In defense of OKCupid

So, a lot of people complain about OKCupid. Heck, I complain about OKCupid. But, having experienced the magic of paid dating sites, I gotta say, I think OKC is pretty great. I've been on Match for a month and a half so far, and have gone on... ONE DATE! Well, there were two guys who I was supposed to go out with and then stopped responding to, and I have two more dates coming up soon. But still. My one date was totally lackluster (thin lips -- yuck). I dunno, it just seems like all the men there are very square, and also weirdly tall. OKC is more like real life -- there are a lot of people who aren't necessarily looking for a girlfriend, but they are interesting people and it doesn't feel like a meat market. Plus, as Slinky always complains, there are a lot of short guys on there, which works well for me.

I've had some bad experiences, of course, but overall I've met some pretty great guys. The Doctor was fun for a while, and it felt good to date someone immediately post-breakup who really wanted me to be his girlfriend (even if his level of attractiveness made that utterly impossible). Paul McCartney was cute and it was fun to kiss him and to be reminded that I CAN find cute guys online and don't have to compromise. It was annoying how the Brazilian acted like he really liked me and then just disappeared into a chocolate-filled black hole, but still, I can't say I'm sorry I met him and I do think he's a nice guy. When he's famous for his futuristic chocolate-making machine I can say that I once dated him, and that he wears unattractive black briefs.

And, I'm really glad that I met Le Canadien. I haven't heard from him in a few days, and guess what -- I don't care! I think I have mastered the art of having a fling, and I have him to thank for that. I hope that I do hear from him eventually, but mostly just because I really want to have a French-speaking friend in Boston. And it would be fun to make out with him again.

Finally, I love OKCupid because their blog is awesome. They write about all the foibles and intricacies of their site, most recently the lies people tell about themselves (exaggerating their height, income, etc.). They've also written extensively about racism on their site, which made me determined to date some non-white people -- so far, it hasn't happened (the Chinese architect stopped responding and then dropped off the site), but I haven't given up. I feel good about using a site that has such an honest, transparent approach, and if I don't meet my husband there, at least I hope to meet some friends.

Plus, I have an OKC date coming up (I think) with someone I am VERY excited about! I haven't been this excited for a date since Le Canadien. Keep your fingers crossed for me.

Changing the world, one man at a time

I went away to beautiful, bucolic Martha's Vineyard this weekend for a brief getaway with my college roomie and her family. Unfortunately, my mind was filled with disappointment and chagrin after my latest unpleasant encounter, courtesy of Le Canadien, and a fruitless 6 months of dating. It's not that I expected to meet my next boyfriend in the first six months, but the rudeness and lack of communication I've encountered are disheartening, to say the least. Not all of my friends have experienced this, but lately I've been talking with a few friends about how it seems that some people believe that, when you meet someone online, the normal rules of politeness do not apply, and one can be more blasé. Of course, I've had plenty of experiences of people I didn't meet online being rude as well...

Two days of sand, sun, babies, beer, and gingerbread architecture later, I felt better, though still not excited to get back on the wagon. I did anyway, but with a new mantra: "Believe the negatives, ignore the positives." A real, professional dating guru -- though, in my opinion, no more qualified than my non-professional gurus -- recommended writing this and posting it on one's mirror.

Furthermore, I made a decision. For my sanity's sake, when people are rude from now on, I will inform them of what they did that I didn't like, and tell them how I wished they had behaved differently. I'll do it in a friendly, polite manner. Culprit #1, the Brazilian, has already received his missive. Now I'm contemplating whether it is worth my while to vent my feelings to Le Canadien or not; it's hard to even think of what I might say to him. Some of these guys are just beyond hope.

But who knows, for the ones who aren't quite beyond hope, maybe my email will help them to be more upfront with the next unsuspecting female who crosses their path.

Noteworthy

Over the past few days I've done three things that I am feeling good about:

#1 – I joined a paid dating site (match.com) after several fruitless months on a free site (okcupid.com). I like okcupid for a number of reasons, especially how great their blog is -- I give them lots of props for writing about racism on their site. But I feel ready to say goodbye to the men I've met on there and move on to greener pastures. I have high hopes that people will be a little more serious about dating on a paid site. So,

Goodbye, annoying men who I wrote to and never wrote back to me. I expected a 50% reply rate, more or less, but it was waaay lower – I would think that men would be excited to get an email from a smart girl who doesn't look like roadkill!

Goodbye, even more annoying men who replied once or twice and then stopped responding, even after I wrote on my profile that you shouldn't bother writing to me unless you're interested in going out with me.

Goodbye, ugly doctor who I thought was nice and could be my friend until he disappeared.

Goodbye, cute guy who bought me a lot of drinks and kissed me and then never called.

Goodbye, guy I met in real life who I wasn't into but went on two non-dates with.

Goodbye, New York guy I met at a party, flirted with, decided I wasn't into, then awkwardly and accidentally clicked on him the very next morning.

Goodbye, chubby guy who liked me a lot. Sorry it wasn't mutual.

Goodbye, Brazilian. All I can say is, oof. At age 30, you should really have learned to be a better communicator.

Hello, men on Match! Now, if only I can get Slinky to join so we can compare notes and look at each others' dates...

#2 – I did the first of two training sessions to become a Hospice volunteer. My Wise Woman is a Hospice social worker, and she encouraged me to do so and told me it is never too early to begin preparations for one's own demise (dark thought, I know). I learned all about the “cocoon of denial” last weekend, which is what people are in when they haven't accepted that they are dying. You can't force someone to come out of the cocoon – they're in it because they need its protection and aren't ready to come out – but they always do before the end. It's a handy concept that I envisage using in many non-death scenarios. For instance, kid says, “Ms. Heathen, I didn't hit Anthony! He's lying.” “Okay, Anthony will be waiting for you to write him an apology note whenever you're ready to come out of your cocoon of denial and admit that you made a mistake.”

#3 – I womaned up and asked out my handsome young co-worker, Babe in the Woods, who I've been flirting with on the playground for months. Well, “ask out” might be too strong a phrase; I certainly didn't say to him, “I like your sneakers. Do you want to go out with me?” as my friend Li'l JC suggested. But I did tell him in the course of a conversation about growlers that he is welcome to join me at the Harpoon Brewery for a tasting. I'll have to follow up next time with a repeated offer that I would love to fill up my growlers with him anytime.

Flirting & chocolate

I received a package with the earrings I accidentally left at the Brazilian's house in the mail yesterday, along with a friendly text message: “Sorry it took so long! I would love to get coffee when things calm down.” His Flickr page displayed a beautiful new photo of his chocolate machine, which gave me a little twinge of longing, as well as a rumble in my tummy (it really does look delicious). On my gchat list, his name continued to appear with a little red stop sign next to it, along with a note that he is busy.

I have to admit it: I haven't totally, completely given up on him. He may never contact me for that coffee, and it might be better for me if he doesn't. But part of me continues to hope that he will, and that the project he is working on has been an anomalous fluke of busy-ness that has made him ridiculously unresponsive. Not that I've given up looking, but none of the boring men I've gone out with recently or even the cute, Bambi-like Babe in the Woods, my handsome young co-worker, quite lives up to him.

Last week BITW and I were having our regular Monday afternoon flirt session on the playground when we had the following conversation:

Me: Do you want to become a classroom teacher one day? [Correct answer: yes.]

Babe in the Woods: God, no!!! I really don't want to work with kids.

Me: [Disappointed] Oh. It's funny that you've been working with kids for the past four years and you don't like them. Well, what DO you want to be when you grow up?

BITW: I majored in writing in college. This whole 'working with kids' thing was unplanned. I want to go to grad school eventually, but I really have no idea what for. Maybe get my MFA in creative writing.

Me: Oohhh. [Mentally thinking: Wow, if this guy were on an online dating website I wouldn't go out with him. He seems utterly directionless. But he IS very cute.]

Me again [as a young child frolics past us]: How can you resist them? They're so sweet!

BITW: I do like the young ones.

Me: You could teach the young ones! We need more men in elementary classrooms. [Mentally thinking: He's young and malleable. Maybe I can shape him into what I want in a man.]

BITW: True... [in a not-very-convinced voice]

It was a bit of an eye-opening reminder that 25-year-olds do not always make the best boyfriends.

So I continue to gaze at the little stop sign next to the Brazilian's name, and wonder if he will eventually call and turn out to not be such a disappointment. I tried to block him recently, and mysteriously it didn't work; even though he was listed as “blocked” in my address book, his name and stop sign were still on my list. The only way to get rid of him was to completely erase him from my address book, and if I did that there would be no turning back: he'd be gone forever. I don't feel quite ready to take that step.

Frogs & More Frogs

When I finally heard back from the Brazilian, my heart leapt. He told me that he still likes me, and that he wants to see me again. My first instinct was to write back immediately and say, “Yes!! When?” But I restrained myself, and upon reflection decided that there are about a million warning signs that he would make a terrible boyfriend, and I needed to cut him loose. So I did, and then I texted him to ask if I could pick up my earrings. Guess what – no reply! Something tells me he never bought me a bottle of grappa, either.

Then I went out with someone else, a guy my friend had a massive crush on two years ago. He asked me out and I said no, but he persisted, and I finally agreed, with the caveat that it was as friends. For a brief moment I wondered if I might like him, especially since my friend thought he was such a great catch. But I think he's just not the one for me. I am turned off by so many things, ranging from Seinfeld-like nitpicky details like I don't like his shoes to major red flags like he lied to my friend when he broke up with her. Really, the best thing about him is that he likes me. But that's just not enough.

Which leaves me back at Square 1: flirting with my cute, too-young co-worker, Babe in the Woods, who will probably be ready for a committed relationship in ten years or so, who may or may not have a sneaker fetish and does have a very cheesy tattoo about love on his bicep (mental note for a future flirtatious conversation topic: ask about it next time I can see it peeking out of his sleeve). Who knows, maybe this will be the week when I finally work up the courage to ask him to go with me to the Harpoon brewery for a second round of growlers. Or maybe I'll go invest in some snazzy sneakers in the hopes that they'll catch his eye.

"The Classic Dip'n Run"

I was introduced to a new term by my friend Slinky last week: “the classic dip'n run.” This is apparently what has happened to me with the Brazilian.

The first thing that comes to mind when I hear the term is a similar expression from Michael Chabon's amazing book, The Yiddish Policemen's Union. The expression is “dip his beak into him/her,” and it refers to sex (yes, it's totally gross and I love it because it aptly conveys the sleaziness of many of the male characters in the book). Dip'n run could be interpreted as a reference to a man who disappears after sex. However, I choose to interpret it in a nonsexual way: my personal definition is that it refers to a situation in which a member of the male species tries out a relationship with a female for a short time, dipping into relationship territory, then flees out of fear of commitment, weird personal issues, or other mysterious reasons. (Who knows what they're thinking; when I asked my friend Li'l JC this question, she responded, "They're not.")

Presumably, the Brazilian made it back to the U.S. after his extended, volcano-induced stay in Europe. However, he has neglected to contact me, and I have not received a response since sending him a questionnaire several days ago inquiring if he a) is too busy to have a social life, b) doesn't want to see me again, or c) eloped in Europe and is no longer single. This is frustrating for a number of reasons, number one being that I left a pair of cherished earrings at his house, and number two being that I haven't seen him in a month but have spent much of that time thinking that he was excited to see me again. I didn't just think that because he offered to bring me back a gift from Italy or talked about going to the Cape together this summer, I also thought it because when I told him to let me know if he didn't feel excited about going out with me again he replied, “Still very excited!! [Please note the two exclamation points] I just haven't slept very well lately and spent way too much time in a windowless shop. Sorry about that!”

Another reason that I feel frustrated is that, in my humble opinion, he is significantly less attractive than me. This is a first for me; usually I have boyfriends who I consider to be my equals in attractiveness, but I liked the idea of being the more good-looking person in the couple, and plus I did feel attracted to him. If I were the Brazilian, I would be very excited to date me, and I would certainly not play with my emotions in this inconsiderate way.

I do feel a bit disappointed that I won't get to see the Brazilian's futuristic machines or taste the allegedly delicious chocolate that they emit, but in the end, I got few fun days with him and a whole lot of anxiety and annoyance. Not worth it. And if anyone thinks I'm going to mope around about this minor setback, think again! After my ordeal with La Moustache, this is child's play. As my friend Li'l JC put it, “You are more seasoned than a good wok.”

Breaking In Spring

I have a lot of things to be excited about today. It's the first day of spring break, for starters, and despite the rainy, 40 degree weather, in my mind it's sunny and in the 70s. I launched Spring Break by attending a champagne tasting last night with a fellow refugee from NYC, and we got happily drunk, criticized the fashion sense of Bostonians and the orange-pantalooned Frenchman who gave us a talk about sparkling red wines, and got temporary wine tattoos which made me feel surprisingly sexy. I'll be heading to New York for vacation in a few days, and have lots of exciting plans like shopping, going to the Bronx Zoo, visiting my Wise Woman (isn't that part of everyone's vacation plans?), and of course catching up with friends.

I also received a gigantic box in the mail this morning containing my spring wardrobe from my friend Style Mummy. She's a fashionista who is a few years my senior and owns a trendy boutique in Park Slope, and since we happen to be the same exact size, she gives me her copious hand-me-downs (including shoes & the occasional bra). I know not everyone is as excited about clothes as I am, so I won't go into the details, but I'll just say that I'm super excited about the contents, especially a few Velvet items and a Diane von Furstenburg skirt. She's now been outfitting me for five and a half years!

Another source of excitement is the Brazilian's imminent return from Italy tomorrow, as long as Icelandic ash doesn't deter his travel plans. Of course, this also means a renewal of my anxiety. He was in Italy receiving an award for which he has to create a project, and before his trip he was busy day and night working on its design, so I haven't seen him in a while or heard from him since he's been gone. At one point I wondered about his silence and asked him to let me know if he didn't feel excited about seeing me again, and he assured me that he is still very excited, but also sleep-deprived and overworked. This will probably still be the case after he gets back, and I hope he doesn't tarry too long in getting in touch, not just because I'm anxious to get my hands on the bottle of grappa he promised to bring back for me. The “Red Flags” section next to his name on my Man List remains empty, and the “Questions” category has just two entries: Might be too busy and Not sure if he wants children (though Pro #12 is Seems to like kids, which I added after noticing him smile and wink at toddlers while we were having breakfast at a coffee shop a couple of weeks ago). He told me I was welcome to come to Italy with him; thank goodness spring break didn't coincide with his trip or I would have been seriously tempted. This afternoon I was discussing my situation with my sister, Ms. Swamp, as she scrubbed her toaster oven, and she recommended, “You should tell him you really like him and see how he responds.” “Oh, I told him that already on our third date,” I said. “Was I not supposed to say it so soon?” (He responded well.)

I'm also excited about the paycheck I received last week; I never asked how much my pay in Cambridge would be because I wanted it to be a surprise, and it turned out to be quite a pleasant one. I'll still need to figure out what I am doing over the summer and next year, but for the next couple of months at least I'll be quite comfortable (much more so than I was as a NYC public school teacher). And the best thing is I'm working exactly 40 hours a week and rarely have to spend a single moment thinking about my jobs when I'm not at them, let alone work until 10 pm and then dream about work as I did last year. The resources available in Cambridge amaze me on a daily basis; feels like the Paradise of Public Schools.

And finally, I'm excited because Monday is Marathon Monday in Boston, and since I moved shortly after Marathon Sunday in NY, I get two marathons this year. I have absolutely no interest in running myself, but watching other people run is very satisfying. Hopefully by then the rain will stop and the temperature will rise to match my mood.

Automobile Antics

Despite my protestations of being a capable adult who can do things like file my taxes and pay my bills, I have to admit to being a bit of a car ditz. And yes, I am sending my tax documents to La Moustache to file them, but not because I can't do it! I simply choose not to because Moustache did work in my name in '09 (visa restrictions), and I think he should deal with the headache of figuring it out.

Lately it seems like it is one thing after another with my car. It started shortly after I officially became a Masshole, registering my car in the Bay State and even putting the dreaded MA license plates on my car. Was it punishment for becoming a Masshole? Perhaps. I had absent-mindedly noticed a few times as I got into my car that it was foggy inside, and wondered idly about it. Then, one day during the epic rains we had in mid-March, I heard a distinct sloshing sound as I pulled up to my afternoon job at School #2. I looked down just in time to see a wave of water swoosh from the passenger side in front toward the back of the car.

The rains finally let up a couple of days later, and I spent an hour or so sopping up the pond until most of it was gone. I cracked the windows and waited patiently for the rest to dry up, hoping that my problem would disappear.

This did not turn out to be the case. Instead, my car problems took an unexpected turn one day the following week when I visited the Harpoon Brewery for a beer tasting. They sell growlers, solid 64-ounce jugs that they fill up with beer, and my friends and I eagerly bought several of them. One friend had biked over to the brewery, so we loaded up my trunk with her growlers and mine, four in total.


As I drove home, I heard an ominous cracking sound, then thought I detected the delicious smell of fresh-out-of-the-growler beer. I hoped against hope that I was imagining things, but this did not turn out to be the case: when I got home, I discovered that I had lost one beer growler and one cider growler, leaving me with one remaining growler of each and my pond with a compelling new odor.

The next morning, I was driving my friends to the airport early, then staying at their house for a few days. I packed the remaining two growlers into the car so that I could enjoy the one while housesitting and drop off the other after my trip to the airport. This time, I was much more careful with the deceptively robust-looking bottles: I wedged one into the floor of the backseat, and kept the second one next to me up front. Sadly, the cap broke off Cider #2 despite my precautions. As I drove the last leg of the way to drop off the final growler, I held it in my lap, praying nothing would happen.

The last growler did make it, but less than a week later the monsoons began again, and the depth of the pond again began to increase. I wish I could say that I've found a solution to this problem, but sadly that is not the case, and frankly the beer smell does not seem to be going away either. Most of the time I don't mind it and even enjoy it a little bit, but if I ever get pulled over I doubt the cop will be impressed.

Then today as I rushed out of the parking lot of School #1 headed toward School #2, my car began beeping with an urgency that surprised me. I looked down, and saw to my horror that the oil light had flashed on. This prompted vague recollections of instructions I received from La Moustache prior to my departure: something about when I should get the oil changed, as well as information about the plug being broken, necessitating a vacuum oil-removal technique. I briefly contemplated my options, wondering whether I should try to find a service station, pull over and call for help, or just drive and pray.

The light flashed off a moment later, and I breathed a sigh of relief and continued on my way. After completing my 11-hour workday, I set off in search of a service station. The only one I could find open was manned by an elderly Greek man who was in the midst of a major repair job and told me he couldn't help me today, but I could come back tomorrow. I explained my predicament and he promised to check my oil. “Pop dee hood, please!” he called to me. “Ummm... how do I do that again?” I replied, wishing for the millionth time I had pain more attention to all the attempts anyone has ever made to teach me anything about cars. He laughed, waved me out of the car and popped it for me.

When he checked the oil, it was bone-dry. “Honey!” he said, drawing out the O so it rhymed with phoney, “you can't let that happen! Gotta be careful or it's gonna cost you a whole lotta money.” He sent me on my way with three liters of oil in my engine and brushed off my attempt to pay, no doubt out of pity.

Tomorrow I'm turning over a new leaf in car ownership. I've scrapped my plans to wait until the Brazilian comes back from a trip to Italy to figure out the leak, or to hold a contest and let whoever fixes my pond problem be my new boyfriend. Instead, I'm going to bring my car back to my new Greek friend and have him change the oil, and ask him about ideas for how to deal with the pond. Who knows, I may even invest in an air freshener.

Ring My Bell

I had a few moments (okay, hours) of obsessive self-doubt this week, during which I became convinced that I would never hear from my Brazilian beau again. This despite the fact that he told me that he wants to help me trim Green Bean's wings next time he needs clipping, go for a picnic when it gets a little warmer, do some experiments to determine why my car keeps growing a pond in the backseat, and has sent me several text messages since I last saw him. AND I'm not even sure if I like like him yet, and we've only gone out three times. To help me through this obsessive moment, I turned to several girlfriends, who assured me that everything will be fine one way or the other, and I need to lighten up; which of course I knew already, but still it helps to hear it from a friend.

One of my dating gurus, Li'l JC, had an additional piece of advice. She objected to my preferred mode of communication, the text message, and told me (or rather her handsome new boyfriend told me, through her) to “nut up and call him.”

To say that I am allergic to phone calls is to put it mildly. I frequently daydream of throwing my cell phone into a body of water, possibly the pond in my car since it's so conveniently nearby, especially when it is ringing. It is not unusual for me to notice with a sinking feeling in my stomach that I have sixteen voicemail messages that have piled up, or more. I would rather send an e-mail than make a phone call, rather receive a text message than listen to a voicemail. Besides, it can be stressful for people whose first language is not English to talk on the phone in English, as I well know from many experiences on the other side of the fence. (My new squeeze's English is astonishingly good, maybe even better than mine; still, his accent makes mundane statements like “I have to go to the bathroom. Be right back,” sound impossibly romantic.)

The strange terror that filled me at the thought of picking up my phone and calling the boy who 48 hours before I was comfortably recounting my life story to hearkened back to an earlier moment of receiving romantic advice, nearly 20 years ago. I was eleven years old and in the fifth grade, and my dream had come true: my crush of the past six years had asked me, through a friend, to be his girlfriend (it was the old-school form of a text message). I had been in love with him since I first spotted him in soccer practice at age five, and had remained in the thrall of his black eyes, full lips and bad-boy reputation ever since. I raced home, eager to share the thrilling news with my sister. I could hardly believe this was really happening to me, and I thought that my whole life, from that point forward, was sure to be changed forever.

My sister was exuberant when I told her, but then gave me the advice: “If you want to have an open, communicative relationship, you have to call him and tell him you accept in person,” she counseled. I have no idea where my sister got this misplaced, weirdly precocious wisdom from; it would have been great advice if only I had been a college student instead of an elementary schooler. However, she was my big sister, and even though I would have preferred to jump into the ocean in mid-February than call him to accept his offer, I knew I had to follow it. After all, didn't I want an open, communicative relationship, fifth grade-style?

So I called and did the deed, and it was one of the most awkward conversations of my life. “Umm, hi, T? This is Heathen. So, I heard you wanted to go out with me? Well, yeah, that would be fine. Okay, bye.” It wasn't exactly an auspicious beginning for a healthy, communicative relationship. I can't recall exactly how long the relationship lasted, if it was two weeks or three, but I do recall that we did not speak for the duration of it, except once when it was my day to collect hot lunch tickets; when T got to the front of the line we mumbled “hi” to each other while studiously avoiding each others' gazes. After a few days of this torture, T's friend called me to break things off. No, he didn't even have the decency to call me himself to break up.

Well, sorry Li'l JC, but I have decided to disregard your advice. You can blame my sister. It's possible that my new love interest will become the most recent victim of the Disappearing Man Syndrome, but in the meantime, I'm working on diversifying my assets so I won't mind as much.

The Man List

I've been feeling a bit quivery in the tummy ever since St. Patrick's Day, when I spent five hours holed up in the corner of a dark bar in Cambridge, gazing into my date's eyes and smiling foolishly at him in between smooches. A punk goth DJ was spinning across the room, and the crowd was a strange mix of green-clad Harvard kids and goths with spiky hair and black bodices. At one point I noticed a man in a very tight, very short green velvet dress and tall black studded boots standing just a few inches behind my date, but most of the time I was barely aware of my surroundings, including the eardrum-burstingly-loud punk music.

At such times, it is helpful to update my Man List to avoid getting carried away. The Man List is an idea that came from my sister's Wise Woman, and it consists of three columns: Positive Qualities, Question Marks, and Red Flags. Each time I meet someone I like I add a new row to the List. A few weeks ago, my sister, her boyfriend the Sensitive Bostonian, and I were discussing the Man List over dinner, and I suggested she pull hers out so we could look at what she wrote about Bostonian (probably not the best idea I ever had). A shocked look crossed his face. “Wait, this is LITERALLY a list?” he asked. We had discussed it before, but I guess he thought it was a mental list.

Even my twenty-two-year-old cousin has embraced the idea, and told me ruefully a few months ago that she had discovered a Red Flag in her relationship with her new boyfriend. This is quite advanced for her age; when I was twenty-two, I still subscribed to the romantic and impractical notion that love could overcome any issues. So far, her Red Flag (the fact that her boyfriend is a hunter and she's a vegetarian) does seem surmountable, though.

I haven't uncovered any Red Flags yet with my Brazilian date who I was with the other night, but we've only been out twice, and I still have lots of questions. (Notably absent, however, is one question I wrote next to quite a number of names – “I'm not sure if I'm attracted to him.”) It's helpful to keep these questions in mind so I don't get swept off my feet and can think rationally about his froggy qualities vs. princely qualities.

Here are a few notable entries from different men on my Man List, starting with Positive Qualities:

• Good decision-making skills
• Cute, like Paul McCartney
• Doesn't like sports
• Funny/good storyteller
• Worldly
• Likes his job

These last three items on the list are non-negotiables for me. Here are a few Question Marks that have come up:

• Not sure if he wants kids (this is true of all the men I've gone out with)
• Might be a slimeball because he's Brazilian (after a talk with my sister yesterday)
• Might ski too much
• Don't know if he's looking for a relationship

And finally, Red Flags:

• Drove home drunk after our date (4 1/2 drinks = drunk, right?)
  
• Drives an SUV

• Doesn't know who Maurice Sendak is
• Lied about his height
• Too interested in poo/bodily functions
  
• Not interested in kissing him
• Likes baseball too much
  

So far no Red Flags for the Brazilian. And he doesn't SEEM like a slimeball; I just need a couple more dates before I can be sure and erase that from the list. It's probably a good idea to spend some more time kissing him, too, just to make absolutely sure I'm attracted to him.