An Open Letter to Beyonce

Dear Ms. Knowles:

I appreciate that you have used your popularity and resources to bring attention to the plight of single women. However, I disagree with your assertion that you speak for “all the single ladies.”

The narrator of your song, “Single Ladies,” has, indeed, just broken up with her significant other. However, this man is again expressing interest, giving the narrator the opportunity to compare him to another man whose interest she has piqued.

While the narrator does meet the barest requirements for the definition of single, the listener is led to believe that this situation is highly unlikely to last for long. Especially as the recently ex-significant other is “…a man that makes me then takes me/and delivers me to a destiny/to infinity and beyond.” Yowza. I think she may still be into him.

And while the narrator is speaking from a (arguably brief) place of singledom, she is not speaking for all the single ladies, as is asserted in the song. Repeatedly. As in, choruses worth of solely this proclamation. Sadly, situations like this are rare for us Single Ladies.

I am highly appreciative of the accompanying music video with its focus on dance, especially as it evokes the influences of Bob Fosse and Gwen Verdon, now part of our proud American dance heritage. However, perhaps in your next hit song you could speak to an issue facing most, if not all, Single Ladies. Here are some suggestions:

1.) Too Much Pasta (So Hard to Cook for One)

2.) Just Won’t Go (Stag to Another Office Party)

3.) The Jar Trick (I’ll Open These Pickles on My Own)

4.) Out of Batteries (Should’ve Bought a Plug-in)

Thank you for your time. And in case you’re wondering, yes, I jump up and dance when I hear this song. Every. Freaking. Time.

Sincerely,

Single Girl in MadTown

KTDs

The good news is my fever broke and I’m feeling much better. The bad news is that I remain a biohazard.

I came down with that highly contagious virus that has been known to sweep through cruise ships, which means I now have the power to make someone terribly ill by merely shaking their hand. In another life this could make me a secret bioterrorism weapon…like I could go shmooze with dissenting world leaders the night before a UN vote on climate change. Okay, maybe not the stuff they make action thrillers about, but that’s what I would do had I the power. As it is I’m just trying to keep my germs to myself.

But for how long are we talking, here? I asked the learned medical professional I was speaking with, “How long do I have to wait until I start kissing people again?” I suppose there could have been some less abrupt way to get at that particular bit of information, but hey, if you want a straight answer…

And the straight answer was…10 days. TEN DAYS! I felt as if I should do a public service announcement about Kissing Transmitted Diseases.

Kids, by now if you haven’t learned about STDs I’m sure your life is riddled with herpes outbreaks and treatments for Chlamydia. But are you also getting tested for Kissing Transmitted Diseases, or KTDs? KTDs are no joke. If you want that special someone to have good memories of your first romantic dinner, make sure they can keep that romantic dinner down. Please, practice safe kissing.

I needed to follow my own advice, and OF COURSE this coincides with the first time in my life that I’m dating multiple people. So I found myself flat on my back making phone calls (“I’m a biohazard,” “I’m a biohazard,” “I’m a biohazard”) to call off dates.

The gentlemen were all gentlemanly about it, and now instead of a flurry of dates I am enjoying an induced respite. It’s been lovely. I now know that if I ever need to take a week off from the dating scene and don’t want to use “I’m washing my hair” for seven days straight, I’ve got the ultimate excuse: KTD.

Kiss responsibly!

Juggling

I have never dated more than one person at a time. I’m telling you this now because I doubt you’d believe me after reading this. But it’s true! I’ve never been comfortable with the idea of dating multiple people, no matter how casually. This once pushed me into the extremely awkward position of calling a guy I hadn’t heard from in two weeks just to make sure he wasn’t going to ask me out again before I accepted a date with another guy. Yeah. Any way you can imagine that conversation going smoothly? Neither can I.

Apparently, something changed. As proof, I offer you a short guide of Current Interests.

Boat Boy. Yup, he’s still around. I keep holding out for being astonished. And while I’m holding out, our conversations continue to be rather slow and demand a certain level of effort. I have yet to determine the source of this, and I have yet to give up hope that some logjam will suddenly break leaving us twittering away.

That and I’m really attracted to the guy. Did I mention that part? Kinda rounds out the picture, doesn’t it?

As our third date was ending we stood out in a parking lot under a soft spring rain. (This guy has unbelievable luck with the romantic weather.) Having swooped down onto him on our last date I was determined not to make the first move this time. So a painful string of “…okay then,” “…yeah,” “…thanks again,” “…mm-hmm,” and the like transpired. Finally he worked up the courage to…give me a hug. Oh, you want to do the hug into a kiss thing? Okay. Go ahead. No, it’s fine. Oh, you want to do a hug into a makeout session in a parking lot? Wait, really?

Yup. We were that couple standing in the middle of a parking lot under a soft spring rain, making out, onlookers be damned. At one point someone drove in, parked, walked by us to get takeout from the restaurant we just came out of, walked back to their car and drove away, while we kissed like fools. Alright Boat Boy! Maybe he can astonish me!

After that date he wasted no time in securing the next one. I think he smells that sex might be near. Now, based on this exciting possibility, you would likely never guess that less than 24 hours after making out in a light spring rain with Boat Boy I would be on a date with…

Frizzhead. This fellow emailed me to compliment me on my profile, even pointing out a couple of flourishes that I am most proud of. Completely flattered, I was determined to like him, despite his paltry profile and TERRIBLE picture. He looked like a stoned Fozzy Bear. Which, now that I think about it, would be a fabulous addition to a party.

Frizzhead admitted to be bad at online communications and suggested we meet for coffee. I squeezed him in one afternoon, thinking that this was going to be a throwaway date – one of those dates to say I gave the person a chance for, I don’t know, the karma of it. Embarrassingly, I thought so little about this date that when I wrote down his phone number I also wrote down a couple of hints from his profile to jog my memory and give me something to start a conversation about. I didn’t expect to enjoy myself as much as I did.

First of all, he was interested in what I do. Amazing. And I’m interested in what he does. Preposterous! Our conversation flowed without the need for my cheat sheet. And, for the second time in a row, a horrible picture had little reflection on the man in the flesh. He was neither Fozzy Bear nor stoned. He did, however, have this one shock of hair in the front sticking off at a near impossible angle. As if it was showing which way was northwest. I honestly couldn’t decide whether this was by design for the sake of some fashion that is obviously outside of my narrow purview, or this was the classic “I’m a grad student and 10 minutes before coming here I was asleep on a couch.” Luckily, our conversation was so interesting that I was only allowed a couple of distracted glances.

It seems there will be another opportunity to investigate this, as an hour and a half after our date ended he emailed me to say that he had a great time and he DEFINITELY wanted to meet again. Awww. Cute little Frizzhead.

The 22 year-old was unexpected. Now, I am not so extremely far away from 22. Let’s just say that if you adhere to the pop culture rule of you shouldn’t date anyone who is less than half your age plus seven, then he is just within the dangerous red zone. When he first emailed me I thought that my retort of, “You’re 22! What are you doing hitting on me?” would be enough to dissuade him. Wrong. The challenge bolstered him. Why was I expecting any other response from a 22 year-old?

But he returned with this irrefutable argument: “Why not? All you lose is the time it takes to drink a cup of coffee. And you might be surprised.”

I turned to my friends for help in crafting an explanation to this pup. No dice. My friends replied with various versions of “Why not? All you lose is the time it takes to drink a cup of coffee. And you might be surprised.” I think I am right to be distrustful of such advice. One friend, who for the purpose of this blog post requested to be referred to as “Wise Sage,” went so far as to use the terms “limber” and “supple” to argue on behalf of the 22 year-old. Having finally agreed to a date, I have no doubt that these same friends will turn around and call me a cradle robber. Because that’s what I would do.

So have I proved my point? Would you believe me if I now told you that I have never dated more than one person at a time? Perhaps this is from a new outlook of not taking dating too seriously. But one thing I am serious about: I could NEVER be polyamorous. This takes so much time! There’s so much scheduling and emailing and reminding myself which one is which. Having a meaningful relationship with all these boys? Jesus. How’s a girl supposed to sleep? And blog?

The Ultimate Single Girl Gift Basket

In one of those stories that makes you want to watch Thema and Louise, and not for the truck scene, a friend of mine was just slingshotted back into singledom. In considering what I can do for her, I believe I came up with the Ultimate Single Girl Gift Basket.

I can already hear your gasps of disbelief. “Single Girl, it can’t be done!” “Don’t you know how many people have been RUINED trying this tomfoolery?!” and “Does it come in extra-large?” But behold: in addition to attending to immediate needs, 87.2% of what you miss about dating somebody can be replaced by this gift basket:

Tissues – for immediate application

Chocolate – also for immediate application

Electric Blanket – Perhaps this is a Midwestern thing, but I often hear one of the biggest benefits of dating someone is having them warm up the bed for you, to which I answer, “Behold and Cherish thy electric blanket!” Electric blankets provide more even heating, are cheaper, and don’t snore.

Gift Certificate for dance classes/pottery classes/a martial arts class – Feel free to determine which your single girl would need most to celebrate her newfound free time: doing what her significant other would never do with her, having an artistic outlet/throwing pots at a wall, or kicking the crap out of someone.

Vibrator – Obviously. And make sure she has batteries and lube.

***WARNING! If you are dating someone, you are NOT AUTHORIZED to give an Ultimate Single Girl Gift Basket. Only us single girls are allowed to present the materials of singlehood. You non-singles should focus on what you’re supposed to do: start lining up dinner parties with eligible prospects.

The Nature Walk Second Date

I want to be clear: a guided nature walk is an excellent springtime activity for birding, frogging, and turtle-ing. I highly recommend it. It’s just a terrible date.

Looking for animals involves attempting to be quiet. This dissuades conversation. Also, when the guide believes that he needs to respond to every side comment made to ensure that everyone is getting the full value of his expertise, the situation does not lend itself to small talk about what you cooked for that dinner party.

My second date with Boat Boy involved a lot of marching through the woods, punctuated with peering at invasive species. The path was so narrow that we had to walk single file, which meant that for about an hour and a half I walked in front of Boat Boy while he, I assume, stared at my ass.

But he did bring something along for me. His green eyes. Swoon.

When the walk ended I only had 15 minutes before I had to skidattle, so we sat in the grass under a tree and talked. Well, chatted. Well, took turns saying some words.

Unfortunately I found myself at the end of our second date at the same place as I was at the end of our first: having no idea if he was just nervous and a little quiet or straight-up boring. I think we talked about police paperwork.

One undeniably good outcome: I found CLIMBING TREES! I had been lamenting of late at the lack of climbing trees in Madison, but this park afforded plenty. I suddenly realized that the tree we were sitting under met such a definition, and in 10 seconds flat I was up among its branches. I had forgotten the sensation of childlike freedom that comes from climbing a tree. It was suddenly a glorious day.

Boat Boy took this opportunity on this beautiful spring day to lie back in the grass with his hands behind his head. I continued to climb around the tree and turned the subject to McCarthyism (naturally), and we exchanged two consecutive interesting statements. In a matter of moments I had scrambled down from the tree, fell to my knees beside him, and kissed him.

I take no responsibility for this! I blame the intoxicating spring day! The childlike wonder of climbing a tree! The inherent sexiness of analyzing McCarthyism! (It’s a good thing we didn’t start talking about the Cuban Missile Crisis. I might not have kept my clothes on.)

I soon heard nearby children yelling “Eeeeeeeeeew!” in my general direction, and added horrifying the kids in the park to my accomplishments for the day.

I hopped up and we picked up the conversation right where we left off. Already late, we walked back toward our respective vehicles (now discussing if Sarah Palin is creating new voters or just frenzy-ing the existing ones) and came to the inevitable and undoubtedly awkward part of The Date: the “Well, I go this way now,” “Yeah, I go that way” moment. You know this moment. Even if you’ve never experienced it, it is in every romantic comedy. Usually at this moment something wildly embarrassing happens, somebody gets kissed, or somebody gets rejected.

Having just accosted him in the grass, I was not about to do so again. Instead I turned fully toward him, let my arms relax and hang by my sides, looked him in the eye, and smiled. If there is a better way to indicate to someone that they may kiss you short of declaring “You may kiss me now,” please tell me.

So what does he do? Raises his hand to the “tootle loo” motion, took a step back while saying, “Well…so long,” and walked away.

De-NIED.

Don’t worry: the next day he asked me out for a third date. I realized that I had really left myself no option in whether or not to accept said third date. What am I going to do, say no and tell him that he bores me but had found my weak spot? That after the first kiss it’s all downhill? That the kiss was just to find out if I would want to kiss him in the future, and the answer was no?

God help me if it’s another spring day. Maybe I’ll ask him to wear sunglasses.

Bling

I am thankful for wedding rings. As a single girl stumbling through the dating scene, rings are helpful visual markers to ID the people who are (at least claiming) to be off the market. It automatically takes the majority of people off my radar, and I can spend the rest of my precious time determining what is wrong with the remaining ones that they are still single.

Now, married folks who do not wear wedding rings are not automatically assholes in my book. If you choose not to go the jewelry route you could just make sure to mention your spouse as soon as possible in conversation with one of us non-ringed ones. Or, you could carry your spouse with you at all times. This includes small dogs. While not your spouse, the act of carrying a dog like a fashion accessory also puts you immediately in the “undatable” category.

I had been operating under the assumption that by not wearing a wedding ring, not mentioning a spouse and not carrying a yappy dog like a purse that I was giving the big green light to other singles to hit on me. And then a friend promptly stepped in and shattered that notion. As a previously married gal herself, she told me she got hit on more when she was wearing her wedding ring than when she was not, and even handed her old diamond wedding ring over for me to find out for myself.

The thrill of the chase? The comfort in knowing you could flirt and not be on the hook for anything? A selfless act to let the ol’ married ladies know that they’ve still got it? This was the parade of paltry hypotheses in my head as I took the ring out for a spin.

I met some friends out at a bar. Some friends and their friends. One of those friends of friends was a guy. A guy I recognized.

Hawaiian Shirt Boy had returned.

(The fact that he was not wearing a Hawaiian shirt this time will not change his moniker.)

Now, you may remember me mentioning that upon my first introduction to Hawaiian Shirt Boy we spoke for over two hours and it just must have slipped his mind that he had a very serious girlfriend. What a perfect opportunity for retaliation this ring could afford! I wasted no time in pretending I was above revenge. This is how I imagined the conversation would go:

HSB: Oh! Wow! I didn’t notice your wedding ring the first time we met! Are you…are you married?Me: Would it be a problem if I were?HSB: Oh, uh, not at all! (Nervously smiles and takes a big gulp of whatever he’s drinking.) It’s just…uh…I didn’t see your ring, and I don’t remember you saying anything about being married. So, I guess, I mean, I just figured, I thought you were single. You know, by default.Me: Oh, like how I thought you were single? You know, by default? (Elizabeth Bennet-like knowing smile of confidence followed by turning and talking to someone else.)

Yeah. That didn’t happen. All I got from him were a couple quick glances down at the ring, and whatever his thoughts of the matter were he refused to let his face betray them. Furthermore, I didn’t get hit on by anybody and went home to hide the giant diamond safely away.

The next day I was grateful not to have such unwieldy jewelry as I was shoving all my groceries into one bag. (Seriously. How long have I been an adult? When will I learn to take three times as may bags to the grocery store as I think necessary?) I glanced up to see one hand putting items on the conveyer belt and another hand waving at me. In between was Hawaiian Shirt Boy.

HSB: Hey! It feels like I just saw you! Say, last night, perhaps!Me: Yeah! Heh. Good times. So…I see you’re buying chips. Mmmm…chips.HSB: Yeah. Chips are good.

Lord. I felt like I was caught in a betrayal. As if I was hooked up to a polygraph test and the needle flew off the chart and started drawing on the wall. He could see my hands. He could count my fingers. And the number of un-ringed ones. In that moment I was sure such proof of my deceit would not just momentarily cripple my conversation skills, but Hawaiian Shirt Boy would try to warn all Madison Guys: this one is a marriage-faker. Trying to get out of there as quickly as possible, I threw my bag over my shoulder. And fell over backwards.

I fell over backwards.

Yes, you read that right, I FELL OVER BACKWARDS.

How the hell does this happen to me? How do I get one drink while wearing a diamond ring and end up with massive guilt while player-boy over here blithely strolls along? And how do I get taken down by GROCERIES?!

My lesson from this? No more wearing a diamond ring. Just kidding! I am SO testing out that theory. We all must make sacrifices for science.

The real lesson from this? Bring more damn bags.

Actual online dating conversations I’ve had

Curious what online dating is like? It’s like this.

Dude: there is attractive and then there is hot. My god im interested... jimMe: Did you just spam me?Dude: omg i didn't spam you . im darn interested. im a uw grad student. live on the west side. coffee?Me: I didn't see you on my list of visitors, so I assumed you just emailed every girl you saw. But since you did look at my profile, I'm curious: what was it that made you so "darn interested"?Dude: you like artichokes

Touche. I do, in fact, like artichokes. And he had to read all the way down to the END of the first sentence in my profile to find that gem out!

This conversation began when guy who wants children winked at me:

Me: I wink back with a caveat: please note that I hate children.Guy: Hi, I wanted to say hi and to see if you would be interested in teaching new things about yourself to learn more about human beings.

Um…what? I would like to point out that his profile states his first language is English, and the grammar on his profile was impeccable. Maybe he just wrote this while high.

For some reason, I think only one of the participants of the following conversation thought well of it. I’ll let you guess which one.

Some guy: very sexy!!Me: Are you referring to my sparkling wit and impressive intelligence?Some guy: nope, just your sexiness!Me: Same for your conversation skills.Some guy: Thank you!! I can't speak of your wit or intelligence ... I just know you are very sexy!!! I'm sure you are wonderful in every way possible!!! Getting some nice dates? I really wouldn't have any credibility with you if I went on and on about how witty and intelligent I have found you since the moment we have met and the fun times shared.Me: Wait...have we met?Some guy: That's my exact point!

Wait…what’s your point? Other than you don’t have anything to say to me? Poor guy. He had nothing to go on, nothing to comment on, no conversation fodder except my photo. Oh, and an in-depth essay on myself and my interests.

This next one needs a note of explanation: based on a bunch of multiple-choice questions, the dating site I’m using gives me a rating for how much of a match I am with another person, as well as an enemy rating. One night I got an instant message from someone rated my 99% enemy.

Scary looking guy: damn i was gonna say something and lost my train of thought, guess that means somethingMe: Dude, you're my 99% enemy? Were you TRYING to be my enemy?Scary looking guy: i never have to try, people just naturally hate me

Shockingly, this was not followed by me giving him my phone number.

My conclusion from all of this? The online dating scene is just like the offline dating scene: very little wheat, but a lot of chaff. And a lot of giving the shaft.

The Museum First Date

Despite initial misgivings, I am now a full believer in the Museum First Date. When first proposed to me, I put it in the same category as the Movie First Date: external focus plus no chance for talking equals first date awkwardness and little more. But I had to admit I was rather tired of the Coffee First Date with its expectations of dazzling, flowing conversation among an audience of laptop-clad students always much more interested in the first date going down at the next table than their own homework.

Thus I agreed to a museum, and I am now a convert. It provided ample opportunities for talking as well as a parade of new information to discuss. And, if your date is boring, you have something much more interesting to look at than the bottom of your coffee cup!

Not that my date was boring. Well, not entirely boring. I feel terrible about saying that, but unfortunately I had to carry the bulk of the conversation. This was unexpected as we had a great email conversation going, filled with sarcasm, wit and pith. Still reeling from my date with ADD boy, I was strictly keeping my hopes in the “Eh, why not find out?” range, and I added a new requirement: an online chat pre-date. I wanted to ensure that this new boy (who, due to his passion for sailing, I have nicknamed Boat Boy), could hold a functional conversation before I gave up a Saturday afternoon.

So one morning we chatted online and HUZZAH! More sarcasm, wit and pith. Lovely! Afterward, since I had the entire conversation in front of me, I went back and counted how many questions I had asked him. Nine. Then I went back and counted how many questions he had asked of me. Holy hell, NINE! An even-sided conversation? Still sore from being so often verbally stepped on during my last date, this was an antidote. And yes, this is also evidence of a girl over-analyzing a conversation. Take that as you will.

Going into my first date with Boat Boy I had no reservations about our ability to maintain an enjoyable conversation. What I was worried about was that I wasn’t going to find him attractive. In an effort to save face in light of that last statement, I would like to point out that I went on a date with him anyway, and that I fully believe that the myriad factors of attraction can leave you unbelievably attracted to someone who you would have passed on the street without a glance before. But…and you knew there was a but coming…his profile pictures were terrible. A bunch of boat pictures with him squinting into the sun, and one picture that was so truly awful he looked like a buffoon straight out of Alice in Wonderland. Once again, I feel awful for saying that, but please see above.

And then the reverse happened. He was rather quiet, slow to ask questions, and a bit, well…boring. But upon meeting him I saw something that was not shown in his pictures: he has GREEN EYES. They were incredible. I felt like a snake’s victim. I just stared. And then found myself looking at his lovely jaw line and his great smile, and was happy to find myself thinking, “He doesn’t look like a buffoon at all!” In fact, I had to fight the urge to haul him into the museum’s back staircase and make out with him.

The date lasted three hours, both in the museum and a walk afterward. While he was not nearly as pithy or sarcastic as in his emails, he was noticeably nervous. It is entirely plausible that in his attempt to make a good impression he dialed back considerably into that non-offensive-but-seriously-less-personality plane that politicians so often reside within. In this light I decided to give Boring Boat Boy the benefit of the boubt…er…doubt, and agreed to a second date. Do you think if next time I go with pushing him into a stairwell and making out with him I’m more likely to see his sarcastic, pithy side?

I say it’s worth a shot.

Lap Dancing Class

Last weekend I went down to Chicago and, between many wholesome activities, took a lap dancing class. Now, you may wonder how a single girl in Madison who is completely happy with her job and not looking for ways to make some cash on the side but thank you for asking would end up in a lap dancing class in Chicago. Well, let me explain. It was like this:

Chicago friend: Want to take a lap dancing class with me?Me: Yes.

As we all filed into the room, there was no doubt who was the teacher. Despite taking a two-hour class from her and having the time since to reflect, I still don’t think her body was anatomically correct. She looked like an anime character who was roughly based on a woman. Another way she proved herself nonhuman was by not picking the enormous wedgie in her booty shorts. AT ALL.

But all of us students firmly in the “normal” range were emboldened by her enthusiastic compliments of, “I am HAPPY!” and “Yes please!!”

Fun things that happened to me in class:

1.) The teacher asked us all to imagine a person in the chair that we wanted to dance for. I imagined microorganisms. Unfortunately, my Chicago friend wasn’t up on my latest blog post, so I had to share this joke with myself.

2.) I felt totally sexy.

3.) All of us were doing so well the teacher decided to give us a RIDICULOUS move. It involved arching back over our imaginary person’s legs, kicking one of our legs and swinging them over the head of our imaginary person, and somehow ending up with our asses in their imaginary faces. As my classmates and I attempted, and subsequently got stuck in increasingly comedic positions, our teacher assured us that it was easier with a real person in the chair. To test her claim, I grabbed my Chicago friend for a stand-in. Arching myself across her legs, I kicked my leg up, swung it around and…fell on the floor. Are fits of giggles conducive to lap dancing?

Among all the useful information I gained from the class, I also gained this bit of knowledge: I have no ass to shake. Despite my eagerness to stick my ass in someone’s face and shake it (with their prior consent, of course), my skinny white-girl ass was having none of it. As I made valiant attempts, pleas, and even stopped the class to have the teacher come over and give me pointers, my ass steadfastly refused, looking more like a rock skipping on water than jiggling…anything. While I have never had the urge to build muscles for the sake of building muscles, I foresee squats in my future.

After class my friend pointed out all the skilz I now have. In addition to lap dancing I’ve taken classes in pole dancing and stripping (more on that later). I am amassing these skilz for two reasons: 1.) They make me feel sexy, and 2.) They will come in handy when I’ve got more than the microorganisms to dance for. I hope that this “I’m suited up for fun” part of my personality comes through, even though to overtly state it would be counterproductive. “I can pole dance, lap dance and strip!” would probably scare the natives. And by proclaiming “I’m working on my ass,” asses I would get.