Why I Love Singlehood: (8 page)

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And I can’t stand when women call men dogs either, by the way.

Rule #5: Never utter the words “So, why are you still single?”, “What’s wrong with you?”, “What’s your problem?” or any combination thereof.

Ever.

The Deal Breakers

HAVING SPENT THE
last two months going on Lovematch.com dates, I was ready to call the whole thing quits. Despite subscribing to an introductory three months with a few more weeks to go, I stopped checking the site and started deleting the e-mail alerts to new messages or winks, not to mention the barrage of invitations to extend my membership for another six months at a reduced rate, assuring me that finding love takes time. But I was sick of the fabricated constructions of myself and my dates, sick of the endless parade of first dates that felt like interviews, sick of conveyor belt dating. Even though the majority of men were cordial, gallant, and complimentary (some of them warranted second dates, and one even made it to three), none of them offered anything by way of chemistry. I don’t even know if “chemistry” is the right word. Even in terms of my “friends first” criteria, they all fell short.

Although I shared common interests and a couple of laughs with these guys, we failed to connect in terms of eliciting long conversations into the night, or the passage of hours in what seemed like minutes. None of them inspired lengthy e-mails or endless phone calls. None of them made me feel giddy, or smile when no one was in the room. None of them prompted me to share my life stories, my hopes and dreams, strengths and vulnerabilities. Few, if any, even made me horny.

The last one was a combination of Denny Crane and Voldemort. Disenchanted yet again, I decided it was time for a report card.

The Deal Breakers

I was going to begin this post apologetic for being superficial and demanding perfection where none is to be found, but after two months of steady dates, and a few choice decades on this planet, I’ve decided against it. Because we all have ’em, and we all know it. You know, pet peeves, worst-habit-evers, nerve-graters. Flaws that are just not acceptable, would never be considered “cute” during that dreamy in-love phase, and will never turn into something you just have to live with. The relationship-enders. Deal breakers. Won’t-get-to-first-base deficiencies. And what can you do but laugh? As the musician Emily Saliers once said, “You have to laugh at yourself sometimes, because you’d cry your eyes out if you didn’t.” So here, in good fun, are a few that have crossed my path, unfortunately. (I’ve changed names to protect the guilty.)

Deal Breaker #1: “William from Wrightsville Beach” brings home recyclable trash.Here we are, at one of those cute grill shacks that sells hot dogs loaded with krout, hamburgers and greasy fries, and frozen custard. The kind of place that only has picnic tables outside. We are having a good time, me with my burger so pink it could moo, him with his chilidog, and the two of us sipping our cans of Coke, swapping our favorite scenes fromThe Office. We finish, and as I get up to throw out our trash, he swivels his head like a cornered dog searching for an exit.

“What’s wrong?” I ask.

“I don’t see a recycling bin anywhere for the cans. And these cardboard boats, they can be recycled, too.”

“Not with all this ketchup dripping all over them, they can’t.”

William then proceeds to go into the shack and asks for a bag, to which the poor teenager behind the counter informs him that she can only give him a full-size garbage bag. William comes back outside, grabs a few more napkins, wipes down the cardboard boats with them, flattens them, and then wraps them in two more napkins. So here I am, trying to rationalize how sweet, how caring, howconscientioushe is when he goes over to the trash can. Oh yeah, the trash can. The trash can to end all trash cans. The thing looks like it hasn’t been emptied in weeks and is dripping with crusted ketchup. I can smell it all the way from where I am standing, watching in horror as he gently opens the lid and begins extracting cardboard boxes as if they’re jewels on some exotic archaeological dig. I wish I were joking.

Oh, but that’s not all. Nope, he’smutteringas he’s doing it. He’s actuallypicking through the nasty, food-crusted, grease-drenched trash canandtalking to himself. At this point I can hear a voice telling me that the highest rate of murder victims in the country are white females—a good portion of which are murdered by people they’ve only had one social encounter with…like a date. I seriously consider hitchhiking, he looks that unstable. I am scoping out a car full of college students when he comes back, his garbage bag at least half full. He then places it in the backseat of his car, along with the empty cans, and drives me back to The Grounds.

“You do realize that you wasted like twice as many napkins just so you can take those cardboard thingies home and recycle them in your own bin, don’t you,” I say. “And besides, they’re like totally germafied.”

“Most of them can be recycled, too,” he rationalizes. “Don’t tell me you are one of those people who thinks the planet is going to sustain itself.”

“I—”

“You think global warming isn’t real?”

“Wha—”

“How much waste comes from your store?”

“Hmm, I can’t keep track, what with all those Styrofoam cups we use and plastic water bottles we give out.”

I could tell him that half our power comes from solar energy and that we use fair trade ingredients, and the shop has three—count ’em, three!—recycling bins, but dammit, he’s pissing me off. To make matters worse, flies follow his car and hover over the cardboard thingies. That’s just skeevy.

Deal Breaker #2: “Joe from Wilmington” chews too loud.Was-probably-a-horse-in-a-former-life kind of loud. Might-actually-be-a-horse-in-a-man-suit kind of loud. We go to dinner at Mario’s on Front Street and both order lasagna as well as the softest, fluffiest dinner rolls ever (God help ’em if I find out they came from a can). The conversation is fine, enjoyable, even. And at least he doesn’t eat and talk at the same time. But I can’t get past the chewing. Like a slow-motion jackhammer. How does one chew lasagna loudly? Salad, I understand, butlasagna? Not to mention that he loads so much Parmesan cheese on top you’d think it snowed. And even though I am itching for some tiramisu for dessert, I skip it because I don’t want his chewing to turn me off to tiramisu forever.

Deal Breaker #3: “Randy, originally from Rhode Island,” has an unhealthy attachment to Trent Reznor from Nine Inch Nails.I understand the concept of “fan” (short for “fanatic,” in case you’ve forgotten); I still listen to all my U2 albums on a regular basis and will travel across state lines to catch one of their concerts, but Randy has tattoos. He has pinups on the walls in his bedroom (not that I’ve been to his place, mind you—he proudly bragged about it). I haven’t had a pinup since I was sixteen. And his license plate is 9 IN NAILS. His e-mail handle is tr_NIN_genius. His Lovematch.com profile name is Trent. In fact, he’s seriously considering officially changing his name to Trent. Eek.

In hindsight, I’m not sure what made me agree to go out with him in the first place, or what drew him to me considering I had, among other things, aYou’ve Got Mailmovie quote on my profile. I should’ve denied my identity when he approached my table in dark skinny jeans all frayed at the knees, dyed jet-black hair, and a sterling silver skull earring. More astounding is that he has a master’s degree in early childhood education.

I make the mistake of innocently suggesting that Nine Inch Nails was one of the pioneers of techno music, when he nearly rips my head off. “It’sindustrial rock, not techno!”

“What’s the difference?” I ask.

“It hasa soul, for chrissakes! How can you not know that? What’s in your car stereo right now?”

I cringe at the thought. A Genesis CD.

“I mostly listen to the radio,” I say.

“Trent’s a genius who crafted a well-produced sound, and it’s like, raw and powerful, with like, anger that spits in the faces of the corporate material machine, you know?”

I have nothing against Trent Reznor, but I can’t resist needling Randy. “My friend Norman claims that there’s more anger to be found on John Lennon’s first solo album.”

He shakes his head vehemently. “Tell your friend that he doesn’t know shit.”

I smile an evil smile; he’s asking for it now. And he should thank his lucky stars he didn’t actually say this to Norman’s face.

“Wasn’t Trent Reznor a middle-class kid from Ohio?” I go in for the kill. “If you ask me, I’d say he was a whiny little narcissist. What did he know about anger and despair other than the Cleveland Browns?”

He looks at me in disgust. “He grew up in Mercer, Pennsylvania, not Ohio.”

“You say to-MAY-to, I say to-MAH-to. Tell me he’s from the South Bronx and I’ll take it all back.”

I might as well have called Trent Reznor the Donny Osmond of techno—no, excuse me—industrialrock. “Listen, we gotta end this date right now. I just can’t be with someone who doesn’t, like, get it.”

To his credit, Randy—er, Trent—pays the bill, but leaves the diner without, like, even saying good-bye to me.

And so, readers, I’ve decided to compile a list of other deal breakers for future potential dates, and I invite you to please share your own…or ones you possess.