Dating is a six letter word. -- TUCKER

Well… I’m baaaaaack. Relationships 101. They can end as quickly as they begin. Without going into detail, I’ll say this: I thought this relationship was all I ever wanted. But in the end, it just wasn’t right.
I’m not sure where I’m headed from here. Online dating again? Eh. Obviously, I’ve explored match.com and eHarmony. Wowza. What a pair of DUDS. match.com and eHarmony let me down like a lazy employee lets down their boss on a daily basis. I still think I would have better luck at the local watering hole… but I don’t really spend much time at my local watering hole, so THAT’S the issue.
Question: What’s next?
Friends:
I’ve pretty much bled dry all my friends of their single friends… and I really have to say, it was pretty slim pickins from the beginning. For some reason, my friends (who are mostly married) are friends with other married couples and aren’t friends with a ton of single guys (read: single, dateable men).
Bars:
I’m not 21 anymore. I don’t “go out clubbin’” anymore (not that I ever did). It is very, very rare that I get dressed up on a Friday night and head out to the bars after 9pm. Unless there’s a birthday party or special event planned, I’ve become more of the “happy hour” girl. Happy hour is fantastic for those of you who haven’t discovered this little gem yet. Awesome deals on drinks and bites to eat, and you’re home by 8pm at the latest. I know, I know. I might as well get a cat. But I’m allergic, so THERE.
Working Out:
I’m just going to lay my cards out on the table. When I work out, I sweat. I’m not a super model wearing hot pants and a push up bra when working out. At the gym, I’m raising my heart rate, and seriously not trying to attract guys at this particular moment… because at I might be scary looking (read: at least really sweaty with raccoon eyes). When I run Greenlake, I’m running with headphones and I may or may not be singing along to Poker Face to help me forget the agony of running (I run, but no one said I liked it). Regardless, I’m pretty sure meeting someone while working out is pretty much a no-go.
Answer: Who the Hell knows. And I’m ok with that.

Will You Be My Valentine? - KITTY

Hey Kiddos,

Before the days of eHarmony, Match, Chemistry and LoveLab, there was this:

I must remind you that despite copious amounts of suspenders, aquanet, polyester and power mustaches a la Tom Selleck, this video boldly represents the era in which many of you were conceived. Just marinate on that for a hot second.

A couple of months ago, Ellen found three of these fine gentlemen: Phil, whose friends call "Big Phil" (he's tiny); Maurice, the executive by day and wild man by night; and Mike, who doesn't like you if you smoke (and busts a really amazing move around the 1:20 split-screen) and invited them to be on her show.

It should be no surprise to you that 2 of 3 are still single.

Happy V-kend,

Kitty

Dear eHarmony: It's Over, And It's Not Me, It's You. - KITTY

Hi, I’m Debbie Downer. Some of you might know me as Negative Nancy. I have a couple of new adventures to tell you about, but first, some business.

This has been a dateless, actionless, winkless week for me. Obviously, I’m fiercely combating the inactivity in my dating life with copious amounts of mac and cheese (both lunch and dinner yesterday), chocolate, champagne and – thank GOD – hot yoga.

I saw Six-String this weekend. It was impromptu. I’m getting the feeling he’s not much of a planner, which is why I’m not much of a thinker that it’ll go anywhere. We went to a great show on Saturday night, slammed some street meat and then got entirely too little sleep. It was our third “date”, if you can call it that. I like his beard.

In the last couple of weeks, my Match profile has had ZERO activity. Like, for example, one of the last people to have viewed my profile is a creepy-guy in cute-guy disguise. In 15 days, it appears that he’s visited my profile over 18 times. The last exchange we had was over a month ago, when I still thought he was cute, and it went a little something like this: He winked; I emailed; he emailed and asked me out; I emailed back a yes I’d like that; and he never replied. Fun. Yet he kindly visits my profile no less than three times a week as if it’s a Facebook status update and I’ve somehow changed something, look different or can’t see the fact that he’s actually stalking me on Match.com. For the record, it’s actually not possible to secretly stalk someone on Match.com.

So I re-joined eHarmony. I’m unsubscribing this week. For those of you who don’t know, I reluctantly joined eHarmony about a year ago prior to meeting my most recent ex. I met a guy on the site – yes, one - but the night we were supposed to go on our first date, I cancelled on him in favor of a first date with my most recent ex, the one who broke my heart, who I had just met the weekend prior. Talk about a life-changing decision.

As it turns out, eHarmony is still a social hub for semi-special-needs gamers who don’t use spell-check and are all about the height of your average garden-gnome. Or they are missing teeth. I’m serious. I wish I could publish some photos without totally exposing identity.

I’ve come to this conclusion, and tell me if you agree: Match.com is like being set up by a friend - not a close friend, but an acquaintance; and eHarmony is like being set up in an arranged marriage by your parents who really don’t know you because you’ve lived at boarding school since you were six.

It’s a double edged sword, this online dating thing. Most popular dating sites have this function that I like to call the “Diet Button”. Why? Because it makes me want to go on a diet. It has the ability to – at once – throw a big sopping wet blanket over the warm fuzzy you get when you come across someone who you actually wouldn’t mind sitting across a dinner table from for an hour. So you boldly send a wink. Or perhaps you spend a few minutes carefully crafting a little witty-but-don’t-worry-I-didn’t-try-too-hard email. And BAM. Rejected. And without reason! It allows users, without knowing more than 500 words about you, to let you know they’d rather not know anything more about you, thank you very much. Ouch. It feels about as good as a cold, hard jab to the jugular followed by a pat on the back. Which is the worst kind of hug. It feels like being dumped before you ever went on a date.

But, see, I’ve been on both the giving and receiving ends of the Diet Button. I only use it if someone has sent me an email, a wink and perpetually tries to IM me. At that point a restraining order might be necessary, and no Diet Button will ever fix that amount of crazy.

eHarmony has a feature called “Close Communication”. I don’t know why, but my conscience is far less guilty closing communications with people through eHarmony than through Match. I think it’s because I don’t have to look at them ever again. They’ll never come up in searches. And they can’t reach out to me ever again. Out of sight, out of mind. Plus, it gives me multiple choice options for why I’m no longer interested, one of which is the ultimate evasive cop-out, “Other”. Which really means, I prefer communicating with men who have their canines and bicuspids intact and don’t wear Sketchers, thank you very much.

To give you some perspective, I’ve closed 258 of 276 “compatible matches” on eHarmony. I haven’t logged into the site in over a week. Either I’m just generally incompatible with humans or I need to terminate my relationship with eHarmony.

Should we settle for Mr. Okay? - ABBY

A good friend (and fellow online dater) just sent me this article about women, dating, and whether we are waiting around for a Prince Charming who just might not ever show up.  Should we be willing to "settle" for someone who has 80% of what we're looking for? 

The article definitely made me think.  Is my list of "must haves" too long?  It's probably not a good sign that when I read "He has to know how to order wine in a restaurant" in regards to how particular women get about their ideal man, I thought "hey, that's a good one to add to my list!" 

I've never really thought about it in these terms, but women in their twenties DO have a lot of power.  We're independent, unattached, and envied.  We can buy tickets to Coachella at a moment's notice or deny a guy a second date because of his choice of shoes. 

I don't quite know how to wrap this up, but it's definitely something that will be running through my mind as I check out my next batch of eHarmony matches.  I would love to hear what you guys think!

The Six-String: A Two-Date Montage – KITTY

Last week I went to see a hip show thrown by a local band with BFF and a few others. I’d been looking so forward to the show all week, and needed a reprise from life, if only for one night. These shows are the best because everyone gets sweaty and dancy and the crowd is always really fun and rowdy.

Read: I was in store for a guaranteed good time. I just knew it.

One of my hobbies is photography. I was shooting some photos from the 2^nd level balcony, when a handsome (Bearded! Bonus round!) gent with sparkly eyes, tattoos and great hair standing next to me asked if I was shooting for profession or for hobby. I explained that it was mostly a tinkering hobby – nothing that I’m great at, but something I really enjoy. As it turns out he covers local shows for a big music blog here in Seattle.

He’s cute. He’s wearing a blue plaid Wrangler shirt with pearl buttons. Dark Levis. Vans. He’s about 6’3 and has long-ish hair and looks like he knows his way around a six-string. I find out later that my suspicions are correct. I also find out later that his voice sounds like a harder but sweeter early Cash. I can't complain.

I’m wearing all black, as usual. Black top, black bandage skirt and my favourite shoes of all time: Black vintage Wrangler cowboy boots.

I poke fun at him for drinking PBR, suggesting that he’s only trying to maintain his Capitol Hill street cred. He tells me he only drinks it when he shoots whiskey. My kinda guy. I respond by telling him that he and I have a date with the bar in 15 minutes. And so begun a bit of a crazy evening.

I won’t spend too much time here because the rest of the night involved dancing and singing and sneaking around backstage causing trouble like teenagers. I emailed him the following morning, and he suggested that we meet up.

So last night, we did just that.

The sartorial breakdown: I wore a red and black plaid overshirt, unbuttoned with a heather grey deep-V underneath. Dark skinny denim, flats and a leather jacket. Not the best first (second?) date outfit, but fitting for The Sloop which smells like puke that was rubbed into an old carpet and rinsed with beer. He wore: A hip black wool jacket, another Wrangler plaid shirt with pearl buttons, dark denim and Campers.

Prior to our date was some big talk about arcade games. So we met at The Sloop at 8PM, because they have Big Buck Hunter Safari on big screen. I got there about 15 min. late (oops) - he was totally cool about it. We had beers (Stella for me, Mac & Jack for him) and great conversation at a little table until about 10:45, at which point we put a $20 in the machine and I proceeded to get my ass handed to me.

He's really good. He kept giving me little tips (Really stuff that gun into your shoulder; shoot the bottom ones first, and work your way up; You're ADD - focus on one target). He would say "nice kill, Tex!" every time I had a good shot. I was giggly and felt ridiculous at how high my heart jumped when I was on the receiving end of one of his nudges.

The jukebox kept playing really bad songs from the late 90s. At his suggestion, we slowdanced to Aerosmith in front of the Big Buck Hunter machine.

We connected on a lot of things: Politics; music; ideology; film; humor. We had great conversation, which was no surprise to me. We closed the bar down, and were the last to leave just after 1AM. I told him I'd give him a ride home (he lives under a mile from the bar and had walked), so I drove and pulled over and parked and we talked for a little while longer.

I went in for a goodnight hug, and got a big kiss instead. Fantastic. It wasn't our first kiss, that happened at Neumos sometime after midnight the week prior. We have great chemistry. He stealthily reached over took off my seatbelt and cut my engine, insisting that I come in for a nightcap and to listen to some music. I resisted but then decided there was no harm in that. We were listening to music and hanging out and he was singing to me (I DIE) and playing his guitar (DEAD).

The rest of the very late night is a bit of a blur save a few lasting memories including exchanged whispers of the chorus of With Arms Outstretched, his hands in my hair and his nose in my neck, discussion of who Leonard Cohen really wrote Chelsea Hotel about (Janis Joplin) and who the 4^th- and ever elusive 5^th - Beatles really were.

I had kind of lost it. All of it. And I couldn't help but think that at the same time I was losing it he was writing little lyrics in his head.

Stay tuned…

Incompatible - ABBY

So before you go and think that Kitty is having all the fun, I thought it was time for me to post.  Wait, Kitty IS having all the fun (along with Tucker and Georgina...Andy too, but she needs to post that herself). 

In short, eHarmony has given up on me.  I haven't gotten a new match in days and it seems that Dr. Neil Clark Warren was scraping the bottom of the barrel with the last few.  Honestly, I haven't felt much like blogging about my lack of dates.  Hey, I'm allowed to be a little depressed, today is officially Blue Monday after all!

I guess Dr. Neil and I just aren't compatible.  I don't think he's listening to my needs (a liberal, attractive, intelligent guy over 5'9" who knows how to use spell check).  He probably thinks my expectations are too high (I have closed 326 matches since joining).  It just doesn't look like this relationship is going anywhere.

I do have 2 "set-ups" on the horizon (with non-eHarm guys)  that I'm looking forward to.  I don't regret signing up for eHarmony and I am still open to the possibility that I could get matched with someone awesome tomorrow. 

Until then,

Abby

Singletasking - KITTY

So lately I've been doing some thinking. About relationships, chemistry, healing. Due, certainly, in no small part to my new friend in Portland.

You might be wondering where that's going, if anywhere. If I've heard from him. I realized that whether or not I heard from him after the date was a lot less about wanting to pursue a relationship, and a lot more about really wanting him in my life - whatever that looked like.

And I did hear from him. He sent me a lovely email sprinkled with humor, a little salt and a great deal of honesty. The mission-critical parts went a little something like this:

"I adore you, and couldn't have cooked up a better distraction/date/crush than you. I think I signed up for Match hoping for a partner, without understanding why I wanted a partner so bad--mostly, I think, for a distraction from the things I need to do. Mostly, go take care of my parents. So I deleted my profile and am making preparations for a trip...trying to focus on my life, not the life I want--waiting for a text or an email or a call from you. Getting some attention from a talented, successful, creative, beautiful woman was exactly what I needed, and I can't thank you enough for that. Thanks for your kind words--I had a great time, but am sorry if I seemed distracted. I guess this is one of those strange times in life where I just don't quite know how to play my hand, or even how to recognize my cards."

In a way, I felt like I was getting dumped.

But then my logic kicked in and I realized that it wasn't about me. It wasn't about whether or not we had a connection. It was about recognizing that timing is a lot more important than we give it credit for.

Sure, the right person at the wrong time is still the right person. I get that. We're not writing each other off. But I'm also not going to expect an emotional or time investment from someone admittedly incapable of giving it to me. I'm past that phase in my life.

You might be wondering why he joined Match.com in the first place, if he isn't ready to date. I am, too. I think it was to meet good people, different people than he was meeting through his regular everyday crunchy Portland routine. He told me on our date that if the only reason he joined Match in the first place was to meet me, well, that that was more than good enough reason for him. I appreciated that. And I concur.

But it all has me thinking: It's not the worst thing to want or desire a distraction from your life. I think sometimes we try to prepare ourselves for foreseeable drama, pain or inconvenience by creating a bit of happiness, if only for a moment (isn't that why people become addicted to drugs,love, lust...shopping... after all?). It's kind of the human condition. No one can be faulted for that. What's important is to dig deep in the dirt and examine our intention and be very honest with ourselves about why we're seeking that escape. Then go fix the root. Which he's totally doing, as am I.

Part of his appeal, in my eyes, was very similar to the reasons why he was intrigued by me. Perhaps it was less the desire to distract from other things, and more the desire to fix what's been so broken in my life recently and somehow, someway grasp in the fog for hope that there are good people in the world.

If life is like a pendulum, where one side of it swings to what feels like rock bottom, well, we always know that for every reaction there is an opposite and equal reaction. So I suppose I'm on the upswing of my pendulum (dare I say), perhaps trying my damndest to push it faster and harder than it's swinging on its own.The good news: I'm on the upswing. The bad news: As it's been said, opposite / equal reaction.

Maybe my focus is spread too thin. Maybe I've gotten used to just being in relationships rather than enjoying the fun and adventure of the dating process. Maybe what I should be focusing on is getting better at single-tasking.

And so we live...

Dealbreakers, Vol. 2 - KITTY

Dealbreakers. This is not the first time we've covered this subject.

I'd like to take a moment to wax poetic, given my life has been providing me with quite a bit of blog material these days.

Read: I'm dating. A lot.

Bad leather jackets, cargo pants of any variety, Sketchers. Also any individual or combination assult herein: Plaque on teeth, bad breath, arrogance, blunt rudeness to wait staff, intolerance, ponytails (they turn the backs of heads into horses butts) - especially braided ones or pigtailed ones. Buns are ok. Nay, cute.

Weird collections (dolls, plates, toenails). Beer tabs, coins and stamps are obviously fine. Extra points for baseball cards.

Chewing with mouth open (are we five?), checking other women out. Drinking the kool-aid (of any topic, idea, school of thought, company...think for yourself!).

Platform shoes (or any kind of lifts), sansabelts, addictions, trying too hard. Excessive anger, angst, drunkenness, overtly stinky gas, mom or old relationship baggage. More rings or jewlery than me, and I wear a lot so you've got a lot of wiggle room. Don't push it.

Men, let's hear from you...Thoughts?

SEA > PDX: The Best Date Ever - KITTY

I suppose I owe you all an update.

Update: It was the best date of my life.

Downdate: I don't know if it's going anywhere.

Let me explain…

BFF and I packed up the car for an early-afternoon road trip to Portland. In attendance: Myself, BFF, rations, several overstuffed bags (read: Multiple clothing options for date), freshrolls from Moonlight Café, a roadtrip mix and my Nani, tightly bundled up in the back bucket seat of BFFs 3-series BMW. She had a cute scarf around her neck, and Cheez-Its nestled into her arm. Just in case.

I was nervous. I don't get nervous. But the anticipation was killing me. Our conversations were always uncomfortably perfect. Impenetrable. Worst of all was that I knew that everything hinged on the one most terrifying thing that can swing a date: Attraction.

I mean, by now we’d had it mostly sorted out. Mental connection: Check. Matching sense of humor: Check; identical, though not too, interests: Check. I even liked his voice: Raspy enough to admit a past love affair with nicotine – ooh, danger! --; but clear and crisp enough to indicate he’s not half-bad sounding in the shower. More on that later.

To boot, the inordinate amount of phone dates and emails and texts that we’d had over the past three weeks had, admittedly, shot us both off to wherever cloud nine lives - somewhere up in outer space.

We made record time, beating traffic, accidents and an apparent apocalyptic rainstorm just to the West of the interstate. The sunset was incredible. I sent him a picture. We talked a little more via text. It was cute. My tummy was housing all of these little butterflies.

We arrived in Portland and decided it’d be a fun night to explore. *John (we'll call him) had kindly sent an email and several texts with recommendations on where we should go. Curiously, the bulk of them were smack in the middle of his neighborhood. Portland is a great city but, you guys. It’s kind of dead. Everything was a quiet, cold, deserted little rainy reminder that in a mere 24 hours, I’d be meeting him.

BFF and I spent the morning with Nani crosswording and organizing and making little waffles. We shopped, tax free, at Washington Square and lunched through the Pearl District, where our hotel was for that night. BFF insisted on getting me back to the hotel by 4PM (and no later) to prepare nails (I went with an Essie red, not too blue, not to brick, just right), shower, hair, painting the barn, and general prettification. She’s a good friend. I had a hot shower, a good long pep-talk with myself in the mirror and 5 stiff drinks before I even left. Why was I so nervous?

Here’s why: It all hinged on attraction. Oh, the pressure.

*John sent me a text around 5 telling me to meet him at the Doug Fir, a very hip little joint off of Burnside of which I was familiar. He sent me the URL (via text) and directions. Cute. I know this spot. It’s comfortable and I’m a little relieved. A little.

BFF and I arrive promptly at 7:30, and I wait 5 minutes to walk in, just for good measure, but also because I thought I was going to poop my pants. She plays me a song in the car to pump me up before heading in. Because it’s what we do. This temporarily fixes my anxiety. I text him and tell him I’m close, which is a lie, since I’m already there. He responds immediately that he’s at a table in the back of the bar. Perfect.

I suppose now is a good time for sartorial analysis. I wore: Dark denim; a sheer (but not too sheer) black and white chevron oversized, low-back printed top; dark green Andrew Marc leather bomber jacket; same studded heels as last two dates (about 4”) and some fun accessories (unicorn necklace, engage!). He knows how much black I wear, so I figured I’d throw him off. Since there was so much discussion in prior emails about style – mostly due to his own concern that his apparent lack of it wouldn’t suit my taste – I’ll add what he was sporting: Fitted dark denim (he solicited my help two weeks ago in picking some new duds – these, no doubt, were among the casualties to his wallet); a plaid RCVA shirt, tucked in (cute) that looked something like this; a really cool, fitted micro-something-or-other biker jacket (it was very hip); and black Cole Haan shoes. He looked awesome. I was impressed.

As I walked in the door and approached the table, he immediately stands, with a huge dorky grin on his face. He’s taller than I thought. The bar is packed and someone smells like ham + cheese quiche. He has a great smile. I want to not run - not jump - but LEAP into his arms and kiss his face. I resist, but squeezed him extra tight and snuck a little kiss in on the cheek. I had prepared him for this earlier on the phone.

The first 5 minutes were terrifying. The buildup! The anticipation! Then…it’s here! Is he let down? Am I let down? Do I smell like pomegranate vodka? Or maybe just the right amount of perfume? Do I have lipgloss on my teeth? Am I missing teeth? I don’t know my ass from my face at this point.

On more than one occasion he reaches out and touches my hand as he’s telling a story, leaving it there just long enough so it’s clear that it’s on purpose. It’s cute. Our knees are touching, and his arm is around me. We both order Bulleit rocks, and both have two. We agree that we’re over the moon to be sitting next to one another.

I observe a few things about him. First, he used his hands to punctuate almost every sentence. Commas, semi-colons, periods -- the lot. Words were all formed into some sort of swooping gesture. It made watching him talk a show all its own. Everything about him was exaggerated, and his hands were no exception. His walk, while never hurried, was a bit of a saunter. He rode his heels hard, always leaning far back. He jogged up stairs. He ran around the front of the car to open my door.

I sneak off to the WC to send the “I’m ok! He’s not a serial killer!” text, which a few of you dear readers (and fellow writers) received. Sorry. It was a mass-text. I come back to the table and he suggests that instead of fighting the crowds for a table somewhere, we go back to his place where he’d bought a bottle of wine and some little snacks for us and we’ll throw on some records. Cute. My God, PERFECT. I agree. He pays the tab and we leave.

We hop into his car, a cute little dark green 4-door American made car that should not have an oversized spoiler on it, but does. Now this, friends, this is but one of the reasons I like this guy. There’s a great story for everything and such was the story behind the cute little sedan with insane spoiler (he lived in Alaska, it was the only trade-in besides the Expedition with good snow tires when he needed them).

It was spotless. There was a yoga mat in the backseat. Cute, considering he plays basketball 4 days a week. He was playing this song, which is an all-time favorite of mine and probably a surefire contender for the killer personalized mix he made me two weeks prior. We drove a couple of miles (the back way, which happens to be much longer than the front way – I guess he likes long drives? Cool.)

A small confession, that will take you, dear readers, back one night prior, to Friday: I had done what any right-minded woman would have done on a Friday night in a new city with a BFF. I explored. I also did some due-diligence. I couldn’t resist. He suggested some bars right in his neighborhood! Let’s just say I knew where his house was, and also what kind of car he drove. He did not have to tell me. I realize this is creepy, but it was 1AM and he would never know. Thank God for tinted windows.

Fast forward to present. We’re sitting in his (immaculate, clean, tasteful, artsy, art/music/architecture magazine-ridden) living room/kitchen listening to records.

He pulls out a great bottle of wine (apologies, 7 drinks in I’m obviously not observing varietals. It was red.), and asks if I might grab a couple of glasses from his impeccably organized and full-setted cabinent. I oblige as he slices a red anjou pear and a baguette and pulls some (spicy) hummus out of the fridge. Tasteful. Tasty. All organic.

He asks what I feel like, in terms of tempo: 80-120. Those of you who know records know this is like D’Angelo > Outkast. I give him an 85 – feeling mellow - and he puts on some Erikah Badu. Lovely. We discuss everything from A>Z. Work, faith, travel, his garden (!), cigarettes (he asks if he may have an American Spirit because he likes to unwind sometimes) – I affirm and ask if I may share it with him, the stars, music, art, Seattle, my friends, his friends.

I feel at home. I feel comfortable. He takes me on a tour. Upstairs is no different from downstairs except that it might have been even more stylish and composed. His own room is perfection, just enough masculinity, with small doses of style. Platform bed, Navajo printed wool blanket neatly folded at the base. Great art. Lots of literature. Great heavy curtains. A nice flatpanel TV mounted on the far wall. For, you know, watching basketball in HD.

I play some music that I’d intended to share with him. He likes it. We talk about Seattle’s music culture. He admits a longtime desire to relocate just a couple of hundred miles north and throws me a wink. Melt. I regretfully didn’t ask him to show me a thing or two on his decks, mostly because it would have been a fun opportunity to be close to him, but also because now I realize I’ll have to pay for lessons.

After a couple of hours he decides we should head downtown to this little spot for a show. After over 20 minutes of circling for parking we decide to bag it and grab a few beers while watching the ships come in. I like that he’s as spontaneous as I am. My nerves have finally started to subside. On our way to get beers, he decides instead that he wants to take me back uptown to a spot that he occasionally spins at – this Clockwork Orange-themed spot called Moloko Plus on Mississippi Ave, just a mile or so from his house. We stay to listen to a bit of his friend’s DJ set and for another drink (more bourbon), though I can’t finish mine so he does.

Unbeknownst to me, Portland has these amazing little parking lot after-hours eateries. Am I the last person on the planet to know about these little 2AM miracles? We find a great one by his house and mow down on some food (Poutine for him, onion and gruyere pizza for me. No wonder I didn’t get kissed? I sent him along with the leftovers.)

He gets a little sparkle in his baby blues as we’re eating and suggests we go take an adventure. I’m game. It is, after all, only 2:15AM. He says he’s having a fantastic time. And so am I. So we get back into his car, drive to his place, grab a half-bottle of bourbon he’d been “saving for a special occasion”, two to-go cups with ice (his idea – Klassy Kitty was fine with the bottle), a blanket and his yoga mat and bomb up into the West hills, right outside the city.

Winding and winding and more music and fog and laughing and joke telling and finally we arrive at “the bench” he said he’d wanted to take me to. The gate is open. We take it as a sign and trespass. Those of you who know me know I’ve been cited for this behavior in the past, though it doesn’t stop me. I like a little danger. And apparently, a lot of mud. At this point we’re happily, sloppily, gropingly, giddily slipping up the muddy incline.

The following clip was recorded by two very rebellious trespassers at 3:30AM on a foggy mountaintop parkbench in Portland after a lot of bourbon, music and hummus dip. Enjoy.

It all ended with a short tour through the Pearl: A homeless teen shelter he used to work at, a warehouse he sold illegal merchandise out of when working for Portland’s minor league baseball team. Stories of that one “best Summer ever” when he was a wee 23 and blew everything he had on a Blazers dancer. We arrive at my hotel around 4:30AM. He runs around to my side of the car and opens the door. I get out, shorter than last time, with my muddy flats on. He leans in…and gives me a hug. Our cheeks brush. We exchange sweet niceties. And hug a couple more times. Cheek kisses.

Now, I must remind you that the mind is a wicked, vile, tormentor when it's not getting what it wants. Every great and positive interaction can just as easily turn into an offense of the ego. But all of this talk about flirting, and spending most of the night touching has me wondering when it’s going to actually start.

I walk into the hotel, fluttering euphoria battling this creeping feeling of disappointment. Why didn’t he kiss me? Why didn’t he hold my hand? We have chemistry! That spark! It was there, you guys. I felt it. I’m pretty sure he did, too. He hovered long enough at the goodnight to make it only obvious.

So now. Now I’m beating myself up for letting the fact that he didn’t kiss me cloud what was, undoubtedly, the best date I’ve ever had with someone who is, unequivocally, one of the best people I’ve ever met.

Am I wrong? It wouldn’t be the first time.

Nice To Meet You, Dude - KITTY

I have, admittedly, wanted to blog on this site for quite some time now. Getting the courage up to do it? A whole different issue. And the opportunity? Sweet.

Hello, dear readers. I’m Kitty. Nice to meet you.

I suppose I should begin with a bit of background. After all, background is something I’m quite familiar with these days, what with all of the “about me” talk and … background checks. I cannot tell a lie. I even have an app for it on my phone. I’m not messing around, kiddos. I’m past the wasting-time-and-air-by-dating-ex-felons phase of my life.

Which is a nice transition into why I’m on Match.com. To say the least, 2009 was a whirlwind year for me. It began with me, newly single after a 3+ year relationship in which I overstayed my welcome, having a new lease on life and a jaded feeling about love. Really living the single life, if you know what I mean. I broke his heart. Was dealing with a great deal of guilt. And then I met him. That one – we’ve all had them – who swept me off my feet, surprised me because of everything he was that I didn’t realize I wanted or needed, charmed me and, after a couple of short months, caused me to claim lights out. I fell in love. It was the first time.

Fall is when we fell apart. I’ll spare you the extremely gorey details of how it ended, but to summarize: Almost a year after meeting, behavior that I can, still to this day, only describe as some sort of bipolar disorder that I was unaware of caused this man – my LIFE – to leave me crying and alone on a streetcorner on a cold and rainy Friday night. I know, I know. Spare me the drama. But you guys. It was dramatic. My world ended. All the memories of times together, and times apart, descended at once; filling my head beyond its brim. I was crushed. The scene replayed in my head over and over again, like a record that wouldn’t stop skipping. The eyes were still his, but the light behind them had gone out. I didn't know if I could replace the bulb, or how. He was alone and fighting a battle that only he could fight and I was alone with what felt like death gripping my chest as I watched him walk away.

Thank God for my friends (no fewer of whom are fellow contributors to this blog, and several of whom are also readers) who didn’t leave me by myself for more than a few minutes at a time for the entire period that I was rendered incapable of..well, existing. They even brought cookie dough and juice and magazines and nail polish and chocolate-chip-mint ice cream. I didn’t leave the house or my room for a good two months. I wasn’t eating. I wasn’t sleeping. I had Aimee Mann’s “It’s over” and “Wise Up” and L.G’s “Speechless” on repeat. And so it goes, when you have your heart broken.

Fast forward to January 2010. I’d love to say that NYE felt like a new start for me. That the night itself brought a sense of renewed hope, a new start. It didn’t. As the ball dropped, Montel sang (long story - Andy, Abby, Georgina and Tucker all in attendance) I stood with two wonderful girlfriends, trying to hold back tears. It’s stupid, I know. He and I had talked about getting engaged on New Years Eve, so it wasn’t just me with the carry-on baggage -- even the stupid night itself carried emotional luggage. It always does.

I digress. And I promise, I’m not always this depressing.

I began playing around on Match with a fake login and profile, because, well, why not? It’s more fun that way. You can look but not touch. Window shop, and no one knows. You can even check the competition out without them knowing. It’s fun. My profile photo was a picture of Kim Jong Il with his shirt off. After some browsing, I was sold. There appeared to be some cool looking, quality, successful guys who, gasp, all love to go out but also have a quiet night in. Huh. They’re also all apparently looking for a hot, down to earth girl-next-door who can just as easily get dressed up as they can go for a hike on a misty Sunday morning. WOW! Whatever. I wrote a profile, deleted it, and wrote another one. No sooner than I hit the “publish” button, did I get a wink and an email from a 56-year-old “oil tycoon” (read: Works at Texaco) from Alaska. Where in my profile, pray tell, did you think that we’d be a good match for one another? I feverishly look for the “not interested” button, click it, then immediately feel guilty for shutting this poor, sweet, unassuming guy down. I mean, isn’t he on Match in the first place because he can’t get a date in real life? Couldn’t I just have ignored his email? He did, after all, reach out to me. I’m always complaining about how men in this city don’t even try, and here’s this nice guy who I have absolutely less than zero interest in, reaching out. Trying. And I shut him down. I haven’t used that feature since. The guilt was too much.

After a few days I have a handful of quality conversations going, and a few conversations going that I know won’t go anywhere. It’s fun. I’m a winking machine. It’s sucking up all of my free time. I’m meeting interesting people who (at least on paper) seem to have their lives together. I get asked out on my first date by someone who we’ll call Blowfish. More on that later.

Blowfish and I exchange phone numbers. This is awkward for me. Sometimes I don’t even give my number out to people I know. He texts, but not too much. He calls, and sounds cute on the phone. He also sounds really high. Curious? I give him a chance anyway, despite his suggestion that we get dinner at this “great little sushi restaurant in Beltown”. Cool. Which one, you may be asking? Ohana.

Yes.The same Ohana that has Jägermeister on tap. UGH.

I go anyway, on principle. This is my year to try new things. To date, not just jump into relationships like I always do. Dating requires at least trying. After some deliberation I decide to wear skinny black riding pants, studded cutout open-toe heels, a black ballerina top (fitted, deep back and scoopneck) and a lightweight black trench. I know, all black. It’s how I roll. I looked classy, but still sexy. But not trying-too-hard.

It’s my first in-person Match date. I’m proud of myself for even getting dressed, driving there, and not finding an excuse to cancel. The conversation is good. Not great. He has really excellent eye contact, but borders on stareorrist. This begins to get creepy after about 8 minutes. We order sushi. It’s excellent, but he keeps watching me eat.

Food to mouth, chew, chew, stare. It’s creepy.

I suggest we go to List, across the street, for late-night happy hour (and no more chewing). I really wanted a glass of wine, and the conversation wasn’t awful. He was really good looking – looked just like his photos. Maybe even better. I could roll with that, I decided.

And here’s where it starts to go downhill. He texts me from the bathroom (?) saying, “This place is tha sh*t!” Um. I finish my wine and suggest that yawn, boy, it’s getting late and it’s a school night. He offers to walk me to my car. Sweet, but unnecessary as at this point I’ve given no solid indications that I want a second date. We get to my car, about a block and a half away and he asks if I can drop him at his car. Thinking it’s several blocks away (parking can be tough in this particular neighborhood, as many of you know), I agree and we get in. As it turns out, his car is right around the corner.

Just wanting him to get out of my car at this point, I don’t even make small talk. I shuffle through my mental iTunes library for a song that reflects either “I actually really like women” and / or “I hate men and am angsty right now”. Indigo girls? Fiona Apple? Tori Amos? No, no, no. I land on Amy Winehouse’s “You Know I’m No Good”, in hopes that he’ll get the point. He doesn’t. In fact…he goes in for a hug, but instead sneak-attacks from the right (smart!), and approaches me with what can only be described as a gaping, bottom feeding, rotating-tongue, open mouth kiss.

I’m paralyzed.

I pull back, put my hand on his chest, push him away with eyes wide and say, “Dude, too much tongue.”

Now, I have to press pause and preface for a brief second about how funny this situation really is. First, I’ve never experienced an approach quite like this. It’s a rare technique, only captured in the wild by National Geographic photographers. Second, I don’t use the word “Dude”. Third - and this is the clincher - he says, “Did you just call me Dude?”

Is that all you got out of that conversation? That I called you Dude?

I stall by staring at my feet with the I-feel-awkward-that-you-feel-awkward thing (I’m too nice) hoping he’ll just get out. He doesn’t. We engage in a wee bit more small talk, and after no less than 3 more prompts about how late it is, what an early morning I have and how tired I am, he finally gets the hint.

And just when I think it’s finally over, he tries it again!

Men. I beg of you. Kiss us. We love it. But please control your tongues, and please – PLEASE – if we pull away and give you a slight shove with our hand, don’t try to kiss us again. These are clear signals. Pay attention. I don’t want to have to use my rape whistle (I did bring one on the date – I like to think I’m prepared).

Just when I think there’s no possible way I’ll hear from him again…buzz. “I had such a fun time with you tonight. Can I see you next week?” No. Really? You think that went well? I don’t respond. Buzz. “By the way, those shoes were sexy.” Thanks?

I’ll keep this brief, as I realize this post has been long, but let it be said that he’s texted me at least every other day for the last week and a half, culminating with what appeared to be a drunk dial around 1:45AM this past Friday night. I haven’t heard from him since and am hoping that his embarrassment will prevent him from ever calling me again. God save the day I run into him somewhere…

So, I’m intrigued. And I’m about to drop a bomb on you. Three weeks in to Match, I’m going on my third date from the site. The third one will be a charm, I think. In about three hours I’m headed on a weekend trip with a girlfriend to Portland to meet for the first time a man who may or may not be one of the most fascinating, articulate and wonderful people I’ve ever met. Big statement, I know. But those of you who know the intimate details of my life are already aware of how special he really is. He spins soul hip hop (a surefire gateway to my heart). He knows Bonheoffer. Popcorn is his favorite food. His job is his cause. He has a huge heart and beautiful blue eyes. He is articulate. And funny. He plays basketball. And…he. Is. So. Into. Me.

I’m battling things: Expectations, fears that I won’t be who he thinks I really am. Do I wear heels? Do I order scotch or wine? Am I too blonde? He likes brunettes. We’ve burned through almost seven hours of phone time in the last week and a half, have exchanged no less than 15 lengthy emails and oh thank God for unlimited texting.

Ladies and gentlemen, I believe I have a crush. Stay tuned.

And another one bites the dust... - GEORGINA

Yes, dear blog readers, I am resigning from eHarmony as well. I met a guy I really dig, who notices little things about me like when I change my nail polish color, remembers I like sour candy, and tells me I have a cute nose. :) You know…the important things.

I must confess that since the post I wrote about how I hadn’t been online in a week or more, I literally have gone on one time. And that was to close out most of my matches. I didn’t even look at any new ones! I’m pretty sure I had an uncommon experience with this whole online dating thing. Altogether, I went on 3 dates with 3 different guys. Number 2 was the winner. All within two weeks of actually signing up.

So, I’ll trail in Tucker’s footsteps and bid you adieu. I still want to post from time to time, but it obviously won’t be regarding dating! This honestly was a lot more fun than I thought it would be; it got me out of my “rut” I’d been stuck in, and gave me something else to concentrate on, other than work.

Additionally, I have had five friends tell me they were inspired to sign up for online dating! Three are on match.com and two are on eHarmony. As shocked as I was by this turn of events (almost as shocked as I was when I signed up myself), I really could not be more thrilled for them. Online dating is often kooky and always funny, and regardless of whether my friends meet anyone cool at all, I’m sure they’ll have plenty of stories!

Double your pleasure, double your fun - ANDY

Well hello, dear readers. I know, long time no post. I’ve been busy with the holidays and work and blah blah blah. Also, let’s be honest, I haven’t really been jones’n to log on to ol’ match.com and see what gems await me, as I have been otherwise occupied with one particular Gem (yeah, capital G). That said…we are in no way “official” (to be jr. high about it), or exclusive, and haven’t DTR’d (barf), so I’ve forced myself to do what every other (quasi?) single lady would do: continue dating just for the hell of it. For the sake of efficiency (hey, I had a free night and a cute outfit, don’t hate) I went out with two guys…in one night. Didn’t think I had it in me, huh?

Numero Uno: I returned to what is quickly becoming my blind date spot (the wait staff probably thinks I am a serial dater, or worse...). It’s laid back, has great beer (a plus), and is within walking distance of my house (a must for the carless wonder that I am). My date (I’ll call him Mr. Nice) was waiting for me and we commenced what was a very nice date. He’s a good conversationalist, and a seemingly genuine guy. All that said, and as is evidenced by his name, there wasn’t a spark at all. Really NICE, just not for me.

Vital stats:

I wore: skinny jeans, menswear striped shirt, grey flats, and a fur coat for kicks ;)
He wore: a bad Ed Hardy-esque shirt (although he wasn’t the typical Ed Hardy wearer…you know who you are), jeans.
Location: Hilltop Alehouse
Random fact: he has a nose ring, which I actually like
Rate: 6 out of 10. But no, I won’t be going out with him again.

On to the next!

Fast forward two hours: I arrive at the Elysian in Tangletown (had to borrow the roommate’s car for this one, as well as explain where Tangletown actually was…). The Chef is waiting for me, and we hug upon arrival (NOT something I usually do. I’m not really a hugger of strangers). We start chatting and laughing and conversation is flowing… but again, I just wasn’t into it. Really great, good looking guy – and a chef no less! But…no dice.

Vital stats:

I wore: see above.
He wore: a nice Solomon zip up, good jeans
Location: Elysian
Random fact: he is a fan of Twilight (yeah, go swoon, Georgina)
Rate: 7 out of 10. …And no, I won’t be going out with him again.

I was supposed to have a phone date the other night (again, barf) but decided against it. I was forcing myself to make the call, which if you think about it, is a waste of his and my time. I’ll be honest – I have no desire to pursue anything with other men at this point.

So, until next time… or at least until someone else catches my eye.

So long, farewell, auf wiedersehen, adieu – TUCKER

Hopefully some of you got the Sound of Music reference…

Alright. So I never thought I would end up writing this blog post…

But. . .

I am dating someone. That’s right. ME dating someone. And he isn’t from match.com or any other online dating website. He’s someone I have known for at least 12 years, we’ve dated before (7 years ago)…. and we’re trying again. 6’2” (that’s right ladies, he’s taller than me) and he makes me happy. He’s a wonderful human being, and he likes ME! We are embarking on the journey of long-distance dating… I know, I know… can you say difficult? But honestly, I’m so excited about this relationship. I love spending time with him (even if it’s on the phone… though, I may have to learn how to Skype), and in order to give this new relationship the chance it so rightly deserves… wait for it… I think I need to step back from the online dating world.

That’s right the 4321 experiment will now be known as the 3321 experiment, so please edit your favorites list on your browser of choice.

Juuuuust kidding. We’ve found a replacement! Another twenty-something lovely lady in the city who is exploring the world of online dating, and she’s already on match.com. And BOY does she have some amazing stories to share (get ready blog world). She is a dear friend to all of us, and can’t wait to share her exploits and adventures thus far.

Please help me in welcoming Kitty, the newest member of the 4321 experiment.

I’ve so enjoyed being one of the co-founders of this blog, but I’m excited to read about all the adventures ahead. So here’s Tucker, signing off.

Jawbreakers and Dealbreakers - GEORGINA

I would like to bow to popular refrain and speak briefly to the subject of my Good Date – which has turned into many Good Dates. The skeptic has been reformed, at least for now. I’m not going to say too much; instead, I’ll say only that I’m greatly enjoying getting to know someone I would never normally have gotten a chance to know. And that’s really the whole point of this process, isn’t it? The coming into contact with strangers who would otherwise remain just that.

I’ve been thinking a lot, through this process of getting to know him, about deal breakers and what that entails. I thought bad grammar and spelling would be one of mine, but I shared that with my Good Date and he truly tries. Let me share with you some of my TRUE and HONEST TO GOD deal breakers.

1. Country Music. If you like twang, you AIN’T my thang. It’s not a rhyme that works, but surely you get my drift. I just don’t like it.

2. Men who try too hard. Guys, please, please, please do not wear an embroidered paisley French collared pearl buttoned striped button down shirt with True Religion jeans. You probably shouldn’t even know about True Religion jeans. Please do not use [too much] gel in your hair. Please do not talk incessantly about cars, money, your motorcycles, or working out/how many times you go to the gym. If you work out regularly that should be fairly evident based on your physique.

3. Intolerance. I hope that speaks for itself.

4. Lack of self-confidence. Let me tell you, men. Women LOVE a confident man, and yet there’s nothing more endearing than a confident man who is just a little nervous around a girl he likes.

5. Alternately, arrogance. Enough said? There is a thin line between confidence and arrogance, and we can smell that line a mile away.

6. “Cat allergies”, or a general dislike of cats. Most men who claim to be allergic to cats are just lying to themselves.

7. Trucks, especially those with monster wheels. I’m a fairly petite person, and there is nothing I dislike more than literally climbing up into the passenger seat.

8. Cheating. I know this should be a given, but ever since Tucker’s conversation with that weirdo, I thought I should probably make that clear. Cheating is never okay. Never.

9. Massages. I just want to ask: when did it become sexy to offer to massage the neck slash back of a girl you are into? Usually they’re not done right, and instead of feeling good it just feels awkward. Leave massages at the spa in the hands of professionals.

10. Costumes. I choose not to elaborate further.

What are some of your deal breakers?