I knew it!

Dependent variable: Will he call? (yes/no)
Independent variables:
He_Said: Did he say he would call? (yes/no)
Predate: Number of pre-date contacts (#)
Cost: Cost of date ($)
Bases: Level of intimacy during the date (bases)
Interest: His estimated interest level during the date (5 point Likert scale)


























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If there were six of them, we could be a complete Ultimate line.

Yesterday at lunch we got to talking about cousins who have been on reality shows. A cousin of someone I knew had been on The Bachelor. We watched her every week, hoping for the best. It is amazing how fast your standards change when you know a competitor on The Bachelor. Normally I would like her to show her intelligence and competence, conduct herself with her usual stylish grace. On The Bachelor, I just prayed that she wouldn’t make out with him in the hot tub. Another of our cousins easily outdid The Bachelor by appearing on Ricki Lake, Who’s the Daddy?. She was uncertain of the father of her son and thought a free paternity test on daytime TV would be a gentle way to settle matters with her husband and paramour. I thought I caught some disapproval about her dilemma from my lunch companions, but I was mostly just impressed. Not knowing the father of your child implies that you are getting some, which, as you know, is a longstanding goal of mine.

I got to thinking about what it would be like if I were on a reality show. In fact, what if I were the center of a season of The Bachelorette? The thought of a house full of men competing for my affection sounds mortifying, but it would never happen like that. If the producers selected men for the show based on my preferences, they would end up with a house full of really smart, good-natured men who like to do things. Since they wouldn’t be stupidly macho and competitive, they would naturally start finding ways to pass the time. On the second “date” I would show up, tossing my hair in slow motion, to find the guys on the roof. “Climb up! We’re throwing watermelons off! And old electronics! See if you can get the cameraperson to film it!” When it came time for the pool party, I might be able to get the guys to notice the cleave, but only if they weren’t catching frisbees as they jumped off the diving board. I know that I’m supposed to pick two guys to take in the hot air balloon over Napa, so that one can emote frustrated longing while I make eyes at the other, but really, I would rather go with the whole crew to Korean karaoke.

In real life, I would inevitably end up hanging out in the house as one of the guys until the show dispersed. I would keep in touch with them and attend all of their weddings, pleased by their delight in their lovely brides and wondering again why she wasn’t me. On TV, though, the Megan Season can have a happy ending. When it got down to the last five or six best kissers, they would come to me as a group. “Megan,” one would say, “we don’t want to compete against each other. Could you please choose early, put us out of our misery?” “But honey,” I would answer, “I can’t! I just don’t know! Choose the man who cooks such good food? Or the one who sings in the car with me? Or the one who spots me when we lift weights? Choose between the mathematician and the physicist? No woman could do that! If only I could choose you all!” Then, gradually at first, a look of hope and agreement would dawn in our eyes.

Although the nation would be scandalized, the producers would let us keep the house with the pool in exchange for filming the wedding. My grooms would look so handsome in their tuxes. The country would have a chance to catch up on our love story a couple years later, when we all appear on Ricki Lake, Who’s the Daddy?.

No pressure.

You know what people never say to me? No one ever says “Oh honey. Don’t you worry your pretty little head ‘bout that. I’ll take care of it.” No one else ever says “I can’t see how a little filly like you could pull such a big load. I’ll get that; you set and look cute.” No, what people say to me is more along the lines of “Well, since you seem to have a handle on that, why don’t you take over?” Or, “Could you figure out what we need and bring it on Saturday? You did such a nice job last time, although this is a little more complicated.”

All that is why, once I have convinced a boy to ask me out*, I would really like him to plan the date. The question “Can I take you out?” is immediately followed by “What would you like to do?” and “Where would you like to eat?”. I appreciate that he is being considerate and would like to plan around my tastes. (I think boys also worry that I am too scared to do things like go to his house or go for a hike. Whatever. I could take him.) But at the end of a date planned to my specs, all I know is how well he follows directions. I would much rather find out what he likes to do, have him show me a tasty place to eat.

Gentlemen, I know that sounds hard, but think of it as a test. Not a big scary test that you could fail, but a gentle test of our compatibility. If you plan a boring evening, that probably means you are boring in bed. Now, me, I’m exciting and fun and adventurous in bed, so that means we wouldn’t be a good fit. We would both be happier with someone more like ourselves. I could have hours and hours of raunchy, blissful sex with a fun person; you and your honey could lie next to each other, asking “But what do you want to do?” See how that works out for everyone? See how you can't go wrong?


*By begging on the Internets.



(Guys, please. Plan the date. The restaurant doesn’t have to be expensive or famous; show that you can find good ethnic food. Know your city well enough that you can think of something neat to do. I would be happy to see a view, or play a game, or do something you love. If you are good company, I’ll be just as happy to talk with you the whole time. I can take myself to anything I can think of. I want to know what you come up with. When it is my turn, I'll take you somewhere good.)

Harder than math.

I went to irrigation school with farm boys who were determined to open the door for me. The first year was awkward. We would approach the door evenly and the boy would step in front of me to reach for it. I assumed he was in a hurry, so I would hang back to let him through and get ready to catch the door before it closed. Then we both waited, until he gestured, and I would accelerate from a stop, and not be sure whether I should hold the door for him once I was through. I was better at it the second year, and could hit the pause during the approach, to let him reach for the door so we could go through smoothly. The decision rule at school was easy (boy opens door), but I had to readjust with my urban friends (first person holds door for everyone).

Who should carry things is still hard for me. One possibility is that we are all equals here, so people should carry their own shit. But maybe the boy is stronger than I am. Surely heavy things should be matched to the stronger person, so that less work is done overall. But I am strong and capable and dependent on no one, which I could demonstrate by carrying my heavy stuff and his heavy stuff and maybe also an anvil. I haven’t figured out a decision rule based on gender, but I am entirely comfortable with my decision rule based on Chinese zodiac year. I live by a very literal interpretation of Chinese zodiac animals and will hand anything of mine to an Ox without a second thought. It is in an Ox’s nature to carry things, so it totally works out. The Ox gets to be a beast of burden and I get to have my hands free.

Who should pay for dinner is impenetrable. Since men don’t ask women on real dates, we might be ‘hanging out’. When I ‘hang out’ with my friends, we all pay for our own. But if it is only me and him, then it might be a date. I have heard that men pay for those. My mom taught me to accept gifts graciously and I would be happy to do that, but then do I pay next time? That would be fine because we are all equals here. But what if we aren’t all equals here; what if the man is destitute, like a homeless person or a graduate student? I mean, no graduate student should have to pay for an employed person’s evening. Even though I am the cheapest date ever (vegetarian, no beer), that’s like, half a student’s monthly budget.

At the end of dinner I fall silent, wondering if I should reach for my wallet to show that I don’t care if I pay for my dinner. Or is that gauche and am I signaling that I don’t mean for this to be a date? Should I even look at the bill? It is all so difficult. By the time I have guessed an answer I haven’t spoken in minutes and the guy is wondering why he ever thought I was charming. Good thing it isn’t a problem I have to solve often.

It could be anything.

Chris has been completely overwhelmed by moving and setting up his new house. For the past couple weeks, he’s been a crappy friend. He’s put off our plans if he didn’t stand me up entirely. He’ll stop by for dinner but take phone calls the entire time. He forgets to ask how I am or return my calls. I thought about yelling at him, but he will be his usual great self when he isn’t slammed by chores and logistics. He doesn’t need one more hassle. Still, I was on the verge of telling him that I wasn’t mad, but I also wasn’t gonna make plans with him until he could show up and be present. He could call me in three weeks when he is more settled.

But then, last week, he called me up. He started with, ‘I’ve been a crappy friend recently. What are you doing next Tuesday?’ I didn’t have anything, so he said ‘Do you want to know what you are doing next Tuesday, or do you want secret plans?’ SECRET PLANS?! Oh yeah I want secret plans!

I’ve been excited for secret plans for days. He says it isn’t a big deal but it will be fun. There is some possibility he will take me on the best date ever. The best date ever, for those of you who don’t know, is to go play catch at McKinley Park, then go out to the Vietnamese restaurant with the strange wood paneling and diner décor, and then end the evening at the good used-CD store. I waited a long time for a boy to magically know that he should take me on the best date ever, but when that didn’t happen, I started taking my friends on the best date ever.

So Chris knows about the best date ever, but I don’t think he would call me in advance to arrange that. Calling me in advance makes me think that it is specific to the day or date. I’ll find out this evening. Fun.

Thanks for all your comments!

Hey y’all. I started this blog as part of a decision to put myself out in the world more. Despite the current of thought that cute engineers have the world at their feet, I haven’t had a boyfriend* in years. The lessons from ‘being alone’ and ‘enjoying this time to myself’ are genuinely valuable, but I’ve long since exhausted their benefits. Sean and I were talking more seriously than I made it sound in that post; it is wrong for me to live in this great, beautiful, fun world without a romantic partner and I don’t know how to make it right.

So what are the possibilities? There aren’t that many.
1. I am unappealing in some way that I haven’t figured out.
2. I am not meeting the type of men that I am attracted to.
3. I am not meeting the type of men who are attracted to me.
4. A combination of these.

I don’t give too much credence to the first option. I think I am squarely within the date-able range. The economists have pointed out ways that I may be date-able but am signaling elsewise; I am definitely thinking hard about your suggestions.

The second option, that I am not meeting the type of men that I am attracted to, isn’t entirely true either. I meet bright, articulate, good men that I would enjoy dating all the time. Then I meet their wives, who are also sharp and fun and nice. I totally agree that I am not meeting enough of the single, hot geologists or demographers or electrical engineers that I yearn for.

The third option is that I don’t meet the type of men who are attracted to me. That happens a fair amount. If it were as easy as getting hookered-up, heading for a bar and picking up someone, I’d be doing that. But at bars I seem to meet mortgage broker recruiters, and they cut a girl no slack at all when she starts talking about furry blond lobsters who live in sulfur vents. You might think it would be hard to overcome natural advantages like a pretty face and huge rack, but I promise that it can be done.

So what are the solutions? Figure out if something is wrong in my presentation, which is what Sean and I were talking about when you joined the conversation. Meet more people, which I am trying to do around Sac and partially why I started the From the Archives. I am working on solving this and I am grateful for your help. Thanks, y’all.

Hey! Special treat tomorrow!


*Boyfriend?! What do you mean ‘boyfriend’? I thought we were just trying to get you laid!

Well, yeah, it is somewhat easier to get laid than it is to find a boyfriend. But even that isn’t as easy as you probably think. Men in their thirties are all of a sudden saying shit like “I’m trying to stop slutting around for a while. Don’t get me wrong, I think you’re plenty hot. It’s just… I’m not ready for a serious relationship, but I’m tired of not respecting myself.” You are fucking kidding me. I’m finally comfortable with whatever limited promiscuity I can scrounge for myself, and you just want to cuddle? Drop your fucking pants, Mr. Our Bodies, Our Selves.

Love is testing me but still I'm losing it

I was lamenting to my friend Sean about my long drought. Before you go clicking away from another boring water entry, I mean a drought of a more personal nature… a bedroom nature. Sean and I agreed that it is ridiculous that I don’t have a boyfriend; I am presentable and pleasant enough. Since I’m a great girlfriend once I am in a relationship, Sean figured there must be something about my approach that I could work on.

“Meggie,” he said, “What do you wear when you are working on a guy?”

“You’re looking at it.” I said. “No,” he said, “Those are your clothes for doing chores and gardening. What do you wear when you are out where boys could see you?” When I gestured at my clothes again, he winced, which I totally didn’t get, ‘cause these are my new jeans. “Meggie,” he said, “When was the last time you dressed up?” “Oh! That was for the fall league party. I wore this tight red dress with four inch red heels and cocksucker red lipstick.” “And was there a boy you liked at the party?” “Yeah.” “What happened when he saw you in the dress?” “He jumped and spilled his drink. Someone must have bumped into him.” Sean patiently explained that no one bumped into him, and that if I want boys to notice me, I am going to have to wear girl clothes.

“Girl clothes!” I shouted. “That’s outrageous! They don’t have pockets, and you can’t sprint in them if you need to beat the light, and you can’t just throw them on from the previous day because they get wrinkled! Besides, the colors have to match and you have to wear jewelry, and that takes like twenty minutes!” I can patiently explain things too, so I pointed out all the ways that girl clothing is a repressive tool of the patriarchy to physically restrain women and keep them from full actualization by requiring them to spend their time on stupid shit like earrings. Sean didn’t argue, but he did force me to make an unpleasant choice between fighting blatant injustice and getting some horizontal actualization of my own.

Moving on, Sean asked me how I flirt with the guys I like. “Well, you know how I am usually friendly and smiley and I talk about dorky things? Just like that, only more.” “So if you saw a guy you liked…” “I would probably give him a hug like everyone else, and then tell him about the things I’ve been thinking about recently. Like right now I’m super into Geoffrey Chaucer’s blog, so I would be all ‘hah, hah, hah, and then, he makes fun of John Gower, hah hah’.” “And you still don’t score?” said Sean. “Remarkable.”

Sean told me that I have inadvertently crossed over into one-of-the-guys territory. He listed flirting techniques that might get me out of there. “Do you flip your hair? Giggle? Ask him to get you a drink? Smile demurely? Hit him on the arm?” Now THAT was interesting. “Hit him on the arm? Like a jab, or more of an uppercut? Should I kick him, too?” “Not like that”, said Sean, and he demonstrated with sortof an openhanded swat on the arm.

Gentle reader, I did taekwondo for thirteen years. During college I trained with the team twenty-five hours a week. It would be impossible to count the punches I’ve thrown or the hours I’ve spent with a heavy bag. I have broken boards and a brick with a punch. It has been many years since then, but I imagine I could still return to the gym and learn to box in a matter of months. Those skills aren’t entirely gone, but I am quite sure that I could never learn to swat men on the arm.

Sean persevered. “Meggie, is there anyone you flirt with?” “Oh yeah,” I said. “I flirt with lesbians all the time.” “What do you do?” “Oh, it changes. Sometimes I walk up boldly and look them up and down real slow, then nod, all satisfied. Sometimes I’ll smile shyly, and look down, and look back and blush. I’ll hold eye contact while I tuck my hair. Wearing a shirt that shows downtown Cleveland seems to make me clumsy, ‘cause I just keep dropping things…” “And do they like you?” “Oh man, dykes love me. They’re always hanging on me and asking for sugar. If I only liked the ladylovin’ I would be all set.” “Meggie, that’s it! You just have to do that with men.” “Do that with men… I could never… they would totally get the wrong id- HEY!”

So, dear readers, there is hope for me yet. Perhaps one of you is the dorky gentleman for me. When we meet, there is a good chance that I will revert to my awkward ways. If I am bringing up esoteric shit and asking about your dissertation, please understand that I am flirting with you. If, on the other hand, I am looking at you through lowered lashes and gasping at your wicked lines, please understand that I am imagining you as an especially butch lesbian. Either way, your prospects are good. Go ahead and put the moves on, ‘cause this drought has got to end.

East Coast/West Coast difference?

I read Fresh Pepper about everyday. The format is reliable; no matter the setting, despite his good intentions, Fresh blurts out something amazingly crass. His commenters are a school of sharks, and the frenzy usually includes the following themes: Fresh hasn’t accepted he is gay, Fresh lives in his parents’ basement, Fresh has a small penis, Fresh’s filthy mind dooms him to a life of celibacy. Fine. Sure. It is pretty funny, and it seems like they enjoy the inside jokes. Just this morning I realized that none of that is the truly surprising thing about Fresh Pepper. Fresh casually, easily, regularly writes about behavior that I can honestly say that I have never seen in real life. Fresh Pepper courts women.

Fresh Pepper writes explicitly about wanting a girlfriend and regular sex. Fresh Pepper writes about failed attempts to pick up girls at bars. When Fresh meets a potential ladyfriend, he asks her out, and then plans a date, and then takes her on a date. He debates the pros and cons of date locations, and whether they will lead to (anal) sex. In an effort to persuade the lady to be his girlfriend (with the regular sex), he brings her flowers, cooks food for her, arranges additional dates and buys her gifts. I have an active fantasy life, but I literally cannot imagine a man doing that. I have never been wooed like that, and I can’t think of a girlfriend who has. I have guy friends who pine for someone, but when I advise thinking of an activity she might like, calling her and asking her to do that, with the subtext that he likes her, they just look baffled.

The only way I have ever met boyfriends is that we were both in the same place doing some other activity while we made eyes at each other. As I think about it, I initiated and arranged five of the last six occasions that had any potential for romance. Hell, I arranged the last hook-up I got. As far as I can tell, men passively do things, hoping women will be present. My beautiful neighbor, super cool girl with a gorgeous body, goes to the local Dive Bar Club, where one guy took some interest in her. He might have her over to watch a movie, but won't stay sober enough to pick her up. My freakin’ fabulous, tall, stunning redhead friend is beside herself with happiness because the boy she likes bought himself a ticket to a concert she was already going to. She is a decade younger than me, and that is as much enthusiasm and motivation as she has ever seen (including an ex-boyfriend who was desperately in love with her). My supermodel girlfriend hung out in her now-husband’s dorm room until he finally gave it up. I’ve seen couples hook up at a party and pairs leave the field together to get a beer and couples meet rock climbing, but date? Where the boy asks the girl? It's a myth.

I know friends who gracefully became lovers, and I know husbands and boyfriends who are wonderful to their beloveds. But in my circle of friends, I don’t know a single story of a man winning a strange woman’s affection by putting effort into courting her. Fresh truly is a freak.

My gentleman callers

I get asked out by homeless men a lot. Regularly. Often. I would be willing to bet that whenever you read this, the last man to ask me out lives in an alley. (I think it’s because I am almost always on foot, and I make eye contact.) My girlfriends tell me that I am too picky about men; perhaps at this point I shouldn’t be discouraging any potential beaux. I feel like I only have a few standards for my men: smart, funny, and nice all the way through. Height, looks, money? I didn’t think I cared. But getting asked out by homeless men exposes all sorts of subconscious biases. I have to admit that when it comes down to it, at the end of the evening, I want the question “your place or mine?” to involve a choice.

Perhaps the most memorable guy was about my age, and relatively clean. He was so scared to approach me that he was shaking. He stuttered when he told me that someone had given him too much money, and I was so pretty, and he would love to take me out for a drink. I knew I wasn’t going to go. That was before I started drinking, so going to a bar with anyone was awkward for me. And I couldn't let him spend a quarter of his total worth on me. So I smiled and told him he made my day, but kept walking. That may be one of the most sincere and generous offers I ever get.

I was at Concert in the Park when I was approached by a much older black man, in an old-school yellow and purple Lakers uniform. He looked me up and down and asked me in a heavy drawl if I needed “a full-time, part-time or temporary man”. His delivery was good, and I thought he had balls, but a Lakers uniform? In this town? Oh honey, it could never work between us.

I didn’t see which guy shouted at me as I was getting out of my car. There were three of them, drinking on the curb in front of a bar. Vietnam vets would be my guess. But I had to laugh at “That’s a whole lot of pretty in one little place!” Thanks, mister.