Putting the Foot Down - In Stilettos Of Course

Well, I gave it a shot. Today is officially my last day on match.com. Why cancel, you ask? Have you found your Prince Charming? Are you going lesbian? Nah, I'm just sick of of illiterate people emailing me without reading my profile. See, because that's what they do.

My roommate went to a bar last week where, I'm assuming, there were a lot of available ladies. He actually referred to the bar as "some serious ass soup". Although that paints a disturbing visual, I tried to not take it literally and understand this is the male version of what I refer to as a "sausage fest" or "meat market".

Match.com is definitely the virtual version of an LA Meat Market. Now, this is not to say that there aren't some decent people on there - helllloooooo? I was on there. And I was fortunate enough to meet a couple guys (Boot Scoot, primarily) that were actually interesting and what I'm looking for. But, it's incredibly annoying to ask for someone who is "purple with polka dots" and get emails from everyone and their brother who is "green with stripes". READ PEOPLE READ. I swear, I could have put "I like to eat puppies" and I still would have received the same number of emails and winks and licks and whatever else you send. So, I'm over it.

Anyway, I have my hands full between Charlie and Boot Scoot and I go out on the town enough to actually meet people in person. The email thing, although awesome for some people, just doesn't seem to be my style. I do recommend it to people who aren't as assertive and extroverted as I am, or for people who just moved to town and are looking for cool people to hang out with. I guess I have to suck it up that I'm just too damn picky (and lazy - clicking on all those emails gave me carpal tunnel in my right click finger).

Boot Scoot has recovered from his kiss of death a couple weeks ago (blood clot and knee surgery). His mother and brother were in town for the past week and I he wanted me to come say hi, so, I did. Thus, I MET THE MOTHER. I was definitely a little squeamish, but, for some reason, all mothers love me... must be the shoes. She was extremely sweet, a good mid-west mom, and I managed to only stay for 30 minutes, so, it was quite painless. But as I was backing my car out of the driveway (and into his neighbor's garbage can - oops), the estrogen kicked in and I started hyper-ventilating. What does meeting the mother mean for him? What did I get myself into? It's not like I don't like him or enjoy his company, but, holy crap - I met the mom.

Charlie is easy in this respect. His mom is 5,000 miles away. I always had the goal in mind to meet her, that would mean that Charlie really cared about me. That would be "a big step" - something to work towards.

But with Boot Scoot we went from steps to leaps and bounds virtually overnight. Everytime I think about it, I need to whip out the ole' brown paper bag (demonstrated by the random chick in the above picture - a shout out to whomever she is).

My friend told me that I'm ridiculous (no, really?) and overthinking it (me? never.) and that I should just "chill the fuck out and go with the flow" (my friends are very subtle in their opinions). Oh. Ok. Flow. Right. Flow. He only shared a womb with this woman for 9 months - nothing too major. Bag, bag, where's my bag.

Perhaps the reason I spazzed is because of the ever lingering Charlie. I'm still trying to figure out what to do with that crazy Brit. He's been all open to communication and all but I don't want to let him back in - it'll just be bad news for me. Although, since I am a glutton for punishment, I didn't give him the ole' "Cheerio" from the get-go. But, I'm working on it.

I'll tell you. Men can always sense when another man is making a move on his woman. It's like they have some bizarre sixth sense about it. Perhaps they all pee on us when we sleep like dogs do to mark their territory. Ewe, I hope not. But I am convinced that although they're not always the most observant creatures, they ALWAYS know when there's someone else in the picture.

So, do I continue to feel out the Brit-Rachel-Boot triangle? Boot Scoot is heading to London (of all damn places - as Alanis says, "Isn't it ironic?") for 10 days for work. I'm not making any crazy moves until after his return, but, at that point, I have a feeling, I will have to (gulp) establish some clear boundaries. Bag, bag, where's my bag.

I am now interviewing people to play the part that Cher played in Moonstruck where she smacked the crap out of that dude and said "Snap out of it!" I can not guarantee an Oscar for you, but, if you smack me and yell that, perhaps I will pull my head out of my ass and I will understand what needs to be done. Please send all applications to me directly at bigdumbass@superdumbass.com.

Ok, I'm off to invest in some new brown bags now, since I had garlic for lunch and breathing that back in is not enjoyable.

More to come......