Dont Mince Words

I can write good headlines. I can sell you shit you didn’t know you needed. I can write a lead that will get an editor to call. And I can write a cute note about your OKCupid profile that will make you click the reply button or swipe right.

Greg was the first guy EVER who matched me 96 percent on OKCupid. That just means we had similar quiz answers. But his profile was hilarious. I was inspired to write him which I don’t like to do. I don’t chase men. My mother taught me that one. But she’s dead and my boobs aren’t getting any perkier, so I’m changing my ways.

My opener was “You are like me except you have a penis.” I know. I know. But he wrote back and we eventually met for dinner. He wasn’t a super available guy with two teens and a business, so I didn’t see him again until he came up on my Tinder prospects. I knew that headshot. His profile stated he was looking for “Someone like me, except with boobs.” So, going out with me got him a good edit. I got a salmon salad.

Tinder recently changed its algorithm but today I wasn’t so sure. Raul, an ex- from 14 years ago popped up. I thought I reached the end of the internet when LinkedIn recommended I friend my ex-husband. Maybe I’d circled back around today. I messaged Raul and told him about my WTF Tinder moment.

He decided to change his location to Richmond thinking he’d eventually run into me. “I thought you would show up after 100 swipes. You were the first one! I said to myself, ‘that ho.’ You are the face of the fucking Richmond dating scene,” he messaged to me, through Tinder, after he kiddingly asked what I was wearing.

So, after two years here, I’m still single. Clicking and swiping has made me the face of Richmond dating.

I’m an optimist, right? I have to be given I’ve been internet dating for 20 years. But if something is too good to be true, it probably is. Right?

Ralph was a good match according to OKCupid. And he was my type of guy – cut to the chase and don’t waste time. We exchanged a few messages, talked on the phone, and three days later we had a date. A good date. It had been a long time since I’ve met for a drink and four hours later I actually wanted to still talk to someone.

During the next few weeks, I learned more about Ralph. He was 44 and didn’t want kids so he had a vasectomy. Never married. He went to one of those private west end schools and grew up on an estate on the river. He was attentive and communicative and eager to book dates. My girlfriends were cautiously optimistic for me. “The mask will come off. There has to be something wrong with him,” I explained.

You learn a lot about a man by the company he keeps and by the way he lives. I jumped at the opportunity to come over to Ralph’s house for dinner. When I drove up , I hummed the theme from Dallas as I passed the front gate houses then rounded the corner to see Southfork. It was a large house, but not what you’d expect a single guy to choose to live in, monied or not.

When I went in, I was shuffled to the sun room where his friend was. Ralph went back to the kitchen to finish the food. I surveyed the scene and in seconds figured out I was in the House of Mom. Gardening books. Bird feeders. Stacks of catalogs. Stamps. Envelopes. The other shoe had dropped.

I learned he lived in the basement; his best friend was in the chef quarters. His mom is a smart woman. If I were in my 70s, I’d love to have two men around to help me. But not my son. The boy needs to go learn to fly on his own. Be his own man.

I gave Ralph the soft let down by phone and casually mentioned living with his mother was going to hurt his long term relationship prospects.  “I know,” he mumbled.

This is funny because my OKCupid profile has a line that states, “You should contact me if you are an emotionally evolved male who doesn’t live with his mother.” I added this when I lived in Los Angeles. The recession forced a lot of people to move home. Ralph didn’t get to the bottom of my profile. He’s also dyslexic.

I love trends, especially when they save me time and money. Since granny gray is in, it was time to have a chat with my hairdresser.

I’ve been coloring my hair since I was a teenager. My first gray hair appeared before I was packed for college. I’ve been some shade of red ever since. At this point in my life, I have to color my roots every 17 days in order to maintain the color. Two boxes twice a month. Red doesn’t cling to gray long.

My hairdresser understood my desire to go natural but wouldn’t double process my hair into a gray shade so my naturals could flow in. Too damaging. So now I’m a transitional blonde as my roots come in. And it’s weird. I feel like some of my personality washed away with the red.

I’m waiting on the “more fun” part of being a blonde. Right now I’ve got “more time.”