by Sarah Fuller
Guess what I get for making my bed? Nothing. I simply do it so that the cat won’t get his hair all over my sheets. We need to teach intrinsic motivators. Guess what I get for busting my ass and writing a full-length book? Real money. That’s how it should be.
So I’d asked Eleanor to go pick up the floor while I finished off the cheeseball.
“Mommy! I think you need to come and see this,” Eleanor called from the entryway.
I came over, licking cream cheese off my fingers, to find her pointing at the ground. In front of her was a folded up ten-dollar bill.
“That’s weird,” I said, texting Samar immediately to ask if she’d lost it.
She hadn’t.
“I wonder…” I said, baffled.
Eleanor picked up the folded-up bill and opened it. “Oh, Mommy. I get it! ‘Tenfold’! It really is true. The universe really does reward good behavior.”
I was suddenly speechless. She was right! I could have tried a hundred ways to convince my child that karma was real and operating in her life, but in a single beautiful and magical act, the universe did it for me.
We still have no idea where the folded up ten-dollar bill came from, but it now resides in a picture frame in our entryway to remind us to always do the right thing. Give away your time, your money, your books, or whatever it is, and it will come back to you. But more importantly, do the right thing because it is the right thing, not for a reward.
Chapter Eleven
Guys Who Run Homeless Shelters are the Worst
I had been on Bumble, swiping, for a couple of months when my faith in humanity began to plummet. I couldn’t figure out if all men were morons, if it was just the ones in LA, or just the ones I matched with.
I actually paused my profile for a little while because I just couldn’t handle the absurdities. I’ve recently started it back up, and I’m not sure much has changed over the summer. However, if I’m not dating, then there are no ridiculous stories; believe me, I don’t make this shit up. How could I?
Online dating profiles really need to be renamed to “Pretentious outlines of traits.” It’s POT for short. I was going to add, “Subtle lies I tell about myself,” but that’s getting to be a bit long. I’m much more likely to swipe right (meaning I approve) on a normal guy with a plain background behind him who lists his general interests, than someone who has six shirtless pictures in his profile and says, “just a bee looking for his honey.” Do you know how many times I’ve thrown up reading dating profiles?
Dear men, if you have more than one picture of you at Burning Man, it’s probably not going to work out. And your ex-girlfriend is gorgeous, however, is there a reason you chose that picture of her with her arms around you for one of your six profile pictures? It’s not like this is 1990 and you have to go to CVS to get your roll of film developed. Just take another selfie. But please stop taking them in the bathroom. I get that you have abs and want to show them off, but I get confused when I see you with a bunch of urinals behind you. Setting is key, and you’re not framed very well in the In and Out Burger bathroom. I do like that you took off your apron, but I don’t think the customers would like to know that it’s currently hanging off the handle of one of the urinals.
Also, men, if I can’t see your hair because in every photo you’re wearing a hat, I’m going to assume you’re bald. If you’re not, take off the hat and snap a selfie.
I won’t lie, I will probably swipe right on you if you’re pictured with a stack of nachos. It’s just the way my mind works. Deep in the recesses of my convoluted brain, I think that if I swipe right on you, I will get some of those nachos—which aren’t allowed on the Keto diet, and it’s the saddest thing in the world.
Mr. Bumble User, posing with a really cute dog does not increase your chances of me swiping right. However, if you hold a kitten while bare-chested, I might be tempted to give you a shot.
Also, you should know that I’m studying your photos. Pick up your damn underwear off the floor. What, were you raised in a barn? And do your friends know they are in your Bumble photos? Also, if all of your photos are group shots, how do I figure out which one is you? I’m not a fucking detective—and if this is your way of saying you like orgies, then I’m glad I swiped left.
If you’re wearing a suit in your profile pictures, I’m going to assume you’re more of an adult than me. I’m sure you’re a wonderful person, but I’m swiping left simply out of intimidation. My dad wears a suit every day, and I don’t want to date him. The tenth Doctor also wears a suit, but with red converse shoes, which means he’s not all the way grown up. So if you’ve got on a suit, show me your shoes.
This really shouldn’t have to be pointed out, but if you have a Snapchat filter on every one of your photos, it’s going to be a hard no. Also, I don’t care that you got your photo taken with Arnold Schwarzenegger. Did you really think that I’d be like, “He’s got double chins and crossed eyes, but the one time he met the Terminator… I want some of that”?
If your profile picture is of you at a sporting event, I’m going to have to pass. I’m not judging, it’s simply that I know what I like, and sports isn’t on that list unless it’s women’s gymnastics. We all make choices with our profile pictures. They are supposed to tell our story. That’s why three of my pictures are of me at Hogwarts. If you don’t know what that is, we won’t work out. If you love Harry Potter but have only watched the movies, this shit won’t work. I get that I have high standards, but so does Elon Musk, and look where that’s gotten him.
To the guy who took a family portrait at Costco, I don’t even know where to begin. Does your ex-wife know that you have your children in your dating profile? Does she know that you take them to Costco while wearing a suit? Does she know that you’re letting little Cindy eat pop tarts? Yes, I saw what was in your cart. Those things are lacking any nutrition. Just saying.
Back to profile pictures. I am trying to help you, men, because many of you really don’t know how to capture a picture that doesn’t make me want to throw up on my phone. If you’re flexing your muscles in a race car, we’re going to go our separate ways. We have zero in common. I never want to go to a NASCAR event for as long as I live. I’ll only make you resentful that I can’t stand your hobby, and I’ll harass you about how much gas your muscle car wastes. You see how this will only lead to you turning into an alcoholic in an attempt to get away from my incessant nagging.
To the guy who is a giant, towering over all his friends in his photos: I’m sorry, this is just not going to work. I know women like tall men, but I can’t date someone who towers too high over me. It will give me issues. I’ll always fear you’re going to topple over onto me. I quit growing at age twelve, and although I keep taking my vitamins, I fear I’m never going to resume growing. Maybe if my mother hadn’t smoked through her pregnancy, I’d be tall like Heidi Klum. It’s fine. I’ve come to terms with it. I like being short; I’m comfortable on airplanes. Take your extra legroom back, I don’t need it. Because I’m an asshole, I like to stretch out next to the tall person beside me on the airplane and complain that I have too much room. Meanwhile, their knees are bumping against the seat in front of them, and they have a sour expression on their face. I kick my legs gleefully, my feet not even touching the ground.
If your profile pictures are all of you with sunglasses on, then I’m assuming you’re a serial killer. I get that it’s sunny in LA, but if I can’t see your eyes, it’s a no-go, psycho. Also, if you have a cigarette behind your ear in your picture, that’s a hard no. Back in 1997, I would have found it cool that you had a Marlboro hanging out in the wings, ready to be smoked, but that girl also used to get high and watch the Wizard of Oz while listening to Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. So I don’t really trust her judgment.
If your photos pass the test, then I’m going to move onto your bio. Please have a bio. You can’t coast by with your good looks and winning smile forever. I don’t need your life story, but tell me something that I ca
n use to start a conversation with. And keep in mind that I am grading you on grammar and punctuation. Extra bonus points for following capitalization rules.
This is when I’m going to sound like an asshole. I know, you’re shocked. This is the moment. I’m so shallow that I will swipe left simply based on a guy’s name. There, I said it. I’m sorry, but it’s sort of non-negotiable. If I can’t pronounce your name, it’s probably not going to work out. To Sieb, Piotr, Abdeslam, Efstathio, and Zurab, you all seem like really nice people, but I can’t roll my ‘r’s, and honestly, I still don’t know how to read using phonetics. I’ve memorized every single word I know, and it’s unlikely that I’m going to learn any new ones. But note that it isn’t you. It’s me. I’m an unwilling jerk.
Also, to the Garys of the world, I’m sorry, but we have no future. I just can’t take a guy named Gary seriously. Your name just rhymes with too many things: berry, dairy, merry… You get the point, right?
I actually dated a guy for a little while whose profile name was Gary. I was about to swipe left on him when something in his bio caught my attention. The first line said, “My name isn’t Gary.”
I was like, “What?”
We matched, and I told him he nearly got axed because of the name Gary. He explained that he was using a fake Facebook account for his profile. That should have been the red flag for me, but I’m sort of dumb when it comes to picking these things up. Anyway, things didn’t work out with “Not Gary” because he was one of those guys who has several fake accounts. Maybe a real Gary wouldn’t be so shifty. I’m not sure.
This is not your fault, but if you share the same name as any of my exes, it’s an automatic no. The list is sort of long, so that pretty much knocks out half you guys. Sorry.
I also will not date you if your name is an adjective or verb. Sorry Rusty and Dusty, but your parents named you after dirty, messed up stuff. That’s on them, not me. And to Tug, Skip and Pat… well, I really shouldn’t have to explain this, so I’m not going to.
If your parents didn’t have the good sense to give you the traditional spelling of a common name, I really don’t think it will work out. I will get drunk on mimosas at Easter brunch and tell your mother that she fucked up your life, Khris. It really is inevitable. No one spells your name right, and it really is her fault.
Oh and Je, your mom forgot to finish spelling your name.
To Blaine, Ashley, and Preston, no. Just no. Your names mean you were born with a polo sweater tied around your shoulders. We’ll never be able to relate, and you know that.
Also, if you’re Hispanic but look Asian, I might have reservations. The reverse is true as well. Honestly, I don’t think I’m dating any Asians or Hispanics this year, because I have my heart set on going as Rose and the Doctor for Halloween. I’m Rose, so you have to have David Tennant’s amazing hair. Oh, and not be Asian. Preferably, you’re British or can do an accent as you hold your sonic screwdriver. That was not an innuendo. Okay, I’m lying. That totally was.
Onto the bios. If you state that you’re a vegan, I’m probably swiping left. It’s not that I’m closed-minded. It’s that steak and mashed potatoes are my favorite thing ever. You not being able to share that pleasure with me will create a wedge over time. Also, the only thing I can make well is a cheeseball, so you can see how that’s not going to work. And, dammit, I’m not making the famous cheeseball with cashew cheese! My grandmother will haunt me.
After I match with a guy who has passed all of these profile qualifications, it’s up to me to respond. That’s where things get tricky for me. When responding to guys, I take the same casual, sarcastic tone in my prose that you find here. It helps to weed out the ones who take themselves too seriously or won’t be able to handle my dry sense of humor. However, according to my friends—who, by the way, are assholes too—I can be sort of a jerk. Call it a defense mechanism.
I was once at a bar with my asshole friend, Cheryl, the one who told me that I shouldn’t describe myself as a science fiction writer. Good lesson to pass onto our children. ‘Eleanor, don’t describe yourself as you are. Instead, come up with something that won’t frighten people away. That will ensure you are attracting people who won’t like you for who you are, and that’s key.’
Accountants, for instance, should never introduce themselves like that. To all the accountants out there, here’s a word of advice: When people ask you what you do, say you’re a zookeeper. Everyone fucking loves a zookeeper. No one likes accountants. It’s programmed into our DNA. When people ask you follow-up questions, invite them to pet your monkey sometime. You see how this conversation is going far better already than if you said, “I’m an accountant.” There are no follow-up questions to that statement, only sadness and awkward silence.
Anyway, Cheryl and I were at a bar, and these Australian hockey players come over to chat. I think I’ve mentioned that hockey is on my list of hard ‘no’s. I like good teeth and, let’s be honest, Mr. Hockey is not going to keep his shining smile for long. It’s inevitable.
The guys asked if they could sit down, but I’d already learned that they play hockey, so I said no. They laughed and took a seat anyway. One of the guys was six foot six inches and stationed so close that, again, I had that fear he was going to topple over on me. I scooted my chair back and gave him a scolding look.
“Why did you do that?” he asked. “I can’t talk to you way over there.”
I could have been polite, but I’d had too much wine for that, so instead, I said, “You’re too tall. We can’t talk.”
Because men love an asshole, he laughed, maybe thinking I was joking. “Would you like to play Jenga with me?” He pointed at the giant Jenga set in the corner.
I shook my head. “I don’t play games with tall people. They always win.”
He narrowed his eyes at me. “I’m sorry, have I done something to offend you?”
I rolled my eyes. “I thought that was obvious.”
Cheryl then gave me a disapproving look. “Sarah, he doesn’t know that you’re joking and this is just your dry wit.”
I shot her a look. “Am I joking?”
She laughed because she’s my friend and has learned never to take me seriously. But Mr. Hockey and I weren’t destined to be friends for many reasons. By the end of the night, he said I was the meanest person he’d met. Apparently, he didn’t like my jokes about how tall people take up too much room and aren’t economical, and how we should start breeding short people for downsizing purposes.
It is at this point that I should start making some apologies to guys. I’ll start with Mr. Hockey. I’m sorry that you don’t have a sense of humor, and that you have to duck when you enter a room. I realize you were trying to hit on me, but I was only trying to save you time and trouble. Your feet would hang off the end of my bed, and then my cat would end up scratching your toes. I was clearly looking out for you by being rude. You’re welcome.
To the guy who was holding a kangaroo in his profile picture: I’m sorry I said your dog looked strange. I’m an asshole.
To the guy who had red eyes in his profile picture, I’m sorry I asked if you were a robot. In my fictional world, robot boyfriends are real and pretty amazing. I’m obviously an asshole for insinuating that you were bits of metal, since you deleted me.
To the guy who put that he runs a homeless shelter in his profile, I’m sorry I asked if announcing that got you laid a lot. I’m sure that it’s the first sentence in your profile because your altruistic spirit is flooding out of you, and you can’t keep your good deeds to yourself. I’m sorry. I’m an asshole.
To the guy who was trying to be cute and said he’d once rescued a drowning puppy, I apologize for telling you that I actually rescued a real puppy who later died from internal bleeding. I realize that killed the romance and that’s why you deleted me. I’m an asshole.
To the guy who described himself as a writer, I’m sorry that when I found out you only blog, I said, “Oh, I write actual books.” I’m sor
ry. I’m an asshole.
To the guy who sent me his picture before he went into surgery, I’m sorry for only responding with a thumbs-up. In truth, though, I thought it was a little soon in our relationship for pre-op photos. I sort of apologize. Glad you didn’t die.
To the guy who deleted me after I said I spend most of my free time with my daughter, you’re a damn asshole. I’m sorry your momma didn’t teach you right.
To the guy who said he wanted to become an acupuncturist so he could put his hands on my body, you’re an idiot. That’s not how acupuncture works, but I feel like explaining it to you wouldn’t do either of us any good. You’re an asshole. And no, your come-on didn’t make me giggle like a schoolgirl, you creep. I’m sorry we share the same county.
To the guy who asked for my number and then immediately deleted me after I gave it to him, don’t sell my shit, asshole.
If there can be any takeaways from this, it should be that profiles need to be created with great care. You’re selling yourself to your future wife or lifelong partner or live-in girlfriend, depending on what you’re looking for. Also, the initial interactions are key. I’m sorry that I haven’t always been perfect with my pickup lines, but I was trying.
And to the guys who have been dicks from the get-go, there’s something you should know: I’m an author who crafts villains. If you piss me off, I will name the bad guys after you. I will model them after your bad behavior, and then I will kill them off—painfully.
Chapter Twelve
Obama is Under My Bed