Saturday, December 23, 2017

Bumbling Through Bumble, Part 2: I've got a match. Now what? Crowdsourcing my love life.

So yeah. Bumble

I've been on Bumble for a few days now. I haven't gotten many matches*, but I have gotten EVEN MORE advice from friends. 

From Olivia (the little shit): If the guy is holding a monkey in his profile picture, you HAVE TO SWIPE RIGHT. 

From Courtney: Don't mention that you can't say "Alexa" when you're wearing your retainers. 

From someone who wishes to remain anonymous: Maybe you should be more serious in your profile. 

Hmmm....that's the least helpful advice ever. Especially the profile part. If anything, I want to make it more 'me' because I'm pretty sure men just look at the pictures and don't actually read the bio. So I should definitely update my bio. I mean, if I'm going to be single forever, I'm going to be single on my own terms. 

Current version: 


Under-consideration version:

I'm a goddess disguised as a Star Wars nerd in Converse sneaks. I run on sarcasm and Diet Coke. I love to watch football (American), football (what Americans call soccer), and Spanish telenovelas. I figure I've got a 54% chance of surviving the zombie apocalypse - 72% if there are still tacos in the apocalypse to give me something to live for. 


*I haven't gotten many matches, but I have had some. It's kinda cool. I get that match notification on my phone and I get a little excited. And then I get a little nauseated because clearly what I've been saying in my opening messages to my matches hasn't been working. And suddenly a phone app has me second-guessing myself. I can't decide. I just don't know. WHAT THE HELL AM I SUPPOSED TO SAY IN MY OPENING MESSAGE? 

That's right. Me, the girl who talks too much, the girl who talks for a freaking living, does not know how to open a conversation and/or flirt with a man. No game. I have no game. So I think I need suggestions (not advice, because my friends seem to suck at advice). 

Tell me how you think I should start up a conversation, and I'll use it if it's reasonable (by MY standards of reasonable you have a fair amount of wiggle room). And then I'll let you know how well it worked. 



Tuesday, December 19, 2017

Bumbling through Bumble. Part 1: Being dumb enough to tell my friends I went on Bumble.

So, I did a thing. 

I went on Bumble. For those of you who don't know (Mom & Dad, I'm talking to you), Bumble is a dating app. I uploaded some pictures, made a bio, and sent my high hopes and equally-low expectations out into the world. 

Almost immediately, it showed me men in my area. So many men. Most of them didn't even bother to write a bio! For some reason, that really bothers me. But they did post pictures. So many pictures. And every one of these pictures made me think the same thing. "WHY DO MEN MY AGE LOOK SO FREAKING OLD?"

Naturally, because I'm idiot, I posed this question to Facebook with the following post:





And then things happened...just not on Bumble.

Right away I got a message from a friend from high school giving me tips on which apps are best for finding nice guys versus finding guys who want to hook up. (For the record, I'm looking for nice guys.)

Immediately after that, my college roommate texted me saying she wanted to set me up with a lawyer she knows! She said he's my level of smart, so she knows to play to my ego. He's roughly 10 years younger than me. Hmmm...I wonder how she would sell this same set up to him. 

Immediately following the roomie text, Olivia (the one I have previously identified as "being a little shit sometimes") begged me to let her write my profile bio. She also begged to let me HAND HER MY PHONE AND LET HER DO THE SWIPING. (She's a nervy little shit, too.) To my credit, I was willing to compromise. I let her write a draft for my bio, I showed her what I had written, then we combined the two (see below). She's not getting anywhere near my phone, though.





It's very me. It's also very good that I have pictures to go with that bio, or everyone would think I'm a nerdy frat boy.

Anyway, since my profile went live, I've had a couple of matches. And I've sent a couple of messages. I have NOT gotten a couple of replies. Or any replies, for that matter. That kind of sucks. It's also kinda awesome because, frankly, I'm so bad at the dating/flirting/talking to normal people thing I wouldn't know what to do next. I suppose I could consult Facebook again...





Monday, December 4, 2017

One of those 'train of thought' derailed days....Stranger Things Spaghetti Night

I hate going to the grocery store. (Side note, when I was little, Mom told me to never, ever say I hate something because 'hate' is an ugly word. And it is. And it's exactly how I feel about the grocery store. Sorry, Mom.)

As I was saying before I rudely interrupted myself, I absolutely hate going to the grocery store. It's partly because I was a cashier through a few of my college years, and I still have nightmares about never-ending conveyor belts of produce that I don't know the codes for and I keep having to call for a price check, and the veggies are followed by SOOO MANY old ladies with coupons for things they didn't buy, and I wake up stressed and sweaty....

Anyhoo, I mostly hate going to the store because it feels a lot like what I assume going into the Upside Down would feel like. (If you don't know what that means, you need to get a laptop, a Netflix subscription, and a free weekend.) I feel a sense of dread as soon as I pass through those automatic doors. I wander around, lost and forlorn. The lights flicker, and I just know that Winona Rider is trying to save me. Demogorgons (aka...jerks with shopping carts) come at me from every angle, and when I finally escape, I just want a comforting meal of frozen waffles, or, in my case, some pepperoni pizza. 

Tonight, I managed to escape with everything I need for a great spaghetti dinner, which is pretty much the only thing I cook. And let me tell ya, I cooked up what we in Texas call a "mess" of spaghetti...which is to say I made a ridiculous amount so I can eat leftovers for at least two meals. I've always been amused by "mess" as an quantifier, and while I've never confirmed my suspicion, I'm pretty sure the term "mess" is derived from the amount of clean up a large meal requires afterward. Which reminds me...

Dear Prego, 

Have you ever considered selling your sauce in plastic jars instead of glass? I only ask because I'm a bit of a klutz who tends to cook barefoot. 

Please think about it.

Your faithful customer, 
Shelley

#HardToDistinguishSpaghettiSauceFromBlood