Tag Archives: e-Dating

That’s How It Goes.

19 Mar

Talking with MatchGirl, my new intertubes friend, about interesting exchanges with other citizens of the online world. She’s so witty, I had to share.. I love women who just speak what’s on their mind–like I try to do.

LoveMeDeux: omfg. dude…now we’re chatting on Gtalk. i love how the internet can be just as exciting if not more exciting than real life.
MatchGirl: yea, thats how it goes.
MatchGirl: twitter
MatchGirl: @replies
LoveMeDeux: yup
MatchGirl: Instant Message
LoveMeDeux: Direct Messages
LoveMeDeux: then, yup..
MatchGirl: emails
LoveMeDeux: HAHAHA
MatchGirl: PHONE
MatchGirl: then PLANE
MatchGirl: HAI
LoveMeDeux: LOL!
MatchGirl: webcam too
LoveMeDeux: HAHAAH
MatchGirl: hahahah ūüėÄ
LoveMeDeux: you are SOO FUNNY dude
LoveMeDeux: i’m posting this shit on my blog. you crack me up dude
MatchGirl: ive done my share ūüėõ
LoveMeDeux: Haha
MatchGirl: thats how i met my man
MatchGirl: twitter
MatchGirl: and 12seconds.tv
MatchGirl: he fell in love with my videos B-)
LoveMeDeux: well sweetheart
LoVeMeDeux: your videos are VERY fall-in-loveable.
MatchGirl: awwwwww thank you ūüôā

X-Nay On The Ating-Day

7 Sep

It’s just not going to work.

I thought about it for a long time, and this e-dating momentum between myself and Brooklyn has petered out beyond repair.

I’m sure it is mostly due to my fault.

Of course, Brooklyn¬†said all the right things, like “I just like you so much, I’m willing to hope that this will work out,” but I just don’t feel the same way. There were too many thing complicating the situation, and most of it had nothing to do with the fact that this was a long-distance communication.

I mean it when I say that I hope our friendship maintains itself as effortlessly as it has until now, as Brooklyn has been a confidante of mine.

That Extra *Bah-Bump* of a Beat

24 Aug

Right.

So I am e-dating this guy.

Having seen an aunt get pretty well addicted to a dating chatroom and other related trials and tribs, I always thought¬†online dating¬†was quite…well, “pathetic” is not the right word. “Futile” or “unresolvable” aren’t right either.

It’s just that I always viewed her as a sort of sad character, eternally crouched over her computer keyboard, staring at the monitor, waiting for some guy in Podunk, California, to write her back. I just didn’t understand it. When the wait¬†was over, she’s only be getting a few cold pixels of¬†black on white on a computer screen and nothing else.¬†What about the tangible electricity in the air when you catch the eye of a guy across the bar/produce section of the grocery store/park/beach/wherever? What about your heart beating¬†that extra bah-bump of a beat as he walks over to you and asks¬†what your¬†name is, and, if it would please you to have dinner/coffee/cocktails/concert with him? What about all the awkwardness involved in that first kiss goodnight on the front stoop?

What about all that? I just didn’t get it.¬†Circumventing all that, how could you deem something a “romance”? Sure, we have You’ve Got Mail to exemplify how it can end happily ever after, but come on, even Nora Ephron, the Writer/Director Extraordinaire of Iconic Romantic Comedies (Does When Harry Met Sally ring a bell?) couldn’t keep the e-spark lasting well enough through the first act that she had to have Meg¬†and Tom meet up at a literary party and initiate a spat over the caviar being served.¬†“What is that?,” Meg says, looking rather cross, “What are you doing? You’re taking all the caviar? That caviar is a garnish!” to which Tom merely gives a charming, but¬†flippant nod of the head and scrapes it all onto his plate in one elegant, fell swoop. The audience is sold, and waits patiently through the second act of “they-hate-each-other-but-are-really-actually-falling-in-love”, to get to the final scene shot in front of¬†a flowerbed in technicolor-gorgeous Central Park where Meg tearfully declares, “I wanted it to be you!”, the violins swell, and¬†a solemn, courageous Tom gathers her up into his arms as all errant storylines get swept up into one romantic and tidy¬†pile.

Okay wait. What the hell does caviar have to do with my e-dating? Let me back it up.

Several months ago,¬†an L.A.¬†friend of mine with whom I partied on the weekend and corresponded on Twitter¬†during the¬†workweek¬†grind,¬†told me about Plurk, the latest and greatest in online fun. I have never been much involved in such a site based on such randomness, without my friends already having been established on it.¬†I say random because it really is–you post your life on Plurk in little status updates through the day, and random people comment on your status updates. It sounds so flat when I write it like that, but really, it can be quite a sociable,¬†even enriching experience.¬†[For example, I randomly stumbled across and made friends with a fellow¬†Plurkster who really loves films, more than I do,¬†and we Plurk with each other about that film that we want to see make it out of development hell, or who gave an exceptional performance in what, or which director said what to which other producer, what what obscure foreign film is the soupe du jour. Okay wait, I still sound like a total dork. Never mind, you get the drift, moving on.]

Somewhere in the fray of random bePlurkfriending, one of these particular Plurkers stood out to me. His writing employed¬†dry, crass humor, which hinted at the obvious intelligence required when writing in such a fashion. (Sigh*, it’s always the wit that does it for me. Nothing is sexier than a sarcastic, self-deprecating guy, √† la Conan O’Brien. Pompadour not necessary.) One night, when it seemed right, after a long string of¬†steady interaction, I privatePlurked him on a whim:

“Okay,¬†I have to know. Are you single?”
“Haha. Cute.¬†Yes,¬†I am single.” He writes back.
“Is it insane to say that one could be attracted to a Plurker based on, well, Plurks?”
“Nothing is insane anymore,¬†I don’t think.” he writes.

From there it goes on¬†to more privatePlurks and then e-mail. With me on the Blackberry and him on an iPhone, we’ve got our push e-mail working overtime throughout the day. I’m getting a rental at Blockbuster and a fro yo from¬†the store next door, he gets a mobile photo of the concoction I’ve made up and an update on my Rental of the Day.¬†He’s taking a nighttime stroll¬†on the boardwalk, I get a mobile photo of the peacefulness of the darkened¬†sand landscape stretching out towards the open sea. We find out that we’ve got similar views when it comes to relationships, how they should work, et cetera. We’re refreshed, we’re incredulous, we’re surprised.

Around the same time, one of my best friends, “Nelle”, opens a Match.com account.

“I never thought you’d start on one of those sites,” I said, surprised. “You’re so nice and popular, I don’t think you have trouble meeting people.”
“Yeah, I don’t,” she says, “But it’s the kind of people¬†that I meet that matters.”

I know she’s becoming frustrated with the lack of dateable guys in her neighborhood. Nelle¬†is a sensitive, highly-evolved type, who oftentimes finds the behaviour of people her age, male and female, slightly juvenile. She¬†would never settle for just any guy from just any bar on Saturday night. I tell my bestie about my e-dating. I don’t want her to feel like she’s the only one who has turned to the Information SuperHighway to find the¬†connections that¬†are lacking in our local circuits, because she isn’t.

“Have you met up with him yet?”¬†she asks.
“Oh no, Nelle,” I say, “I can’t. He lives in New York.”
“Oh my God!” she says, “So, tell me about him.”

I tell her.

“Hah!” Nelle laughs triumphantly, “He’s so your type.”

Ha ha. Through this all, I did realize that I have a “type”, and he’s it. And she hasn’t even seen a photo yet. I rejoice in the fact that my bestie, who really¬†knows me,¬†sees the relevance and¬†the connection that Mr. Brooklyn and¬†I have.

Still, occasionally, logistical reality sets in.

“This is insane,” I think to myself. “I’m in Los Angeles, he’s in New York. How did Meg and Tom deal with it again? I need to go re-rent Sleepless in Seattle.”

But maybe it’s not insane.¬†Maybe it would only be considered insane if we weren’t real people, really connecting; we are, and we¬†do. I consult my favorite cousin, “Amette”.

“These days, it is way easier to get to know someone online,” she says, matter-of-factly, “There’s less of that self-imposed barrier that happens when you meet someone face-to-face, that comes from being¬†scared about what the other thinks about you.

I agree with Amette, but it’s still a new and tenuous concept for me. Of course, my Blackberry dings just then. Yes, I’ve Got Mail, and¬†it reads, quite simply:

“I hope you are it, because I am tired of dating.”

I am defeated. All preconceived notions of e-dating are thrown out the door.

Because no matter the delivery method, whether in-person or via e-mail, such a phrase, such a thought that you could be someone’s “it“–has the unadulterated power to make a heart beat that extra bah-bump of a beat.