relationships

POF, will you ever bring me love?

My Fellow Inebriates,

Every week Plenty of Fish continues to send me my ideal matches, even though my inbox is (imagine!) empty except for the occasional mass email regarding a party/orgy/swinging event in my neighborhood.

I must say I’m overwhelmed by the egalitarianism of Plenty of Fish. When I first joined, I expected to be immediately eliminated based on my ursine qualities and the inability to meet any height that might be specified as desirable by women seeking mates. I really did think the POF administrator(s) would flush a creature like a bear out immediately, privileging human males at my expense.

Not so. My animal profile continues in its lonely fashion, attracting no one in particular but everyone in general. This week’s POF email drew my attention to the following seekers:

tattoosarehot

vanislesleepslut

kinkyunicorn

sexyandfun990

Asian69linn

incrediblycurious

screwmehardplease

RustedMetal

Sezonthebeach

kinkynsilly

ButterMe

69Hammy

loveslav

Don’t they sound outgoing?

I have to admit I’m out of my depth with such forward prospective partners. Dolly was, shall we say, demure in comparison. Even our foray into porn had nothing on the sheer sexual hunger apparent in the ready-and-willing candidates at Plenty of Fish.

But who are these women in reality? I was curious about the sort of person who would advertise herself sexuality first (although RustedMetal may or may not fit this category). It got me thinking about identity negotiation—we all 😉 construct a public self as a means of negotiating relationships with other people. So what is being negotiated with a handle like screwmehardplease?

Probably not a whole lot. In all likelihood Plenty of Fish’s 32 million-strong membership is vastly inflated or at least padded out by multiple profiles, pet profiles, and trolls. With 30,000 new signups every day, it’s no wonder POF hasn’t had the time to weed my profile out. And in fact they may not, since large numbers constitute the site’s biggest selling feature. Profiles such as kinkynsilly make good bait for new members—does it matter whether they’re real or serious?

This is what makes dating sites so frustrating for people who genuinely want to meet someone. They have to wade through a shitload of profiles, some false, many nonserious, probably some professionals if you know what I mean, and tons that were put up on a whim and never visited again. POF is probably a cyber ghost town with a population of one hooker for every nine “normal” people. Or worse.

Or is that a misogynistic trap? Google “online dating” and you’ll find plenty of men disgruntled with POF and its ilk, criticizing not just the sites but the women who use them. Men’s magazines describe the sites as minefields, coaching readers how to spot “liars.” Presumably everyone wants to make a good impression (do you put your most unflattering pics on Facebook?), but online dating critics are quick to pounce when pictures don’t match reality.

So, to the charming potential partners viewing my profile on POF, I tried to be as truthful as possible. Date LB and here’s what you get:

  • Fur. Call it mangy; call it matted—it’s all over me.
  • Odor. Call it animalistic; call it funky—it’s the smell of old empties, and it goes with me everywhere.
  • Vice. I’m an alcoholic.
  • Seven inches. That’s seven inches tall, ladies. You got it.

And perhaps that’s why no one wants to get with this.

Coaching my dad through International Women’s Day

My Fellow Inebriates,

If my friend hadn’t posted this picture, I wouldn’t have known it was International Women’s Day. Awash in the same cognitive disconnect as most work-at-home parents, cutting cheese sandwiches into shapes before hitting the playground, my mum wasn’t aware of it either.

My mum’s not evil, but she’s not one of those people who always knew she should be mothering—children, animals, or even plants. In fact, her gut instinct told her not to (something she shares publicly, netting dirty looks from the “always-knew-it-was-my-calling” mothers). She’s toughing it out and faking her way through it. Her best chance, really, is to wait out the six months until both of them are in school full-time, with trained professionals doing the important bits. Because heart-shaped cheese sandwiches are just about her limit.

The plant my mum tortures

When I asked her if she knew March 8 was International Women’s Day, she said that not only did she not know of the occasion; she didn’t have a clue it was March 8—she barely knew it was March. I said, “Ha, ha, I guess I won’t get you a lobotomy as a present then.” Which she ignored.

Then there’s my dad, working late. Let me tell you, if I were my dad, I’d make myself scarce for International Women’s Day. It’s not like Valentine’s Day, which embittered women like my mother can scoff at. No, no, no…It’s actually pretty unlucky my mum has even learned of this date. Unlucky for my dad.

You see, if International Women’s Day were a gift-giving occasion, he’d be really screwed. He could buy her flowers and get crucified for (a) frivolous spending, (b) trivializing women’s issues, and (c) provoking my mum’s allergies. Any other purchase (except chocolate, which my mum’s ass particularly requests) would get dissected mercilessly. Thankfully he doesn’t have to enter the minefield until Mother’s Day.

Pssst! Dad! We can hide here.

I’m thankful too. I would have felt obligated to help my dad figure out what she wants. Getting into her mind isn’t my favorite thing; it’s like bushwhacking your way through a forest that not only lacks enchantment but hosts weird, ugly plants that exhibit non-Fibonicci leaf numbers. The few seconds I spent dwelling there this afternoon almost cost me some fur.

I emerged with some advice for my dad—the keys to any mother’s heart:

  • Silence and solitude. Take those monkeys away for a while; give her a chance to miss them.
  • Support. If she needs to work, help facilitate it—whatever “work” means. Facilitating it shows you believe in it. And you might be surprised at the results.
  • Cleaning. Notice when it gets done. Women like my mother would rather drink Windex than squirt it.
  • Dinner. Come when it’s ready. Call when you can’t.
  • Don’t buy anything. For mothers who spend all day with the kids, doing their own shopping means more than the purchase itself.

OMG! The fur in my head was pretty sore after this exercise. Perhaps there are some clues in this list about my long-gone girlfriend Dolly. She’s not a mother, but she is a woman (kind of). Maybe there were things I needed to understand better. Her bear fetish, for instance—I thought it was enough to sustain her interest. Her fixation on Journey songs—I thought they could supply whatever sensitivity I lacked. Her willingness to settle—until Fluffy came along.

And that’s why I’m getting wrecked tonight, my fellow inebriates. My head is muddled and sad. Beer reviews to come!

Broker’s Gin—Part 7! And 6:00pm is my normal wake-up time!

OMG, Martin Dawson of Broker’s Gin phoned our house yesterday, and do you think my mum bothered to wake me up? No!!! She blundered through the phone call on her own, trying in vain to sound less hick-like, no doubt audibly intimidated by the cultured British voice on the other end of the line. She did not even consider waking me. Of course we would have had to set up a Skype connection so I could gesture (my usual mode unless my thoughts are being channeled directly), which I’m sure Martin wouldn’t have minded.

I demanded to know why she hadn’t roused me for this important call, to which she responded: “Well, it’s fairly normal to be up by 6:00 p.m., so I assumed you were lurking around the empties and I didn’t want to disturb you.”

Good grief! My mother knows how long I’ve been chatting up Julia Gale, the Business Development Manager at Broker’s Gin, and that I had every intention of organizing a drunken get-together with that fine company’s owners when they flew into Vancouver to meet with the BC Liquor Board. This aim, which my mum describes as “both squalid and naïve,” has been my treasured wish for several months.

What a time for my mother to try to handle a social task. She actually thought Martin was her uncle at first and immediately adopted the daft tone she always does when she encounters an English accent. She didn’t even bother asking where I could get a small bowler hat.

More importantly, I had no chance to reassure Martin that I haven’t been getting too fresh with Julia. Although she’s disclosed some amazing things about herself, including a penchant for gyrating frenetically to the B-52s, she has not taken my suggestion that we decide upon a mutual safe word. I wanted to reassure Martin, just in case he’s worried that I might encourage Julia to run off to Canada to explore her animalistic side, that my intentions are light-hearted. I thought I would tell him about my Plenty of Fish profile, since it demonstrates my pursuit of more realistic love options.

Today I viewed the user names of women POF recommends as a good fit:

PinkHubbaBubba

monogamysucks

naughtykelly

plzme69xxx

MadameSadist (!!!)

PumaontheLoose

ButterMe

letsfuch69

OMG!! This actually frightened and depressed me. No wonder my user name hasn’t been flushed out of the system. What’s a “LiquorstoreBear” among all these horny, 69ing dominatrices?

But are they real people?

Like any company that trades in big promises, Plenty of Fish has its share of haters (for example, PLENTYOFFISHSUCKS!). Negative reports include:

  • Male profiles being deleted prematurely because POF uses its higher female proportion as a lure for male members (which sounds sort of contradictory, doesn’t it?)
  • Match-ups with drug addicts, psychotics and stalkers who—even after being reported—remain in the POF system
  • Inaccurate photos (almost a given)
  • Response rate of less than 3% from potential dates
  • Populated by attention seekers of both genders looking to get as many responses as possible instead of actually using the site for dating
  • Rife with sexist stereotypes while objectifying women (“Find Hundreds of Big Busty Women Who Are Attractive, Fun and Aggressive”—Yikes!!)
  • Generally hurtful to the self-esteem

I’ve had fun bouncing around POF this week, but I’m beginning to feel a bit soiled. Check out these insights directed at women (if any) seeking to seduce me:

You may be tempted to be as impulsive as Liquorstore Bear can sometimes be.

Liquorstore Bear may well push your own boundaries or comfort level. So… Don’t engage in anything you may regret, whether it’s too soon, too risqué, or too… Do show tolerance and maintain a healthy sense of adventure.

Don’t assume that Liquorstore Bear, who may be a bit neurotic or narcissistic in nature, is 100% into you and only you.

Playing a little “hard to get” and pacing your interactions can actually heighten arousal and desire.

(Fabulous! Way to reinforce one of the stupidest dating myths ever!)

Far more useful:

My favorite conversation topics:

    1. alcohol
    2. wine
    3. scotch

My least favorite conversation topics:

    1. work
    2. jobs
    3. employment

At least those are all true.

Still, it’s a little hurtful to see that nobody wants to get with this.

My mum says I’d have a better shot at love if I went for a washing-machine ride. I am still really mad at her, though, so it’s a no go.