Tag Archives: match.com

Match Tales Part 3 (Final)

Previously posted on Vox.


It was with great hesitancy that I walked down Sixth Avenue to meet up with Guy #2. I fought the feeling of sending an email to cancel, because that’s something the old Valerie would do. “What’s the harm?” I asked myself. My first blind date was with a man in love with his cat, but that didn’t mean that my second blind date would also be a failure. If  nothing else, I’d have a beer, maybe a new friend, and surely a funny story to tell my friends about the oldest guy who contacted me on Match. Well, I would’ve had a story, if the guy had shown up. He stood me up. I swear.

Now, somebody explain this to me. Why did he contact me, go through the rigamarole, make plans to meet, and then not show? I, once again, as a traitor of my race, showed up on time. Truth be told I was early. Gasp. I scanned Markt, he wasn’t there. Markt wasn’t full: a couple of gay men, an old lady loudly sipping soup, and two girls going to a charity event and speaking very loudly about it.

Five minutes go by. Ten minutes. A guy in a striped shirt walks up to me. I thought, “Hey, he’s not bad. Not bad at all.”

“Hi, I’m Bill.”

The minute Bill opened his mouth, it was obvious that he was as fruity as my mother’s Christmas cake. Clearly, not my date.  So of course in typical “this is my life,” gay Bill and I made a connection. He bought me a Duvel and I told him my whole Match.com drama. (Okay, there’s no drama, it’s only been a week, but still…). Bill voiced disbelief that my blind date didn’t even call the bar to say that he couldn’t make it. Bill, like me, agrees that the only excuse that can be accepted is that the meetup guy’s trapped under the tire of an M9 bus. If he contacts me, he better be missing a leg and his pinky finger too.

Bill was sweet as hell. Problem is: I’m not a gay man! (I feel I need I need to shout that to the universe). If I were a gay man, I’d still be in Chelsea with Bill, and the other gay men who gravitated toward us. If I were a gay man, right now I’d be having fun in a bathroom stall, maybe not; the point is, the night was unfulfilling. Actually, that’s not true; I had more fun tonight with Bill and my Duvel than I did yesterday with Catman and my runny eggs. I’ll soldier on.

Monday night (11:08p.m.)

Um, just a note (albeit an embarrassing one), I checked my Match mail to see if the oldest, hopefully amputated guy had left a note explaining why he had failed to show for our meetup. In my inbox was this message:

Looking forward to meeting you. I only know one or two bars in Union Square– but I see you know the area better than I do (at least in terms of bars :). I’m glad that you got to pick a place you like. See you Tuesday at 6:30p.m.


Tuesday?! I garnered sympathy, pats on the back, and even a free beer, because I had the wrong day. Unfreakinbelievable. Well, at least now I kow the story to run when I’d like a comped Belgian beer.

The End

In the Bible, the number seven symbolizes perfection. Perfect, because I feel pretty biblical most days. I’ve been tested like Job, been wayward like the prodigal son, have lots of coats like Joseph, and died and was resurrected like Jesus (well, not exactly, but had a lot of fun one night, and was also under anesthesia three times).

As the forgotten daughter of Lamentations, it’s fitting to end my Match escapade seven days from the day I started with a big lament. I must deactivate my Match account pronto. Enough is enough. You might think that I have hardly given Match a fair chance, but I have. I have! Did you have to listen to a tedious conversation about cat pus? Did you take one hundred minutes to look “natural” on a date that lasted ninety minutes? Did you have to listen to a conversation about social imperialsim versus communism? And, did you have to listen to someone speak so fast that the speaker swallowed half his words while drinking chamomile tea? Yes friends, chamomile freaking tea. Who under ninety drinks chamomile tea in public?

On Tuesday at 6:30p.m., I met my date Talkalot Ted at the corner of 17th and 6th. I waited as Talkalot Ted chained his bicycle to a pole, then proceeded to wipe grease all over his cargo pants. He greeted me with, “Hi Sweetie, I’m unemployed,” hence his moniker. (Okay papi, did I even ask you to pay my rent? Why would you tell me you have no job in the first thirty seconds? And, why are you calling me Sweetie?).

It struck me that Talkalot Ted was closer to my father’s age than mine. He was damn near close to my grandfather’s age. I’ve never met my grandfathers, maybe he was one of my grandfathers? Talkalot Ted must’ve been in college when JFK was shot, (maybe even Lincoln?). Dude was old. The clues: the age spots all over his hands, the personal references to things that took place in WWI,  his speeches that began with, “People your age.”

I saw his age on his profile, but I didn’t think he would look so ancient. I also think he lied and made himself forty years younger. Maybe, he just didn’t age well or maybe he’s a big, fat liar like Tom Arnold… “Did you eat that last slice of pound cake Tom?” “Um, no honey (big swallow), I didn’t.”

Early this afternoon, I told VP that I’d left a message on Talkalot Ted’s voicemail, and I was a bit worried because his voice was shaky. His message sounded like this, “H.i.i.i.i.i.i.i y..o.u.v.e reeeeeaaached Ted, leeeeeave a …” I wondered why his voicemail had suddenly cut off, but now I know his message is incomplete because he fell asleep before he could finish recording. Talkalot Ted, the poet/filmmaker/communist, who woke up fifteen minutes before our meetup, and loves black women because of all the years he lived in Kenya, was the straw that broke my Match.com back. I can’t do it anymore.

Our last words:

Talkalot Ted: How much do you weigh?

Me: Now, there’s a question. Somewhere in the hundreds.

Talkalot Ted: You should put the exact number and your height on your profile.

Me: Why?

Talkalot Ted: You’d meet more men that way.

Me: Really now.

Talkalot Ted: Well, if you’re looking for a guy who’s into that sort of thing.

Me: What sort of thing?

(Talkalot Ted takes a printed copy of my profile photo out of his bookbag… yes, a ninety year old with a bookbag)

Talkalot Ted: Look at your thighs in this pic, they look big. They don’t look big in person.

Me: Yea, thanks Ted.

Wow. I’m done. These Matchers sure know how to charm a woman don’t they? My Match.com experience has been chamomile tea, “I’m unemployed,” cat’s sebaceous cysts, “you don’t have big  thighs,” and “my cat’s my soulmate.” Friends, this is a community I’d pay $39 to flee from.

Match Tales Part 2

Previously posted on Vox.


My Mother’s Advice

I just checked my online dating profile to see what the heck I’d written, because the responses I’m getting are outrageous. Every single response involves exercise, hiking, biking, and “fun.” My simple two-line profile states:

Hopefully, this Match.com experience will lead to fun, new experiences, travel, hiking, biking and all other sorts of spontaneous activities, with someone who’s determined to enjoy life. It’s good to explore people places, etc.

Okay, I see the two places where I went wrong: “It’s good to explore people,” and “etc.” I should’ve known the word etcetera would’ve been a mistake. My etcetera means watching ducks in Central Park and eating Baskin Robbins pistachio ice-cream; however, quite a few guys have interpreted my etcetera to mean “Let’s oil up and play home gladiator.” No no no.

Equally as outrageous as the Match responses are the responses from my family and friends. I can’t do my mother’s response justice by paraphrasing, so I’m going to print her email in its entirety:

dearest miss val,

just read your latest posting and decided to post a comment, but it just would not accept it, so here goes. of course, this is in the nature of another annoying, unsolicited comment. number one, hire a private detective to thoroughly check out all applicants and their mothers.

don’t cook for anyone until after the first one hundred dates, just so you don’t seem desperate. i found this little nugget in an O magazine so it must be gospel.

reconsider people who you have known and like you; their attractiveness quotient may have increased while you were not paying attention, or they may have friends to introduce you to.

and last of all, pray.

good luck sweetheart.

My mother’s the best. A tad crazy, but the best. She thinks that I can afford a private detective. She thinks I’d cook for someone when I haven’t cooked for myself in over a year. She thinks a random guy I know may like me (why haven’t we yet dated?!). She thinks I’ll still be alive after a hundred dates. She thinks people grow more attractive with time. Maybe, just maybe, my mother’s right. She has been once or twice before. I don’t pray nearly as much as I should, maybe I’ll pray on this, and it’ll be answered.

The other responses from family and friends:


Father: What site did you join? Lonelysingles.com? A change is gonna come.com?

(He then told me that he saw an ad in the newspaper for Christian singles, but immediately thought that Christian singles wouldn’t work for me because of my lifestyle.

Me: What lifestyle?

Father: Yu can see yuhself inna church wid yuh drinkin and pahtyin? Dem wouldn’t tek yuh.

Me: If I had such a lifestyle, would I need Match?


TH: You flirt like a barmaid. Have fun, but don’t sleep with anyone until after the fifth date. Everybody on Match is sleeping with everyone else on Match.

Me: Does that mean that if I hook up with one person on Match, I’d be a semi-swinger?


DV (sent an email), and all it said was “Match.com???? Really?!!”

I loved DV’s really with the question mark and two exclamations. Yes, really! It would be impossible to choose from such a pool of diverse guys in the real world, unless one went to a bar every night. Not only is it too expensive to drink it up every night, but it’d be boring as well. And, boring as hell. Sadly, my passion for drinking has been snuffed out in the last two years (I do miss the old V that could knock ‘em back).

In less than a week, I have two meet-ups with straight men. Really. As much as I adore gay men, this is a nice change of pace. It’ll be fun to get one more meet-up in before Friday, maybe the Jewish guy who has a thing for tall women (aka “The Short One?”).

“It’s been a long long time coming, but I know a change is gonna come.” – Sam Cooke




Sunday: I was on time for the meet-up. I’m never on time. Punctuality is a disease that black people never catch, and shy away from like people in the Bible shied away from lepers. One never ever hears “Oh Leroy’s got the punctuality,” or “The party started on time, because Marcia came down with the punctuality.” Nope. Punctuality for black people is a pretty-sounding “p” word, with deadly consequences, because it means immediate banishment from the community. I’ve never met a black person who wasn’t disgusted by punctuality. The punctual person at any black event, aka the white person, is the one person who must endure many cut-eyes, see the host/ess in shorts and or rollers, and sit in a corner with warm lemonade while the ice freezes. Blacks can deal with hypertension and diabetes, but punctuality cannot be endured.

I belabor the point that I was on time, because my first meet-up was late. I waited at the bar, watching the door for every slim guy that walked in. I waited and waited, and I’ll say one thing: the guy who walked through the door and greeted me at Marcos and Pepes yesterday was not the guy I saw on Match.com. The guy I met at Marcos and Pepes looked okay, but he left half his hair in the car. Or, maybe he left his hair in the picture that he posted on Match. Or maybe he left his hair to babysit his cat; the cat, named after a rock star that he spoke about for forty-five minutes. My issue isn’t with baldness; my issue is with posting visual lies. It’d be like me posting a photo of Nia Long as my profile photo.

I know I don’t go out very often, but when did a cat’s sebaceous cysts become brunch conversation? Have I been out of circulation so long that I didn’t know it was now fun to talk about cats with pus? I’ve longed to be Judy Jetson many times, but never more than I did yesterday, when my meet-up started talking about his “soulmate”– the cat. Where in God’s name was my transport capsule?

He let me know that he told his cat very early on in the relationship that “my home is your home.” Thus, he allows “the last mammal” he’ll ever own to shred his possessions. Yikes. The high point of the meet-up wasn’t my runny eggs and toast served in mushroom soup, or the fact that cat-man was only interested in himself, or the fact that I asked him how old his cat was in human years, and he bit my head off, but the fact that he was oblivious. Completely oblivious.

How does one put lipgloss back in the tube? I need the lipgloss I wasted for Thursday’s holiday party. The worst part was that I spent more time trying to fit into my new jeans than I did at the meet-up.

We ended our meet-up with cat-man kissing me on the cheek, and asking if we could see each other again upon my return to the U.S. Little does he know that a mysterious hurricane, unbeknownst to all Americans, the Weather Channel, and CNN, will sweep through Kingston. Even more mysteriously, only my passport will be destroyed in the hurricane. Oh yes, and all my fingers, so that I can never send emails again. Freaky.

Match Tales Part 1

Dear Friends,

A few years ago, I had a blog on Vox (veryincorrect.vox.com). I’ll be sharing some of those older posts with you here. Let’s start with my attempts at online dating, which I’m going to split into three posts. (Previously posted on Vox).


Here I Go Trying Online Dating

There are days that one wakes up and realizes that everything must change: phone number, email address, hair color, friends, social life, job, etcetera. I wake up planning to change at least one of those things every other day, but this week my area of change is social.

Enough is enough. I’ve decided to quit whining about “ain’t got no dates” to my friends, and make things happen. How does one make things happen in the dating world when one lives and works in New Jersey, a state that is the underarm of hell? One joins Match.com. Let me reiterate Match.com. I’ve made the plunge. I paid $39 for the month, so somebody better hear about it. I’ll cross my fingers this goes better than when I joined Bally’s for the first time, and never went once.

VP told me on the phone yesterday that I wouldn’t last a week on Match, but I disputed her claim. I vowed to hang in there, promised that I would go against type and give all the guys a chance (even the beer-bellied ones, even the ones with the kids who still live at home, even the Orthodox); I even swore that I wouldn’t disappear from Match before the month ended, and plot for a refund. All my declarations were made yesterday, before I checked my emails for the first time. Yikes.

As I scrolled through the messages, I realized a few things: I need to take the word “fun” out of my profile, as in: I like to have fun. Big no-no. Saying “I like to have fun,” in the minds of these male Matchers, must sound like “I like to take my clothes off on the first date and play Twister.” There were quite a few responses saying, “I like to have fun too, do you want to play?”

I have to take the lies out of my profile; as in: I would love to go hiking, and that I exercise five days a week. If anyone even suggests hiking in thirty degree weather, rock climbing at Chelsea Piers, or walking for more than even two blocks on a winter’s day, I’ll be seriously annoyed. I deleted messages from everyone who used the words “hiking” and “love” in the same sentence.

One respondent told me that I was attractive, but that I need to take photos from only my left side. What?! Is this the way men hit on women nowadays? “Ahem, you know girl, you’re fine, but not from the right side.”

Three guys gave me their home and cell numbers… I guess because their phone voices are oh so sexy. One told me that I’d “clean up nice.” Is that a compliment? Men should know that flattery and not humor or honesty gets them everywhere. Sure, humor willl get them somewhere, but steady flattery will get them everywhere.

A few were under thirty and more were over forty-five. The first half were still trying to grow hair, and the others were losing theirs. Most had never married and were still looking for that “special woman” to “walk on the beach with” and “to have fun with.” (Finger down throat here).

Their professions ranged from writers and painters to lawyers and engineers, or so they said. More like their professions ranged from toll booth collectors and MTA workers to toll booth collectors and garbagemen (not that there’s anything wrong with that). I got a ride in a garbage truck on Grand Street once, for the fun of it.

The truth is I’m nervous about Match.com. Why wouldn’t I be? I’ve never been on a blind date before; however, if the step isn’t made, I see a long cold winter stretching ahead of me. Can’t have that; so, I contacted six guys: the funny one, the guy who likes hot wings, the Jewish guy in Brooklyn, a writer/filmaker in his late forties, the guy who loves to travel, and the guy in Queens who lives with his brother. An eclectic group. If they don’t work, it’ll be on to the next batch… but, there will be no stopping until some good, clean (or not) fun is had.

Dating Prep

The men of Match.com move fast. I, also, move with speed when I put my mind to it. Slow and steady doesn’t win the race; slow and steady gets trampled on, or dies in a cold bed withered and haggard. I’ll be leaving for Kingston next Friday for three weeks, so I had to get the meetups in.

This Sunday will be my first Match meet-up (meet-up is a more honest term than date). I’ll call these meetings “meet-ups,” because I don’t “date” strangers. I meet-up with strangers; when that person is no longer a stranger, then we’ll hang out. After we hang out for awhile, we’ll begin to date. My Match guy and I are far from dating, but only three days away from unlimited sangrias at cafe in Jersey city.

The first meet-up will be with the guy who told me that I look like I “clean up nice,” aka The Funny One. For some reason his non-compliment cracked me up, and his was the first message I returned. We’ve now emailed each other a few times, and he seems sarcastic, intelligent and well-read. All the things I love.

The problem is that he seems a little too familiar. The problem is that I’m already finding problems. The problem is that he’s passionate about hiking and I’m passionate about couches and Dominos pizza. The problem is that he’s from Long Island, and I’ve recently moved to Jersey (the two places I hate the most in the world). The problem is that I haven’t gone on a date in ages and I have no idea what to do/say/wear. My brother once told me that black girls don’t know how to be coy. I swear, the only coy we know would be fried and served on soft bread. I need to learn how to be “hee hee hee hand over mouth” in three days. Damn, I wish I had a Japanese friend.

It seems that before we’ve even met up once, I’ve already alienated the funny one. I told him yesterday that we were emailing a bit too much and there’d be nothing left to speak about on Sunday. I also told him that I’d prefer if we could avoid awkward, “getting to know you” conversation like “What’s your favorite color? What kind of music do you like? What’s your mother’s uncle’s name?” etc., etc.” He then sent me a one-line note: “Ok. See you on Sunday.” Yikes.

Shoot, what should we talk about or do we just let the sangria decide? Suppose we dislike each other at first glance, the very opposite of love at first sight? Whatever. No matter what happens, we’ll have fun. Good, innocent fun with a man who’s never been convicted of a crime. Insert lie here: I’ve done a criminal check Mother.