The Fibonacci Sequence (of Love)

A long time ago, there was a young man who posed the question: “If I have two bunnies, and we put them together in a bunny love shack, how many bunnies will they exponentially breed over a year?”

Ok, so that’s not verbatim, but the mathematics behind it is important. I know you don’t spend your days contemplating mathematical equations and red hot rabbit sex, but stay with me.

The word problem of the breeding bunnies was formed by Leonardo of Pisa, otherwise known as Fibonacci. At least, he is the 13th century guy who was given credit for naming the sequence of numbers that would answer the question

To break it down, in the Fibonacci sequence you add two numbers in the sequence and the following number is their sum. Ex: 0, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 8, 13, 21, etc. etc.

I’m actually terrible at math, but in this instance, I have developed my own mathematical theory on dating: The Fibonacci Dating Sequence.

Essentially, you are at any given point in your dating life the sum of the previous parts—if you are able to take the lessons learned from those experiences and add them together. (And yes, the 1 is repeated in this sequence. We’re all young and stupid once. We get a free pass.)

For example:

If Amanda gets urinated on, and the experience right before that was the same boy clogging her toilet, the sum of this data = this guy is an incompetent (and incontinent) jackass.

The following date in the sequence—with say, a complete sociopath—combines all of the previous experiences leaving Amanda with the knowledge that she doesn’t like to be peed on and is not a fan of going out with sociopaths who lied about being engaged.

Instead of a dating learning curve, I have a Fibonacci pyramid of dating knowledge that can only culminate in one thing: me meeting someone who likes decent beer, has a functional bladder and has no lusty feelings for fish.

Yeah, there are flaws in my theory. There are people who date the same type of asshole over and over (and over) again. For them, I think there’s a missing sequence that they aren’t adding to their knowledge base. That would make it more like algebra.

X + halitosis = bad date + X

In this situation, bad breath may not seem so bad. But when X=melted all of your spoons to freebase, that would constitute a bad date. But if you forget the value of X and only remember the bad breath you get stuck in a spiral. The bad breath being the deal breaker, the spoon melting could happen again, perhaps with a different iteration such as a pesky little meth habit.

Since I have a deep loathing of algebraic equations, I’ve decided to stick with my original math dating sequence and remember the bad so it doesn’t get repeated.

Lesson learned: The most important part of bad dates is the lesson learned.

The Millionaire and His Date

I recently allowed my online dating profiles to expire. After a year of dating unemployed albinos, perpetually stoned baby haters and a guy obsessed with chicken waaaangs, I needed a break from the onslaught of topless man photos and “u look hawt” emails.

The last online Match that I encountered seemed very polite and well spoken in his emails so I agreed to go out with him just as my account went on hiatus. I typically restrict my first dates to just coffee but this guy seemed very enthused about going to George’s at the Cove, so I agreed.

I was alone in the bar enjoying a glass of wine when he walked in, and the first thing I saw was not my date himself, but his colossal man ring. It was enormous. I have never seen anything that large on a man’s hand outside of a Godfather movie. I didn’t even look up at him because my eyes were drawn to it as he moved his hands. When I finally did look up, I realized that my date was dressed like Thurston Howell III, the millionaire from Gilligan’s Island. All he needed was an ascot and the hat.

I try really hard to give guys the benefit of the doubt. I didn’t want to count this guy out because of his dated fashion sense or because he perhaps had an obsession with man jewelry. So I struck up a conversation with him about his job. His job has something to do with traffic management.

You know what’s more fun than sitting in San Diego rush hour traffic? Talking about it for two hours.

As I ordered my third glass of wine, I tried to change subjects to movies, books, music . . . anything but the I5 freeway! Alas, it seems all topics revert back to transportation.

The waiter gave me a sympathetic look as I drained my glass of wine and wondered how on earth I could get through dinner faster. If only I had eaten some bad sushi earlier in the day!

As we said good night, I hugged him and wished him well. We would not be going out again. It was like having dinner with my grandfather, if my grandfather was a nice person with a vested interest in highway construction. The saddest part, my date was only 28 years old.

Lesson learned: Well spoken and polite will get you far in Amandaland. Dressing like Thurston Howell will not.

The Good Beer

The Good Beer

As much as I love beer, I am not a beer snob. I’ll drink a finely-crafted microbrew IPA, or a can of BudLite. I just like beer. I like everything about it. It’s one of the most awesome beverages ever created. So a few years ago when my ex-boyfriend offered me a can of Miller Lite at a party, I thought nothing of it.

We had just started dating and this was the very first time I was going to his house to meet his roommates. They were having a party and ex-boyfriend was the only person I knew. As per usual, I wanted to make a good impression, which led me to be as awkward as humanly possible.

“Want a beer?” he asked when I’d been there for about two minutes.

Yes, liquid courage is what I needed. A can of Miller Lite would work as well as anything. So I cracked it open and proceeded to mingle.

Ten minutes later as I stood in the backyard trying my best to talk to ex-boyfriend’s roommate’s girlfriend, ex-boyfriend comes strutting out of the house with a Corona.

Again, I thought nothing of this other than “oh, Corona, I should find one of those.”

Perhaps the Corona had been brought in by a party guest for sharing?

No.

Apparently, ex-boyfriend had bought a case of Corona . . . for himself. The Miller Lite was for the party guests. The Corona, or as he called it, “the good beer,” that was ever so slightly more expensive, was just for him. After asking if I could have one, he said no and handed me another Miller Lite because that was what was intended for the guests.

Welcome to the party, Amanda!

Lessons learned:
A) Leave a party where Corona is considered “the good beer.”
B) Men who are unwilling to share one bottle of said “good beer” will not share other good things with you, like the covers, the remote control or their affection.
C) I should not be surprised that this guy still owes me money, four years later.

Merry Christmas, Amanda Brown

Last week, I went to Christmas party with my mother. At one point, someone asked me, “What’s your favorite part about Christmas?”

To which I replied, “The crushing blackness of depression . . . and candy canes.”

My mother was not exactly enthused with my response. Actually, a lot of people find my disgust at the holiday season disconcerting.

To clarify, I don’t hate Christmas. Christmas Eve and Christmas Day are right up there with Thanksgiving in my favorite days of the year. I’m a big fan of anything that revolves around presents and candy and general good will towards men. It’s also the one day of the year that my dad let’s me dip into his collection of high end single malt scotch.

What I don’t like is the six or so weeks of over-hyped romantic fantasies that involve mistletoe and some poor hapless girl finding finding the love of her life with the help of a fat burglar who steals baked goods. Do I really want to watch endless hours of Reese Witherspoon, or worse, Valerie Bertinelli find true love at Christmas?

It’s the time of year where every commercial talks about what to “get that special someone” for Christmas or you’ll get asked “who are you bringing to the New Year’s Eve party?”

The previews alone for the movie “New Year’s Eve,” made me want to shoot an elf.

Whatever holiday you celebrate, if you’re single, that over-merried gush of expected romance is inescapable. And if, for some reason, you don’t feel merry about showing up alone to another holiday party, there are the nice little pats on the arm and the “you’ll find someone this year.”

Can I not just be happy with my peppermint schnapps?

Lesson learned: In the words of Adult Swim, “Have a reasonably jolly holiday season.” And if anyone wants to give you a new year’s resolution about dating, feel free to stab them with a candy cane.

The Chicken Dance

About a week ago I received an email from a guy on Match. It simply said, “Can I ask you a question?”

I’ve got to give this guy credit for being an attention getter. If he’d sent me the same ‘ole crappy form email: “Hi, I’m a San Diego native who likes eating quesadillas and hanging out with my friends, ” I probably would have ignored him. But this peaked my interest, so I replied. His question was, “Do you know how gorgeous you are?”

Before you think I’m naive (well, at least about this), I am well aware that this is just a line that he has probably used on a lot of women. But what can I say, I’m a sucker for flattery.

We exchanged a few texts and he eventually asked to meet up. Great, I thought, I could use a nice date.  And then he laid out the details.

“It’s 25 cent wing night. We’ll get some wings and $3 long islands.  I could use some good waaaaaaangs.”

Wow.

It’s not that I have a problem with going to a dive bar, or chicken wings, or even quarters. But the last thing you say to a girl you don’t even know is, “Hey baby, let me buy you some sub-par chicken parts and turpentine cocktails.”

Let’s not even get into the messiness associated with eating chicken wings. Not exactly a first date food. My first dates usually consist of a cup of coffee and seeing if we can stand talking to each other for more than 30 minutes.

I asked him is he was trying to take me to Hooters for a first date, which he denied. Instead he asked me to a crappy bar in Pacific Beach. For those of you who are not from San Diego, Pacific Beach is where college kids go to kill their dignity on the weekends. It’s my least favorite part of town and I actively avoid going there.

But I was willing to go along with all of this until he started text messaging me. Not once or twice, but all the time. “What are you doing?” “Where are you?””Are you drunk?”

We hadn’t even met yet.

The texts began to morph into conversations that included various pet names for me (gorgeous, baby, etc.) and how fun it will be to get “f-d up.” Our date was on a Wednesday, which would mean no long island iced teas and probably not more than a glass of wine.

Eventually all of this began to remind me of a bad Lifetime movie about date rape. I decided we should meet somewhere else where I felt comfortable, and could perhaps enjoy something not deep friend and coated in butter. (OK, yes, I admit that I was worried about the potential for heartburn).

I asked if instead of “waaaaaaangs”  night, we could meet somewhere else. I suggested a bar closer to where he said he lived and ended my note with “in all honesty, I loathe PB.”

Mr. Chicken wings was not excited about the change in plans. He asked me if I was lining up other dates that night, and that he was craving wings and was not willing to move the venue. I also don’t think he understood the meaning of the word “loathe.”

After asking a few of my friends what they thought, I decided this wasn’t exactly the kind of guy I was looking for. We obviously have different priorities, his being chicken and mine being . . . not chicken. I sent a final text telling him I thought we might just have different expectations and perhaps we shouldn’t meet after all. Best of luck. To which he told me I was a judgmental bitch and he didn’t need my luck.

And the irony is, later that night, I was craving chicken wings.

Lesson learned: Sometimes it helps to use smaller words when explaining your feelings.

e-Male

A great tragedy befell me this week. My television died. I have a small one in the bedroom, but it’s just not the same. On the bright side, this has given me way more time to bond with the Internet! I’ve spent some quality time this week sprucing up my online profiles to see if I can stir some more interest from the single San Diego scene.

Apparently I’m stirring the wrong interest.

Recent emails from online matches have ranged from the awkward to the downright creepy. A 24-year-old with some lovely facial tattoos asked me if I’d like to come drink a 40 with him. Actually, I wouldn’t mind the 40, but could I bring his permanently tear-dropped face home to mother?

“Mom, this is my boyfriend. His name is Sad Clown Face.”

Another email simply said, “Mmmmm, will you wear your hair in pigtails when we go on our coffee date?”

That one actually frightened me.

A 38-year old emailed me with, “I like your laid back style. I just passed through a transition into almost full maturity. I’d like to meet you as my first dating experience of adulthood. Is there anything you would like to do that you have never done before? Or should I surprise you?”

He’s almost mature, but not quite. And what exactly does he think he’ll surprise me with? I’m terrified to imagine the possibilities.

My favorite email simply said, “I offer the truth. If you don’t want that, then you should move on.” Gotta hand it to him, it’s straight forward. If his profile picture didn’t make him look like a serial killer, I might have replied just out of sheer curiosity.

On the flip side, I send out dozens of emails that I hope sound normal.

“I liked your profile. Your picture with your dog is really cute. What type of dog is he? Have a great weekend!”

Not one of them has ever been answered. Perhaps I should start writing more obscure things.

“Hello. My likes: zombie films, beer, shoes and dogs. My dislikes: being urinated on, chick flicks and communicable diseases. Hit me up if you’d like to drink a 6-pack and then go shoe shopping and to the pet store.”

I’m pretty sure that would get a response!

Lesson learned: Never have any photos of yourself in an online dating profile where your hair is in braids. Apparently that sends the wrong message.

Supermassive Black Holes

Not too long ago, I went on a few dates with a lawyer that I met online. We had a nice meal, we had a few laughs. I liked him quite a bit. Rampant texting and emails were passing. I thought a third date was soon to follow. (I even listened to him tell me about his kidney stones, that’s how much I liked him).

And then he did what a lot of guys do, he disappeared.

I am now convinced that after a second date, a black hole opens up around me. This has led me to develop my theory on second and third dates. I call this theory: The Second Date Supernova.

For those of you who do not know anything about space, physics or quantum mechanics, I’ll break it down for you.

Black Hole = A deformity in the spacetime continuum that serves as a colossal vacuum and sucks in everything around it. Not even light escapes it. There are no happy things in black holes like double rainbows, unicorns or beer. A supermassive black hole is the largest of the black holes. I kinda think the term “supermassive” explains that though.

Supernova= This is the death of a star. As it collapses inward, it creates a vacuum, known as the black hole.  In my life, this is the death of my relative attractiveness.

Therefore, the theory of the second date supernova goes like this:

1. By the second or third date, man realizes that I am a Star Wars-loving, gluten-intolerant dork who watches way too many movies about zombies and has an obsession with dogs.
2. The spark in said man’s eyes begins to die. (the supernova event)
3. A black hole then forms around me as the center of the star (my relative attractiveness) collapses.
4. As the supernova continues to pull in all the elements around it (other dates) through gravity, it grows larger, creating a supermassive black hole.

And this, my friends, is how I have remained perpetually single. I am at the center of a supermassive dating black hole.

Lesson learned: There’s only one way out of the black hole of dating. Perseverance, makeup and going on more dates. In other words: Chin up and avoid the suck. (As in the vacuum of a black hole you perverts.)

Boomerang Effect

Last October, I briefly dated a guy that I met through a mutual friend. Alas, our romance was short lived and he broke up with me in a rather sappy email. Luckily, I didn’t really care. We didn’t have much in common and the he continually patted my hair like I was a golden retriever. Not gently brushing through my hair, full on scratching behind my ears. Because he happened to be 6’7”, a veritable giant who was unaware of his own strength , this usually gave me mild neck pain.

So I took our break up well, with the only quality about him that I really missed being that he could bench press me.

In June, I received an email from him after no contact for months. Intrigued by this turn around, I answered him. For a few days we shared a few email and texts, with no real expectation of ever seeing each other again. My thought: he had broken up with someone else and was looking for validation.

One night, while I was out with a friend and mildly tipsy, he started asking me to send him pictures of myself drunk and/or in various states of undress. I didn’t need a Scarlett Johansson scandal to tell me that that would have been a colossally bad idea.

After that, I told him I wasn’t interested in seeing him again and began a campaign of ignoring him. The problem: he text messages or emails me every two weeks. Like clockwork.  They never really say anything. The subject of most of these emails and texts are some form of “hey you” and “how’s it goin.”

While I have to admit, I’m mildly flattered by the attention (I get ignored by most guys I date), I’m not sure if I should be concerned. Is this going to eventually turn into a Fatal Attraction moment? I don’t have a pet rabbit, but I’d prefer to not find anyone’s pet boiling on my stove.

Lesson learned: I don’t think I’ve learned my lesson yet.

FAQs

Since I started my blog, I’ve received a lot of questions from readers (and from some of my friends) about my experiences with dating and being single. Here are some of the most common questions from my readers.

Q: These stories seem a bit far fetched. Are they real?

A: Yes, all of the people I mention in this blog are real people and the events are very real. I have in fact dated two men that were deported, one that fell off a cliff and yes, my mother did set me up with a guy with a breathalyzer in his car. I have always attracted strange people and circumstances, not just in dating.

Q: Do you only date assholes?

A: No, I try to go out of my way to NOT date assholes. And I have actually dated several nice guys. I am, in fact, still friends with many of the nice guys I’ve dated. Just because they aren’t terrible people doesn’t mean we’re meant to be together.

Q: Are you really that obsessed with zombies?

A: Yes. I love zombie movies. And I am also mildly afraid of an impending zombie apocalypse.

Q: Do you write about everyone you date?

A: No. I have had guys ask me not to write about them, and out of respect for their privacy, I don’t. There are also several guys that I’ve dated that are frankly not interesting enough to write about. (Do you really want to read about guys who play video games all day? They’re boring to watch let alone read about.) Plus, my blog is not about revenge.  I just want to share my experiences because frankly, they’re weird.

Q: Have you ever been in normal relationship?

A: Define “normal.”

Q: Why do you hate romantic comedies so much?

A: Because they are awful.

Any questions on dating or my bizarre life in general? Post a comment. I’d be happy to answer them!

Red Handed

Oh, Internet, I love you . . . but I also really hate you. I’m aware that I deliberately expose the inner-workings of my deflated love life by having a blog, but I had hoped to maintain some semblance of anonymity.

I try to protect the privacy (or at least the names) of every man I’ve written about. Alas, in the last week not one, but two men have said “so, I was Googling you and your blog came up.” Well smack my face and call me Susan.

And yes, the first entry for me is my blog. It was being regurgitated through my Buzz profile, which I had forgotten I’d even created.

Neither one of these blog voyeurs were particularly upset by what I’ve written, but it made me question: At what point do I say “I have a dating blog.”

Is it before the first date?

“Why yes I’d love to go to dinner with you at Osetra (it is my dream in life to eat there and see the wine fairies dangling above the bar) but first, can you sign this release that says I can make snarky observations about you? I won’t use your name.”

During the date?

“By the way, I will be rating your ability to kiss and making it public.”

Before the second date?

“I had a really great time last Friday! Of course we can go out again. Before we do, I should tell you that I have a dating blog. Don’t worry, my readership is fairly low.”

Lesson learned: I’ve decided not to blog about guys while I’m dating them unless they say it’s ok. Of course, if they do something awful, all bets are off. And as you know, with my dating karma, you’ll be reading something awful.