How Not to Date Starring KP

Things not to do on the first several dates:

• Inhale chicken wings. In the process, accidentally smear teriyaki sauce all over your cute, new halter top.
• Kick your date's ass at trivia. Beat him so well that you end up on the Recent Top Scorers Board at B-dubs. (Not a joke--I am the Queen of Trivia, apparently.)
• Practically hump date's car when you see how freakin' sexy it is. And I am not one to fall in love with cars.
• Go karaokeing. New boys may not be prepared to witness the glory that is my rendition of "Baby Got Back." It's a flight-risk.
• Suggest hiking as a fun, casual Sunday activity, not realizing that in warm fall weather the bugs will be out in full force, ready to feast on exposed skin. (A tip? Romance will likely not blossom when I'm busy squealing and scratching a multitude of new bug bites.)

Those who know me well should not be surprised by this list. Because I am nothing if not completely charming when it comes to dating. That list is in no way fabricated--ALL of those things happened in one weekend. And with one guy. Because despite me kicking some ass at trivia, smearing wing sauce all over myself, and tripping over myself to sing Sir Mixalot, this guy agreed to see me three times in one weekend. And he has continued to ask to see me. And! More than that! He gets excited when he sees me! (And don't even get me started on how well he can kiss because hot DAMN!)

So despite all of the charming fumbles I have made I think I have a keeper on my hands. And I now have a new descriptor to add to my title. As of last Thursday, I am not only KP, writer, diva, student affairs guru and dork extraordinaire, I am also this incredible guy's girlfriend. (Yay me!)

Stuck on his elevator

There is a legend among my coworkers that tells of a handsome elevator repairman. A devastatingly gorgeous man. A man who could have (and this is a direct quote) "stepped off the cover of a Harlequin romance novel." I did not believe my friends. I had never seen this guy. I didn't think he existed. He sounded too beautiful, too perfect for the central plains of Minnesota. I mean, seriously--I've been at my current job for over a year and I had never seen this man. I live right next to an elevator--one would think I'd have seen this guy at some point. But no. So I maintained that he was a figment of people's imaginations.

Until today.

After spending a decent amount of time in my friend's office I cavorted back to my hall to tackle emails. My hands were full, juggling iced sweet tea, my work bag and my keys and I was humming a random song from Glee. As I got to my door I dropped my keys, which then caused me to almost drop everything else. I cursed as I bent down to pick it up, nearly falling over in my heels as I did. As I shakily stood back up, I noticed a guy next to me in the hall.

Not just any guy. Harlequin elevator guy.

And he was stunning. Like, the most beautiful man I've ever seen in the world stunning. Not only did he have rippling biceps, dark eyes, thick hair and the perfect tan, but his voice was deep and his eyes sparkled. The world stopped, time stood still and I swear I heard an angel choir when he smiled at me. When he asked how I was I believe my exact words were "mmbblaahgood HEHEHEHE!" as I stumbled into my apartment to squeal like a tween.

One the door was closed I immediately called my coworker friend who thinks he looks like a romance novel hero. "AHHH! OH MY GOD HE IS GORGEOUS. My life is now complete because I've seen him. He. Is. GORGEOUS. He. Is the. Singular. Most. Beautiful man. I've. EVER SEEN. All I can do is giggle when I think about him--HEHEHEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!!!!" She just laughed. "I told you so!" We both squealed a bit longer before I said I needed to go and do some work.

I opened my office door and heard some rustling. A few seconds later, Mr. Harlequin emerged from the lobby area a few feet from my door. He smirked at me as he fiddled with some paperwork. I immediately started blushing and had to keep from giggling at his pretty-ness. But as I held it back a realization dawned on me: oh. My god. He heard my end of my conversation. Ohgodohgodohgod. No wonder he smirked at me!

This is the reason I will never be the stunning heroine (complete with creamy, bulging breasts and flowing, ass-length hair) in any romance. Because of my stupid mouth. But at least I caught a glimpse of the work legend. And at least I can giggle at his beauty. He may never be my leading man, but I can guarantee he'll make a cameo in at least one mid-afternoon, post-sugar high daydream.

Not OK, Cupid

I am the single girl in this duo of deviance. K-Dub is happily married and has been for a number of years. I, on the other hand, have been single for two years and counting. (Seriously, my last--and first--major relationship ended two years ago this week. I didn't plan this entry around this charming anniversary, I promise.) The break-up devastated me, so it took me a while to even feel comfortable with admitting that I was looking because I took myself off of the so-called market for so damn long.

It's only been recently that I've become comfortable admitting that I have a profile on OKCupid. I'm not necessarily doing the online-dating thing to find my life partner. I'm not dillusional. Rather, I consider it to be a sociological experiment of sorts. The sorts of men who occupy this site are, um, interesting to say the least. Here are a few of the responses I've received from the online male population since I activated my profile a month ago:

• "I have two kids, but I'm not tied down! Want to meet?" (No thanks, I do NOT want to become a mommy.)
• "You're pretty. I'm lonely. Want to have a cam conversation?" (GROSS.)
• "You're luminous! What kind of makeup do you use?" (I mean, I did say that I'm looking for a gay boyfriend, but I'm pretty sure that this is more of a pick-up line fail than a rainbow boy looking for new cosmetics.)
• "Want to take my virginity?" (Wait...WHAT?!? WHO asks this to a random hot girl online?)

After such an overwhelming response for these winners, it's no wonder that I'm contemplating taking down my profile and seeking out an application to become a nun. But before I do that, I want to share my rules for online dating sites, culled from the magical experiences I've had this summer.

KP's Online Dating Site Rules (Alternate title: Don't Be Stupid, You Stupid, Stupid Men)

1. Be honest. I don't believe any guy who says he's looking to connect and find a "genuine girl" or a "soulmate". If that were the case he wouldn't have photos of some half-naked girl clinging to him while he does a keg-stand prominently displayed in his profile. If you're really just looking for sex just say it. The same goes for guys who say they want a "real" girl. Yes, as long as by "real" they means "big boobs, tiny waist and is semi-literate" because they certainly doesn't mean "big mouth, curvy body and Masters degree". Trust me, I know.
2. Don't lurk. OKCupid has this awesome feature that allows users to see who is visiting your profile. So all of you 30-something, semi-cute guys who visit my profile every day? Either email me or stop drooling over my pictures, you creepy creeper. Shit or get off the proverbial pot.
3. No sexy talk. Women are like cute little bunnies. We want to be lured in with carrots (or in my case, carats--I like shiny things). By carrots, I mean refreshing, yummy conversation. In NO WAY can you have that kind of conversation if you're questioning us on our sexual preferences three minutes into an instant message converation. Save that shit for the third date, stud. If you wave around your, um, weapon, you'll scare the cute bunnies away. Or just have them laughing at your stupidity.
4. No body shots. I am a fan of mens' abs. I'm not stupid--I know a beautiful work of art when I see it. But if a guy's main profile photo is a closeup of his chest and abs I don't think "ooh sexy", I think "oooh looky! A douche!" Fine, show-off your bod if you think it'll help get you laid. But do us all a favor and pretend to have respect for yourself by not posting body shots as the first picture we see. You can post, like, ten pix. Can't the six-pack be photo #2?

There you have it. The simple rules of online dating. Unfortunately I highly doubt any of the men who need to read this will. But hell--it'll give me more fodder for my memoir if nothing else. A good story trumps a good date most days. So until I find my own perfect partner, I'll keep reporting back with stories from the beau battlefield.

For My Entertainment

After watching Adam Lambert's "For Your Entertainment" for the 267891st time, I've come to the conclusion that I want a boyfriend like him. No, not gay. (I already have about 12 gay boyfriends. Hi, boys!!) But hot. And not afraid to push boundaries. And act little naughty. Granted, I could do without the leather-spiked wardrobe, but apart from that Adam is hot. He clearly knows who he is and what he wants. And that? Is hot.

So yeah. I'm just putting it into The Universe. A boyfriend like Glambert wouldn't be the worst thing in the world for me. I'm just sayin'.

No Weddings and a Funeral

Having received yet another wedding invitation, I find it apropo to repeat my stance on weddings.

We know that the wedding dance entrance video on youtube makes me very happy. Not only because it is so freakin' creative, but because it actually made attending that wedding worthwhile for the poor souls that were invited. My reaction to seeing a wedding invitation in my mailbox is one of disgust and horror, likened to receiving an envelope full of anthrax. I am actually much more excited to receive a jury summons. Genuinely excited, I might add. I once wrote “Deceased. Return to Sender” on an invitation just so I didn’t have come up with an excuse for my absence. I thought it was quite amusing, especially seeing I worked in the same office as the invitor. She failed to see the humor in it. I didn’t like her anyway, hence calling in dead to her wedding. The mailman wasn’t happy with me either.

I've never been to a wedding where I've enjoyed myself. I wouldn't have attended my own if it weren't a requirement. I was, however, particularly amused by the premarital sex class that the state of Michigan required us to attend prior to getting hitched. Seriously. I almost brought my drawer full of contraceptives and other miscellaneous sexual sundries as payment for imparting such wisdom upon my long-deflowered ass. Anyway, every wedding I have ever attended has caused me to want to stand up and object to being there. One day I will get the nerve to do it, which will probably be prompted by my pre-wedding drinking routine. Until then, do not invite me to your wedding. I would much rather go to a funeral, as they are quick and easy, and no one wants to dance. However, if there were a DJ at the funeral, maybe then I would stay longer. Hollaaaaa.