail of choice. Not to sound naive, but I'm 30 years old and this is the first time anyone's ever wanted to send me a drink. WOOHOO!

I talked to the dudes and they were two very nice non-sleazy guys from Ohio. Coincidentally, my last crush who's now a good friend also hails from the Buckeye State. You go Ohio!

3) Through my coughing and snotty haze, I texted the Russian, who wants to see me again. We're in the midst of scheduling as he most likely has to check with his wife.

4) Straight Anthony Rapp of the annoying voice wants to go out again too! Eh, what the hell? If I'm still turned off after this one, I'm done, but a second date never hurt anyone.

5) While prostrate on the couch last night, I popped in Scott Pilgrim vs. the World, which I received for Christmas. Though it gets a little long toward the end, I was reminded of how much I like the overall concept. You see, even I have more than one evil ex if we're going by Ramona Flowers standards. (Mine are all boys, FYI.)

And it's funny Rock was just talking about evil exes.

Why is that funny?

Stay tuned . . .

Kiss On My List, by Doris

I am about to jump out of my skin.

Why hasn't the Russian tried anything yet????

We went out again Monday night. Vietnamese food, lovely local place not far from our first date. I was late due to GoogleMaps' NOT taking into account that a certain bus en route would put me in a shitty neighborhood. (Apparently there's not an app for that.) When I texted him, he said he'd order us an appetizer and asked if I had any food restrictions/preferences. (See, Rivers-a-like? THAT'S how you do it!)

Once I arrived, the back-and-forth began.

I may have alluded to this in my last Russian-related post: the guy is kinda pretentious. I mean, who says, "I've led a pretty interesting life" with no irony whatsoever? Also, he's a huge tea snob. I find this kind of hilarious.

But here's what I'm discovering, or maybe just putting into words what I knew all along:

I like arrogant guys.

First, the word "arrogant" has been used to describe me more than once. (I'd argue that a confident woman is more likely to have a negative word pinned on her than a confident man, but that's a whole 'nother post and Rock is totally rolling his eyes as he reads this.) Therefore, it's one more thing we have in common!

Second, there ARE arrogant dumb guys in the world. However, many of the arrogant dudes I've interfaced with have at least a modicum of intelligence and life experience. And really, I have no patience for dumb guys, no matter how cute (Ryan Gosling in Blue Valentine, I'm looking at you). I'd rather date someone who errs on the side of smart, because at least then we can have a conversation.

Finally, I like arrogant guys because I love, love, LOVE taking them down a peg.

Which I did with the Russian. Many times. Hey, it's a fun time for me and a test all rolled into one smart-assed package. If a man doesn't like to be challenged, that's a deal-breaker, ladies.

Fortunately for him, the Russian kept up. In fact, I was just about to give up on him (well, maybe, he IS awfully cute), when the conversation came around to Joel McHale.

"Do you know him?" I asked the Russian.

And the Russian turned to me and uttered in the most serious voice I've ever heard out of him:

"Community is my favorite show ever."

Sold.

Granted, there's more to my attraction than a mutual love for one of the best TV shows of all time. (Not to mention, as we discovered, a mutual love for Italian mob movies.) The conversation's awesome. I'm attracted as hell. And there's no way this can go long-term. Check, check and check.

Which is why I was really disappointed when all I got was a hug.

As Rock told me later when we met up for drinks, it's possible the Russian just goes really slowly. Also, we haven't been alone yet, and I've never EVER been one for PDA's. Even hand-holding. ESPECIALLY hand-holding. For some reason it's just always bugged me.

And the Russian wants to see me again. I'm going out of town for several days, so the onus is on me to contact him when I return, but . . . yeah. He wants to see me again.

It doesn't help that I'm a 30-year-old woman and therefore operating on hot-to-trot mode at all times.

Rock says next time I can have him over to my place. When it comes to dates, three is often the magic number. Right?

I mean, even a makeout or an errant tongue would be nice at this point.