Something Weird is in the Water


Some days, I don’t hate online dating. Like today. It’s actually not bad or frustrating or loathsome.

But it is fucking weird.

First let me say, I have profiles on several dating sites. And I have no shame about that.

  1. I live in a highly populated area, and it opens up several options and opportunities.
  2. It’s the best way to meet people considering my job has has me married to my laptop.
  3. It’s a good exercise in marketing. Let’s face it: If I can market myself, I should be able to market anything
  4. It’s just the way people date now. I can’t fight it. So I’ve embraced it.

With a few different profiles out there, I get several messages a week, most from nice, well-meaning men who are trying to do the same thing we all are: Make a connection.

And then there are the other messages.

8:00 a.m. The Tinder notification on my phone goes off: I have a new match and a new message.

“Hello. Nice to meet you. How are you doing?”

Not a great intro, but not bad . . . until I looked at his picture. There’s only one, and it’s of a middle-age man taking a selfie in his bathroom mirror with a t-shirt that says, “I pooped today.” No little marketing blurb about himself. No sexy smile, no “I’m this many inches tall,” no pics of his dog or motorcycle or surfboard. Not even an obligatory “baseball hat and sunglasses” pic that gives even the biggest nerd on the planet a slight hint of swag.FullSizeRender-2

All I know is he pooped. At least, today. And that, my friends, is not nearly enough information for a response.

10:18 a.m. I get a notification from Match. “You have a new message from ski_and_sand55.”

“Hi, how are you? You’re beautiful and just the type of woman I’m looking for. I’m interested in eventually taking a hotwife . . . is that a lifestyle you’d be interested in?”

A hotwife? Or a hot-space-wife? A trophy wife? Arm candy? What the actual hell is he talking about? So I asked.

Me: “I’m sorry, a hotwife? Can you elaborate? I mean, I don’t think I’m what you’re looking for . . . like, I have a job. And a house. And a brain. But maybe you can explain more?”

Him: “You’re a writer–look it up. Urban Dictionary.”

Smart ass. But I did. And here’s what it said:

Hotwife: A married woman who has sexual relations with other men with the husband’s approval. Usually while the husband watches or joins.

Ooooohhh, a HOTWIFE. Or, to put it another way, a man’s private little porn star. All I could think was, what about my profile said “hotwife material?” My pictures? My bio? A flashing sign on my forehead that says “I like to fuck other men,” only visible to the douchebags in the upper echelon of douchebags?

I didn’t owe him a response, but I sent a “not interested” and a “that’s not me” and a “I find that disturbing” anyway. Sorry, Charlie–go set up a profile on, you may have better luck.

2:00 p.m. Another Tinder notification: I have a new message from the “I pooped today” guy.

“No? Not interested?”

“Well, maybe you can sway me . . . tell me about your other recent bodily functions.”


But then again, I have an unopened message on OKC from a “starving artist”(aka, unemployed) hottie in San Rafael, a new match on Tinder whose age says 101 but he barely looks a day past puberty, and another on Match from a 50-year-old long hair who looks like he just stepped off a Guns N’ Roses album cover.

So dude, you better be doing more than just pooping to compete with the slew of messages waiting for me.

Nope. Today I don’t hate online dating. Today it’s my friend because it makes me laugh, it keeps me company and it makes me feel sexy enough to be someone’s hotwife.

If that’s not love, I don’t know what is.





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