by Sarah Fuller
I usually prefer to meet up with a guy soon after matching to see right away if there is any chemistry. That’s actually less time-consuming than sending long messages back and forth with a dozen guys. However, I was recently reminded of the importance of those initial interactions on chat. Some red flags can be raised in the very beginning.
For instance, I was messaging with this really pleasant guy. Yes, there was a bong store behind him in one of his photos, and in another, he was in the back of a truck with a slew of kids. My first thought was that it was highly illegal to drive with children in a flatbed, although that’s how I got pretty much everywhere growing up. We didn’t have these booster seats back in my day. Hell, I was usually hanging out of the station wagon window, trying to get away from my mother’s cigarette smoke.
Anyway, I told myself that I was being too uptight per usual, and needed to give this nice guy a shot. I messaged him, and through our initial interactions, I learned that he was one of fourteen children.
“Wait, what?” I messaged him. “You mean step-siblings, right?”
“No, it’s actually eighteen if you count my step sisters and brothers,” he replied.
I don’t mean to judge, but holy fuck! Overbreeding is a serious issue that I thought I got away from when I moved out of Texas. My sister has six children. When she used to bug me about having children, I’d tell her that she’d hit the quota for the both of us. I was not putting out babies to counteract what she’d done.
I’m sorry if this makes me an asshole, but I can’t date a guy who has seventeen siblings. I just had a panic attack thinking about the holidays. We’d no doubt be crammed into a double-wide trailer with a zoo of people who had all overbred, because the habit is actually hereditary.
As proof of that, the guy, it turns out, at the age of thirty-eight has three children. Two of those kids are in college, which totally blew my mind. Breeding is a learned behavior, and this guy had obviously learned that clogging up our systems with too many unwanted children was okay. To his credit, he spoke fondly of his mother, who birthed these fourteen children. She obviously hated free time and money.
Anyway, I totally went silent on the guy after this conversation. However, through those initial messages, I dodged a bullet that would have been fatal if I had gone out on a date with the guy. There’s no way I would have kept a straight face when he told me he was one of fourteen children. I would have offended him, and then his clan of a family would have it out for me.
Usually, I’m the one who says the stuff that pushes the guys away. I can say that confidently because of the many, many men who have ghosted me after I’ve said something. There was this one guy who was always scuba diving and traveling to Indonesia, Japan, and other exotic places. A real overachiever. Men who travel all the time and have expensive hobbies like surfing and golfing intimidate the fuck out of me. Also, side note, looking at a surfer’s abs makes me instantly want to do laundry. Bring that washboard over here, momma needs to wash up.
Anyway, this guy and I were chatting over text, and he said that he thought it was cool that I’m into space opera, and that it’s rare to find a female science fiction writer. I couldn’t just accept the compliment and be happy that a man found this aspect of my character attractive; no, I had to say, “Yeah, well, I love spaceships and blowing shit up. Deep down inside, I’m a nine-year-old boy.”
And he never responded after that.
That was fine because I didn’t know how to respond to his stories about backpacking across Europe or skydiving over the Andes on the weekend.
“That’s cool,” I’d responded. “This weekend, Elle and I got takeout and watched Mama Mia. Afterward, I had to explain to her about premarital sex. It was interesting. She totally didn’t think Meryl Streep’s character was a slut.”
I think I also offended this hot Asian guy. And before you say it, I don’t know why I had to mention that he was Asian. It’s just part of the context. Oh, and I’m off Asians until after Halloween, remember. However, this guy’s shirtless photo sort of earned him a swipe right. Also, I really had a great opening line, or at least I thought so. In the shirtless photo, he was holding an axe. Therefore, I couldn’t resist, and messaged him and said, “Hey, nice abs. You’re not an axe murderer, though, are you?”
I didn’t realize at the time that I’d objectified him while also insinuating that he was a crazy murderer. He never responded, so I think I overstepped some boundaries. I’m sorry, not sorry.
Since dating is so time-consuming, but not something I can keep putting off, I’ve figured out a system. On the weekend, Eleanor and I have slumber parties, curling up and watching Disney movies. Side note, yet again: I never watched the classic Disney movies. There was no Little Mermaid, 101 Dalmatians or Beauty and the Beast on my television. I grew up with older siblings, and my mother hated cartoons. This meant that if I wanted to watch TV, I had to settle for Law and Order or MASH. And my siblings, who were bigger and meaner than me, always got to pick out the movie rentals. Because of that, I watched Silence of the Lambs at age eight. I haven’t slept properly since.
Anyway, due to the neglect of my childhood, I’ve been trying to catch up on all the Disney movies I’ve never seen. While Elle and I are watching the Little Mermaid, I spend that time swiping. It’s what I do best: multi-tasking.
It’s getting easier to weed through the profiles, and I enjoy doing it while watching movies that disempower women. I’m sort of glad I didn’t watch the princess movies growing up; I might not have become a science fiction writer if gender roles had been engrained in me early on.
I know I discussed dating profile dos and don’ts before, but there are some reasons I need to revisit these lists. For one, there are literally so many things I see wrong with these profiles. Seriously, men, if you can’t present yourself in a way that doesn’t make me want to throw up, I’m not sure there’s much hope.
For instance, if I read another profile where a man lists sex as one of his hobbies, I’m going to scream. Oh, and fuck the guy who says, “Good sex.” And no, I don’t mean that literally—that’s what he wants. But the idiot thought that clarifying that he was into good sex was at all necessary… As opposed to bad sex? But that’s what I’m into. Sorry, it’s not going to work because of that.
Almost as worse are the men (and there are many) who state they like eating food. What the fuck? That’s like putting breathing on your profile. Can we stop putting obvious shit on our profiles?
Hey, I’m a woman from Earth. I breathe, eat and sleep. Looking for a man who is alive. I like to exist. If that sounds like you, swipe right.
And because LA is full of people who want me to kill them, there’s a ton of men who also put that they enjoy eating good food. Again, this isn’t necessary, but you’re not smart enough for me to even point this out. You should meet this dipshit who likes good sex.
Then there are the fuckers who state they like to have fun. “I like to smile and have a good time.” Oh wow, I’m glad you made that disclaimer up front. I fucking hate smiling. And a good time, no thank you. I’m going to swipe left while I eat my awful food and look for a guy with a micropenis.
As you can tell, I could go on and on about how guys put the most obvious shit on their profiles. It has become such a problem, that I literally have nothing to go off of when sending my first communication to them.
“Hey, Mr. Person. This is crazy, but if you can believe it, I like to be happy too! What are the odds? I think you’re my soulmate.”
Moving on. If any of your profile pictures look like mug shots, it’s a hard no. If you’re sipping on wine in your picture, I will probably swipe right, thinking that I get some of that wine. I will admit that I swiped right on a guy who had a picture of himself lying in bed with a plate of fries. He also said his refrigerator was stocked with canned rosé. I messaged him and asked if he was my soulmate.
I get that I don’t make the best decisions. But I’m also not looking for someone who sa
ys things like, “It’s too early to drink” or “Are you eating Doritos and drinking that expensive bottle of champagne I was saving?” That guy will beat me down. He’s the same guy who goes to a bottomless mimosa brunch and fucking doesn’t finish his first glass of champagne.
It’s acceptable to drink on Sunday if it’s at a shabby chic place that serves endless amounts of champagne. My friend Mike and I were planning a Sunday brunch.
He said, “Afterward, let’s go—”
“Whoa!” I cut him off. “There is no ‘afterward’ with brunch. There’s just napping.”
“I was just thinking we could squeeze in a hike.”
I shook my head at him. “I’m hiking to bed after loads of bacon.”
Anyway, Canned Rosé Guy and I strangely might have a future, since most of his profile pictures are of him drinking fruity cocktails.
Back to talking about morons. To the guys who have profile pictures of themselves lying half-naked in bed, from a distance, I know your ex-girlfriend took that picture. Actually, I can totally see her underwear on the ground. I picture her wearing your shirt. She obviously snapped that picture of you before she realized what a complete douche you are.
I don’t even like that term: ‘douche.’ When did a piece-of-shit man start getting called after something women use to clean their private parts? Why can’t they be called something that relates to men? And why is it that people refer to gaining courage as “growing a pair”? Or why is it if you’re brave, you have balls? Why can’t it be breasts? Why don’t you grow a pair of breasts? And don’t even get me started on the word ‘hysterical.’ Please stop using that word to describe someone who is overly excited. Hysteria means uterus in Greek. Go look it up. So when you say, “Stop being hysterical,” you’re actually saying, “Stop being a woman.” Female hysteria was once a medical disorder.
Okay, I feel better now that I’ve educated some people. Oh, and real quick, please stop calling wimps ‘pussies.’ You get why after my lecture, right?
Chapter Eighteen
This Isn’t the Time For Your Religion
Growing up in a town of predominantly “back porch” Baptists, I absolutely appreciate the religious diversity of LA. My mother used to say the only thing that outnumbered the churches in our town were liquor stores.
“If they build one, they’ve got to build the other,” she’d say. “That way, they can go to church all day, and then have a short commute to the bar.”
Don’t think for a moment that I’m criticizing Christians. I’m not. As an agnostic who was raised in one of the most controversial religions, I’ve got no room to talk. For all the strange things the Baptists do, they got nothing on me.
“If anyone asks what religion you are,” my mother began one day, “you tell them you’re a Methodist.”
“But we’re—”
“Shhh,” she commanded. “No one needs to know what we really are.”
Being a Methodist in my small East Texas town did make me pretty different. When I moved to the West Coast, though, I met all sorts of people who were much more diverse than being a different sect of Christianity.
When I met my first Jewish person, I did what I normally do with Jews and said something highly offensive; it’s a gift.
“Are you named after the Fleetwood Mac song, too?” I asked my friend Sarah.
She narrowed her dark eyes at me. “Uhhh…no, I’m Jewish. I was named for the matriarch of the Hebrew Bible, the wife of Abraham.”
“Oh, my mom named me Sarah with an ‘h,’ even though in the Stevie Nicks’ song, it is spelled differently,” I stated.
To be honest, Sarah without an ‘h’ doesn’t work. I hardly acknowledge those people when I meet them. The first thing I say to a fellow Sarah is, “You spell it the right way, don’t you?”
Without the ‘h,’ it doesn’t spell ‘haras’ (‘harass’) backward.
I now have many Jewish friends in LA. I revel in the fact that I get to learn from them about traditions and history that I was never exposed to growing up. And as a bonus, because we live in a predominantly Jewish area, my daughter gets the day off school for Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur, days we call “Beach Days.”
When my friend Nancy told me that the kids don’t have school during those days, I exclaimed, “Oh my gods! It’s like Christmas morning!”
I grimaced, realizing that in two short sentences, I’d offended my Jewish friend. Twice.
My friend Zoe and I meet at a Jewish deli on Friday mornings and go hiking from there. When we were first planning a place to meet, I suggested it, since there had been a string of strange incidents related to hikers in the area.
“Nothing bad happens at a Jewish deli, right?” I reasoned.
She agreed. “And we have the special emergency number for Jews we can call.”
She was referring to a sign that was posted in the parking lot next to the deli. It read, “In case of an emergency call 1-800-555-5555.”
“Why is it that you Jews can’t just call 9-1-1, like the rest of us?” I asked Zoe.
She laughed. “Our emergency services are better.”
“Just like your hair,” I said, admiring her thick, dark hair.
In LA, there’s been some controversy among various Jewish communities. My friend Nancy had to educate me on eruv, a workaround that allows Jews to take their children and possessions with them outside the house on the Sabbath and Yom Kippur. This mostly affects Orthodox communities. Boundaries are set to construct the “private domain” of the eruv, marked by various things like rivers or houses. However, fishing wire has been used in many instances, to create a boundary, and apparently without issue. But then some asshole outside the Jewish community comes along and throws a fit, stating that the fishing wire is a threat to birds of prey, and then the eruv is taken down, and the Jews can’t take anything outside their house.
“What do you think of this controversy?” I asked Zoe.
She shrugged. “I don’t care. But I don’t want birds to die.”
“Oh, so you’ll operate the same no matter what?” I asked, curious.
“I’m only Orthodox when I get super lazy on a Saturday night.” She giggled mischievously. “Then I tell my hubby he’d better get the light, since he’s the rebel amongst us.”
“You’re a bad Jew.”
She agreed with a nod. “I’m the worst.”
In all seriousness, I rely on my Jewish and Hindu friends to educate Eleanor and me. My friend Samar had her mother in town from India, and I was fascinated by the woman, making her explain all the various gods to me.
“There’s a beautiful Hindu temple in the Santa Monica mountains,” she said. “I’ll have to take you there.”
“Oh! I love that temple!” I told her.
She gave me a surprised look. “You’ve been there?”
“Yes, I used to take Elle there when she was a baby,” I stated. “On days when it was too hot for the park, I’d take her to play on the basement floor of the temple and let her crawl around the statue of Ganesha. The monks seemed to be okay with it since it was during off hours.”
The old Indian woman laughed. “You used a Hindu temple as a play place for your baby? Now I’ve heard it all. Samar explained that you were different.”
“I figured it was better than those disgusting play places at the mall,” I said.
But in all seriousness, I was fascinated by all the gods and rituals. Hinduism, an ancient and complex religion, has always been interesting to me. I think I’m more of a Zen Buddhist, but not the revolting type who walk labyrinths on the weekend and refuse to kill spiders.
The first time I met Samar, she told me her son was named ‘Krishna.’ I immediately said, “From the Bhagavad Gita!”
She later told me that she didn’t think a white girl like me would pick up on the reference so quickly.
“Girl, of course, I did. And besides, you’re like my sista from another motha…and father…and born on another continent. And w
ith brown skin.”
One day, I was explaining to Samar and her mother about pruning flowers. “You’ll want to wear gloves because the pollen will stain your hands brown and… Wait, I guess that’s not a problem for you.”
“Yeah, we don’t need gloves, Sa-RAH,” Samar’s mother said.
When she says my name, she rolls the ‘r’ and makes it sound like a musical note. I’ve started introducing myself to others saying my name with that ethnic flare: “SaRAH.” It earns me confused looks from people who thought I was just some white girl. Hey, I’ve got a pseudo-Indian mother, and my best friend is Jewish. I also have a best friend who is an accountant, but don’t judge me for that.
Although my mother was really strict about my religious upbringing, I haven’t continued that with Eleanor. It’s mostly out of laziness, if I’m honest. George is an atheist, which I tease him about, saying it’s because he lacks any creativity.
“Don’t you feel the universal spirit pulsing through you?” I’ll ask him because I know it pisses him off.
“No, I feel science. If it can’t be proved, it’s not real.”
“That’s shitty. Love can’t be proved, and yet we feel it…well, not for each other anymore, but you get the idea.”
He fucking flipped one day when Eleanor asked me where trees came from, and I said, “God.”
He whipped out a biology textbook and started reading it to her. Since then, I’ve sort of decided we can address religion later—like once George winds up in prison for some atheism-related felony.
However, I might have slacked with her religious education a bit too much.
The other day, we passed a large building, and Eleanor says, “What’s that?”
“Oh, honey, that’s a church,” I replied.
“What’s a church?” she asked.
Oh hell.
I’ve fucked up if my seven-year-old doesn’t know what church is. To my credit, she knows about karma and ‘tenfold,’ so I’m not a devil worshipper or anything. But other assholes have apparently been trying to educate my child about religion. She came home one day and asked, “What are we?”
