Cops and Tattoos

Imagine my surprise when he told me, "No, I'm allergic to the ink."

Perhaps I was getting ahead of myself when I assumed that surely, just surely, he would have a tattoo. At least one. Or perhaps I'd been watching too much TV which led me to believe that all cops have some sort of permanent ink, no matter how small.

I rolled over on my side on the couch we were both sharing and peeled my eyes from Pawn Stars just long enough to give him an inquisitive look.

"Really?" I asked.

"Really. My mom is allergic to whatever they put in the ink. So I figured I would be too."

I rolled back over with my back toward him and secretly smiled. Little did he know that I actually joke to my friends about being allergic to the ink as well. My fair skin never took well to things like wool... I wasn't going to chance a limb with permanent ink.

Besides, I've never really been that girl who's attracted to the guy covered from head to foot in tribal patterns, latin phrases and initials of his ex-girlfriend that have been replaced with a nice little collage of skulls, X's and daggers.

Nope, can't do it. It just doesn't get my blood boiling.

And here's my reason why:

I dread having that inevitable conversation with my mom. You know.
This one:

Mom: "He has tattoos."

Me: "Yes, Mom, I know."

Mom: "Those are permanent."

Me: "Yes, Mom, I know."

Mom: "Well, that laser technology gets better and better everyday, but I still don't understand how someone can do that to themselves."

Me: "Yes, Mom. I know."

Add this to the fact that my last boyfriend swore up and down the first tattoo he'd ever get would be in honor of his friend who died in a motorcycle crash, but as soon as we broke up, he got a skull and cross bones of a redheaded girl with "poison" written in the middle. Nice touch. Definitely not subtle, but nice way to memorialize me forever on his right calf.

So to say I was relieved that the cop didn't have any tattoos was putting it lightly. Something that permanent should have much thought go into it, I felt. Not that I'm against all tattoos -- I'm just against the ones that aren't well thought out.

A good friend of mine once told me that if you wanted a tattoo, wait a year. If you still want the same thing that same time next year, then go ahead. But if you changed your mind in the last year, you'll thank yourself you never went through with it.

"What about you?" he asked, as he flipped the channel back to How I Met Your Mother.


"Tattoos? Oh, no. No, none for me." I smiled, but he couldn't see it since my back was toward him.

He was earning points very quickly with me, and he didn't even know it.

-- Miss Matched

Smart Phones Are Date Dumb

NOTE: Yes, I'm aware of the irony, since I posted this with my iPhone.

Don't get me wrong. I love my smartphone. I wouldn't trade it in for anything. But it just doesn't understand my dating life.

Like, for example, when I go to search the web. It takes me to the last page I had visited (last three pages, rather), and it's a reminder of who didn't work and how I awkwardly shot them down or let the "relationship" fizzle into virtual thin air.

To illustrate:

My browser opens up to the IMDB page of Kevin Connolly.

Why was I Googling Kevin Connolly? Because as my second date and I were walking in the park, we got into a (non-serious) argument about who "the little dude" was in He's Just Not That Into You. Lawyer guy was correct, I was proven wrong.

So when my browser pops open to that IMDB page, I'm instantly reminded how I tried to let him down easy with the pathetic line of, "But I'm afraid I might wrinkle you!"

(Yes, that lawyer. The one who I deemed to be too "fancy.")

And then there's the other webpage that opens up to reveal "hello" defined in many different languages ("jambo" is hello in Swahili, just for your daily dose of FYI trivia) because the divorced single dad and I had a text message volley going with international flair. We stopped when we got to Japanese. I got tired of having to copy and paste what I was going to text, translate it, and then re-copy and paste it... All for the sake of an "lol."

So, smartphone.... If you're so stinkin' smart, why don't you NOT remind me of the dates I "dumped" and ease my conscience the next time I feel like Googling something?

Just sayin'.


- Posted by Miss Matched using BlogPress from my iPhone

First Date Outfit (the LBD)

I have another "first" date tomorrow.

{Freeze frame: I'm not sure why this thought is just now occurring to me, but tomorrow was not smart on my part. Tomorrow is Valentine's Day. That could be extremely awkward. This date might have to be postponed. I'll keep you posted, dear readers. Now back to the story...}

It's supposed to be coffee and conversation at a nice little local place. Having had three "first" dates already (meaning three separate dates with three separate men), I've decided I need a "first date outfit."

Here's my logic:

I usually stress over what to wear, how to fix my hair, what accessories to use, etc. etc. However, I've decided that having a designated "first date outfit" cuts down on all that. Just wash... and re-wear.

It's a cute LBD (for all my male readers out there, that's short for little black dress), and I can dress it up or down depending on jewelry and shoes.

Granted, if I run into any former first dates or visit the same venue too many times, the waiters might start questioning me...

But for now it works. As long as I don't get too date-happy and keep them spaced out with days in between to do the laundry, I'm set.

Resourceful and efficient... don't you think?

The Cardinal Sin (of Match.com)

I just committed the cardinal sin of Match.com. I'm way in over my head at this point. I need a Match.com assistant, and I'm not even joking. I'm preparing to start an Excel spreadsheet tonight.

No, it's not that I have a lot of suitors. I just have a lot of potential suitors. And I'm not complaining. I mean, I know it's a good problem to have. Believe me, it's not like I'd rather be in Sheldon's shoes (any Big Bang Theory fans out there?). The more matches available, the better chances I have, right? However, I was just not prepared for the sheer volume. 


So back to the cardinal sin...

I was busy enjoying the day with my parents (they came in town to visit), and while hanging out in town, I used the Match.com mobile app (which could use so many upgrades and tweaks, but that's another story for another time) to shoot off a quick email to a guy who told me his account was expiring. Not sure if guys use that as a line to get your phone number faster, but anyway... it worked. I sent him my phone number via email (instructing him to use it carefully, since it's my only one...ha).

Hours later, and I had forgotten all about that little email until a text message pops up on my phone from a number I don't recognize...

(XXX) XXX-XXX: Lol, your number is in good hands :-)

Me: Lol, let me guess... Dan?

Five minutes of racking my brain. Then 2.3 split seconds to realize I never sent a "Dan" my number. Frantically, 1.4 nanoseconds to try to figure out what to do next. SHIT.


Me: Wait! No... Kevin? C'mon help a girl out!

That's it, play the "do me a favor, help me out" game. Somehow, I still don't think this is working. I'm digging my own grave. Shit, shit, shit. What if he's not even a Kevin? Then I've gone and screwed up TWICE!


Me: Ah crap, I just ruined this conversation, didn't I?

Yeah. Keep it light-hearted. This will be a good test of his sense of humor at the very least, right? Oh God... Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! 


{Five minutes of stressful silence, and no "bing!" from a text message in response}

I just dug my own grave. I committed the cardinal sin of all sins on Match.com. I forgot his name! Or rather, I got him mixed up with ANOTHER GUY. What am I doing? I am way in over my...


{Bing!}


Him: Lol Dan, huh?

Well, at least he has a good sense of humor. However, he *still* didn't leave his name.... SHIT.


-- Miss *Match*ed

Oh my god, I'm in love with an email

I realize this is my very first blog post. I'm a little behind. To be specific, I'm about two weeks behind. But everyone loved Star Wars, and that started four episodes in. I'm hoping my critics are lenient. Or at the very least, willing to travel down a couple week's worth of memory lane with me later.

My goal for this blog is to document the good, the bad and the... well. We'll just have to find out when we get there, won't we?

I want to document my online dating adventure, well, because I'm convinced that's what it could be. A grand mix of butterflies, awkward half side-hugs, and two people reaching for the check. It could also very well be an adventurous disaster, but that's just better fodder for future blog posts, am I right?

With that said, and with no further ado, I'm going to jump right into what happened tonight...

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Day 15: Otherwise known as "I'm in love with an email"
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He emailed me back. He emailed me back. He finally! emailed me back. That's all I could think. I was giggling like a silly little schoolgirl. I'm 27-years-old.

Flashback: A full 8 days had passed and no communication. (No, I wasn't counting.... All right, fine. Maybe just a little.) But it wasn't the longest 8 days of my life. I'm not overly melodramatic, mind you. The back of my hand has never hit my forehand, and I've never fainted a day in my life. But the absence of communication was present -- it was on the back of my mind. I hadn't heard from him, and this is when my overly-analyzing self comes out in full force, with its twin cousins, fear and worry.

Stupid, stupid, stupid. You were too forward. You shouldn't have given him your cell phone number. Stupid! What were you thinking?


Let's rewind a bit, shall we? It's January 31. The weather is a little chillier than normal. I sit down at my computer and log on to Match.com. Before I know it, these gorgeous brown eyes are staring back at me from my screen.  In all my five days of being on the site, I hadn't seen a profile picture so gorgeous. Too gorgeous. Wait...

Does Match.com install dating "spys" to scour their site? He's too perfect. This can't be real. And he emailed ME first.

All conspiracy aside, his email was far from generic. He was warm, sincere, and oh... did I really just read that? He said he has a slight British accent.

Note: From here on out, we'll refer to him as British guy. I'm keeping all usernames/real names/nicknames and the like private for my sake and everyone I correspond with.

So... back to present day. After not hearing from British guy in 8 long and grueling days, I see it. Another email. From him. God, it's beautiful. It's just like his picture, but with nouns and verbs and beautifully placed adjectives. I love everything about it... his warm introduction "Very nice to hear from you!" to his funny use of English phrases: "I've got an early get up tomorrow" and "shall I" and "arse." (Yes, he used the word "arse." That story to come later.)

But his sense of humor is just as charming. Funny, self-deprecating... it was all there. As was my cell phone number. He now had it. There was no turning back. The ball was now in his court.

Only, that was the problem. This wasn't a game to me. This was real. I was officially in love with an email. A gorgeous British email.

More to come...