You were going to stop being a pussy.

Some days I really lose faith in humanity. Sunday was one of those days. I got stood up for a 7:30am riding date. No call, text, carrier pigeon, smoke signal. Zip. Jack shit. But 2 hours later into my three-flat tire ride…

pling!

Text message. From the offender. Apologizing profusely.

FAIL.

You stand me up, you pick up the fucking phone and you CALL me. You do not type an apology. You do not send me an email. You would have only had to touch 10 numbers to reach me, but instead you hammered-out a 200 character text message to say you overslept?

HUMAN. BEING. FAIL.

I didn’t text back. To the first message OR the next two that followed – one later that day and the one that came last night.

Why?

Because if you don’t get that an apology requires you to tap into the human side of the communication process, there’s nothing I could type back that will have any impact whatsoever.

You can think I’m a bitch or add in a “Gee, Erika – no wonder you’re single” snide remark. Please – be my guest. But when someone disrespects you or hurts your feelings, do you want a digital “I’m sorry” coming your way?

We hide behind technology because we want to distance ourselves from the fallout of our actions. Whether actions were intentional or completely inadvertent, we’ve thrown a grenade. And we’re the ones who get to duck and run for cover? That’s complete bullshit. If you chuck the grenade, stick your head up over the fence like a grownup and take the blast. If you show up late for the office or don’t bother to call in to work, will your boss stand for a text message or email apology? I’m thinkin’ not. And I’m thikin’ you’ll have some ’splainin to do, Lucy. There is no such thing as an iRelationship or iFriendship. Stop gnawing on the digital teat and start tuning in real, live human behavior.

And I get that taking the blast might not feel great (then again, what you did probably didn’t feel great, either), but you might end up with something that feels pretty great: a continued connection with a kickass person. And you’ll also show the person that you’ve got some balls. We suck at humbling ourselves. Which is why we should probably do it more often.

So I’ll ask you again: Put the phone down. Stop typing. Every type of communication has its place. I’ve done it. You’ve done it. Let’s stop it.

You’ve been slapped.

PS: I’m a shameless vote whore – stop by and vote for The Redhead in Westword’s Best of the Web Awards 2010! (I’ve included a plug for one of my favorite blogs in there as well). It’s Denver’s coolest pop culture pub and shucks – it would be awesome to win!

PPS: No phones were harmed in the making of today’s Bitch Slap…

As a resident of the greater Cherry Creek and Glendale area here in Denver, I receive the Glendale Cherry Creek Chronicle in my mailbox each month. While I generally only give it a cursory flip through, your recent article “How to Date in Denver When You’re Dead” caught my eye. I hope you don’t mind, but I felt the headline was inaccurate. Hence, I renamed it in my column here today.

Somewhere along the way, you’ve acquired the moniker “Sheik of Cherry Creek,” while I can’t imagine who comprises your harem. Your recent column is a cesspool of misogyny – and the last time I issued a smackdown of this magnitude, it was to Douglas Brown over at the Denver Post for his ill-researched, faux exploration of cougar culture. Pull up a chair – you’re about to get Bitch Slapped.

“Cut this column out, fold it up and put it in your back pocket. I’m serious. What you are about to read should be your first date constitution, the holy grail of dating. You could be a dead guy and use this recipe for success. It’s war out there and you need to be as prepared as possible when you enter back into the dating battlefield and if you’re not you will be left for dead, broke and lonely.”

Incorrect, Greg. It’s NOT war in the world of man-meets-woman. Perhaps for the douchebags who would read your column and take your advice as the holy grail, but not for the average population. It’s no shocker your column is dubbed “Confessions of a Serial Dater.,” as if you’re following your own advice, you’re likely to have more drinks in your face than beauties on your arm.

“First, you have to get your head right. Remember, women are wired to be dysfunctional by nature and when emotion overrides logic you know you’re in for a wild ride.”

This line actually made me spit Fresca. I truly adore the fact that you begin an article purported to be the Holy Grail for dating with a really offensive judgment on the nature of womankind. Now, I’ll hand it to you that there is psycho pussy wild and loose on the streets of Denver, but it’s douchebags like yourself that make it hard for all the kickass guys and gals out there looking for someone to share their lives with (or at least not kick out of bed for an extended period of time).

How about if I came out and said that every guy is a chauvinistic, self-absorbed, cheating, infantile, commitmentphobe dickhead? While I’ve met damn fine array of men in my lifetime who share one or an assortment of those qualities, it’s not an accurate assessment of men as a whole, is it? And it’s guys like you who spew such crap – and in a family-oriented community newspaper and a forgettably trafficked Blogspot blog, nonetheless – that make it hard for the hordes of decent guys out there because the awesome chicks think they’re assholes because some douchebag pigeonholed them. Alas, I could go on about this one aspect forever, but let’s move on to some of the other Holy Grail of Dating-type gems in your column.

“Your approach is everything. Your first impression and getting a woman to go out on a date with you is half the battle. Except don’t ever, and I mean never, call it a date…”

Really? We’re not “dating” anymore? Well, slap me and call me Myrna. See, when I go to sites like Match.com, guess what I’m looking for? A date. I’m not going to Friend.com or BeMyHikingBuddy.com. I’m going to a site that allows me to connect with MEN in order to explore future romantic involvement. And I never want to wonder if something is a “date” or not. So for fuck sake, it’s a date. Women appreciate straightforward. Go “hang out” with your buddies and watch the game. Take a girl on a date. After you’ve been dating a girl for awhile, you can “hang out” with her on the couch. But guess what – you’re probably going to have to take her out on a few dates first.

“So when you say, “Let’s go grab a happy hour and have some laughs” she is hearing a fun statement rather than a question that she can say “no” to. “Let’s go” rather than “Would you like to,” and “grab” meaning quick, in and out if she’s not having fun. Then “happy hour” and “laughs,” the double banger, booze and laughing, which are two of women’s favorite pastimes.”

Heavens. This is simply precious: booze and laughing are two of women’s favorite pastimes. Maybe this is true in the middle of Skankville where you apparently go trolling for your strange, but not among the smart and sexy women I know – and especially here in Denver. My girlfriends’ favorite pastimes include things like cycling, hiking, climbing, knitting, salsa dancing, charity work, going to a Rockies game and working in the garden. And sure – we dig a beer or glass of wine before, during or after some of those activities, too. But I dare say that no lady having any semblance of class, here in Denver or elsewhere, would list booze on any list of pastimes. If alcohol becomes a pastime, that’s called being an alcoholic.

“And remember resistance causes attraction so if you can get her to wonder if you’re into her and create a little mystery you will begin to have women chasing you in no time.”

Aside from my overwhelming urge to copyedit this sentence, I’ll just address the content. No, I don’t want to wonder if a guy is into me. Not at all. It’s total bullshit and a game that douchebag “dating folks” like you need to stop perpetuating. If you want to play games, move along before you end up a chalk outline in my dating neighborhood, because I’ll pass you over and mark you forgettable before you can even check your phone a 17th time to see if I’ve texted you back.

Great relationships are borne out of mutual attraction, timing, circumstance and…that “thing.” And let me just say that if you like someone enough to sit down and think, “Hmmmm…how am I going to jack with his/her head so they know how much I like them?” I’ll just say that you’re probably not too terribly into that person. I’ve been blessed with some amazing relationships in my life, and while they all didn’t turn out to be forever, not a single one of those men fucked with my head. And I didn’t fuck with theirs, either.

(The next outtake immediately follows the previously eviscerated sentence in Mr. Hollenback’s column.)

“After all we are merely extensions of nature; women are little flowers looking for the strongest seed to pollinate them. Be strong and safe out there.”

I am not a flower. Women are not flowers. We are women, and while we may have the urge to become mothers some day, I do not require any man to “pollinate” me. This is, by far, the most offensive fallacy you put forth in your laughable column. You’re trying to tell me that you honestly feel that women are meek and men superior and my days spent looking for one who will bless me with his seed? Let me guide you through a day in my world.

I get up between 5 and 5:30 A.M. I head to the gym or yoga. Back home, and get jazzed for my work day. You see, I own a consulting business and am a professional writer. If I don’t move my business forward, who will? Throughout the day, I speak with colleagues, work with clients, acquire new projects and close out ones completed. I laugh, I swear, I smack spiders with a shoe and mow the lawn. I’ll hop on my bike for a training ride my coach has laid out for me, have dinner with friends, cook and indulge in a little Netflix. Then I’ll wrap things up and get ready to do it all again tomorrow.

Do you see a need to be “pollinated” anywhere in my day? I’ll venture to guess there are a ton of guys who have pretty much identical days, too.

I’m looking for a partner, and yes, it’s true: I dig the good old Texas Hangdown. I dig dudes. It will be wonderful when the man with whom I’ll move through my life emerges and we can build a relationship. Laughter (sans the booze), straightforward communication (no cryptic bullshit) and the desire to make one another’s lives better. To help one another be whatever it is they dream of being. That’s what I’m looking for. If children are in the mix, it’ll happen. If my plumbing doesn’t work, we’ll adopt and there’s the miracle of modern reproductive medicine to help things along if that’s the path we choose. But I don’t need pollination. I’ve never met a woman in my thirty-seven years who did.

“Follow me on Twitter at sheikofcc and don’t forget to go to www.greghollenback.com to comment on this and previous months issues of “Confessions of a Serial Dater” along with Denver’s most complete singles social calendar and a way to get a hold of me for one on one date coaching. In the next article, “Happy Hour, Happy Ending” I am going to tell you where to go on your first date!”

It terrifies me to no end that you offer “one on one date coaching.” Frankly, why would anyone want dating advice from someone who describes themselves as a “serial dater?” I want dating advice from friends and family who know me and care, a professional matchmaker or a therapist (since all women are inherently dysfunctional, we all must have one, right?). I certainly don’t want it from you, and I’ll venture to say that none of my male readers, single or otherwise, would either.

And I’m pretty much appalled at the proposed headline for your next column: “Happy Hour, Happy Ending.” The phrase “happy ending” is synonymous with jerking off a patron in a massage parlor. I can certainly hold out hope that the editor over at the Chronicle will do his or her due diligence and strike that prior to publication.

To wind things up, I’m wondering if the Glendale Cherry Creek Chronicle’s editor was drunk or high when they accepted your column for publication and subsequently featured you on the home page of their website. I know someone had to have looked at it prior to print, as they were sober enough to fix the glaring grammatical and usage errors displayed in your blog version for the most part. But your advice to men looking to get the attention of “hot, modern women” is so simultaneously false, demeaning and otherwise offensive that I can’t believe a neighborhood-oriented publication in the suburbs of Denver has taken it to print and offered it to their audience. It’s not entertaining. It’s not even well-written. It’s just…well, it’s crap.

Glendale and Cherry Creek are places where people raise families. I don’t see a single father out there who would teach his son of the “holy grail of dating” you spew.

And you, Mr. Hollenback, have been Bitch Slapped. And you’re a first: I’ve never Bitch Slapped a person before, yet in this situation, I’ve made an exception.

Sincerely,

Erika Napoletano
Head Redhead/Not a Flower
RedheadWriting LLC

I. Can’t. Breathe.

I’m reminded that I can, indeed, breathe as I’m sucking in the trailing remnant of the cancer you’re causing yourself and I wish you’d just fucking die and get the hell out of my way. Then again, that would be inconvenient as I’d be stuck in some horrific traffic jam, a witness to some sort of spontaneous combustion and stuck on the evening news with my face looking like a sixteen-year-old who just came off nine back-to-back shifts at Burger King’s deep fryer.

About four miles back, I’d just told the man I love that I needed to not see him for awhile. That he needed to stop texting me cute pictures of his young sons as each tore me apart a little bit more, as all I ever wanted was to spend more time with them. With him. That I couldn’t be his friend right now.

Not now.

As each time I saw him, I wanted to walk over and touch him. Kiss him. Scratch his head, tickle him and rub his shoulders. No particular order. I just wanted to do as I had for the past eleven months and as of last Monday said I couldn’t anymore.

As I sit here in my emotional motorized box of wreckage behind the Fairyshat Mobile wishing I believed that sometimes the best decisions are the ones that hurt the most, I begin to think of the one word that’s frequently come to mind following the end of my first real relationship since December of 2005 (aka The Month Erika Prevented Marriage #3):

Access.

When we leave the house each day in search of our fairy tale, I don’t believe that we go looking for love. I believe we go in search of access. There’s plenty on life’s road designed to keep us out: traffic lights, barricades, child-proof tops on bottles of sleeping pills (whistles), locked doors, dipshit speed walkers who spread out three-wide in the bike lane…

We’re in search of those things – and people – that will let us in. Give us access. And in return, we’re looking for people and situations worthy of access to us. That’s not love. That’s risk.

Access is never safe and we can never be sure. It’s never wrapped in a ribbon and comes with no guarantees. It’s a gaping chasm filled with fire-breathing penguins, admitting you don’t know and letting someone see you at your worst so that some day you might learn how to become your best – and as risk would have it, the person you want is standing on the other side of that penguin-filled chasm, holding out their hand and saying, “I’ve got ya – come on over.”

Risk is putting yourself a situation and acknowledging that when you indulge, you may find yourself sitting on your sofa under a freshly installed ceiling fan on a late Friday night in June pounding out marathon-length sentences enumerating the nuances of access and risk since typing is free and therapists run $150 per hour.

On a semi-related note, I recently picked up a copy of Dave Egger’s “Heartbreaking Work of a Staggering Genius.” When reading the back cover, I was disheartened to find that it had nothing to do with ceiling fan installation.

Whether we’re the ones in search of access or deciding to grant it to someone else, it’s as if we’re standing naked on our front porch in a snowstorm asking the one we’ve chosen to run their naked ass through the blizzard, grab our hand and run with us down the street (yes, we’re both still naked) in search of a Starbucks with hot coffee that doesn’t mind naked patrons. Not so easy to find and there aren’t too many people we’re willing to run naked though a snowstorm with – so when you find it, well…it’s special.

And sometimes, people give you glimpses.

Glimpses aren’t bridges over the chasm of fire-breathing penguins. They’re more like ladders over the Khumbu Ice Falls on the way to the summit of Mt. Everest. They look like a great idea.  Functional. We cross them because we want what’s on the other side. But what’s been offered to us isn’t a hand saying “Take me – I’ve got ya.”

It’s more like, “Hey – if you wanna come over here, ya gotta cross THIS.”

With each step, you look down and see those shitty little penguins beckoning you into a heart-wrecking fall to your (or your heart’s) death – yet on the other side, you see what looks like access. And since you want it, you keep walking over some fucked-up ladder wearing alpine climbing gear, wondering who the hell ever decided this was “safe” and exactly how much had you paid to get here?

And sometimes, we’re the ones extending the ladder over the ice chasm instead of the hand.

And it sucks. Sometimes people do just enough to get us to keep crossing the ladder in hopes that they’ll soon build us a bridge, ask us to take their hand. Sometimes it’s not their fault. Sometimes they’re hurt and doing their best to grant access, yet their best is the ladder while they think they’re giving a bridge. And we love them for who they are in the meantime.

Yet in the meantime, we’re not getting what we want. Yeah, we’re good at burying what we want for awhile because each time we cross the chasm via ladder, we think we’re getting access. After awhile, however, it starts to feel like one of those “seriously?” obstacle courses from American Gladiator and we begin to wonder when we signed up to be on a cancelled reality show with hyper-buffed dudes in stars and stripes Speedos and chicks with cast iron tits.

And then, maybe you do what I did: ask the blunt question.

At thirty-seven years ripe, I know the essence of what I want – and it all requires access. A partner, a family, a home (in every sense). And notice I didn’t say a husband, children and a house. The two lists are very different – to me, at least.

A partner, a family and a home – they’re blessings for an already full life I’ve created with friends who love me (and remind me, especially when my heart breaks), a career that makes me smile each day and long list of things that fill my hours with laughter and smiles. Sure, I have shitty days now and again – in fact, I recently described my feelings about a shit day as if I were a snow bank surrounded by well-hydrated dogs – but it’s all recoverable. Not that my current heartbreak isn’t, but I’m looking for the beauty in a partnership.

Where we each won’t always be happy, but we’ll be happy with our decision to have committed to one another. Family won’t always bring laughter, but we’ll always (no matter how many lamps broken, walls written on, parents who pass or taxes we pay) have one another and be better for it when we pull our heads out of our asses to realize it. Where the walls might need new paint and the hardwood floors are gouged from countless dropped toys and “experiments” but each ding and dent builds a collection of memories that, when we take the time to remember them, make us want to find ways to make more. Together.

Yes, I’m a hopeless romantic. Nearly thirty-eight years hasn’t killed that in me. I don’t regret loving or knowing that there was no place I’d rather fall asleep or wake up than next to him. If I could name what it is I’ll miss most, it’ll be the moments where the glimpses turned into access. They came in the form of two young boys who shouted “Miss Erika!” and playfully argued who I’d flip upside down first and swing around by their legs until they were too dizzy to walk. When I heard him tell me that he loved me…and I knew it.  Those times where he didn’t try to “fix” things when I was having a bad day and just listened. When I heard him tell me what he wanted to do and where he wanted to go, what being a father meant to him and knowing that sharing those things with me wasn’t easy. The rare times he let me help him and the more frequent times I heard him laugh and got to see him smile.

That’s access.

So that’s why I believe that we don’t leave the house each day in search of love and if all we want is a husband (or wife), kids and a house, we’re missing the boat. The best moments in my life have been borne from risk and looking down into the penguin-filled chasm and knowing there was a reason to cross the bridge and take that hand. While I’m still mistaking ladders for bridges, it doesn’t mean the love wasn’t real.

It just means that I took a risk. I slipped and fell in love and granted someone access. I’m looking forward to the day where my heart’s ready to do it again. And if it hadn’t been for the last eleven months, I’d never have used the phrase “fire-breathing penguins.” I have Him to thank for that. And that alone makes this discovery on access, my own little Heartbreaking Work, a literary win.

***10:05pm on Friday, June 25, 2010 – As I entered the final period above, my phone chimed with a text message. From Him. Telling me that earlier today, a mutual acquaintance (all of thirty-seven years-old) from track racing suffered an aneurysm and is in the hospital on life support. The past fifteen minutes meant two calls with one girlfriend who also knows this incredibly vibrant man. The second call informing me that she was just told that he is brain dead.

This is a man (and if you’d met him, you’d probably call him a “dude”) I only met two months ago on my first trip down to the velodrome in Colorado Springs. Not once did he ever look at me or talk to me like I was crazy for wanting to do this “track cycling” thing or treat me like His girlfriend and that was the only reason I was there. Covered with tattoos from head to toe, he radiated life and was funny as hell – and not too shabby on the bike with one gear and no brakes. The last conversation I had with him was him asking me how “my man” was and my meek response that he was no longer “my man.” He then asked me if I missed him, to which I responded, “Every day.” And then he said, “Well, then you did it right.”

I don’t even remember if I said bye when he left the track that day.

But having known him barely two months, that’s a guy who understood access. And I think it really sucks that someone like that can disappear in a moment. I feel terrible for his wife, whom I met a few weeks ago, who never in a million years woke up this morning and thought she’d end the day wondering if she would be a widow.

I almost wish I’d never written the post above now. It feels mildly trite and a bit whiny. And the person I want to call and say “I love you” to…well, I doubt he wants to hear it. So I’ll skip it and just wish I had the balls to do it, regardless of the consequences.

***I learned mid-day on Saturday that Vibrant passed away Friday night.

“I love you.” — Goodnight.

“I’ll miss you.” — I’ll be back before you know it.

“I like spending time with you.” — Good.

“Could you review the attached and let me know your preference?” — Are you coming to the meeting on Thursday?

The art of the non-topical response. Some people have it down pat while others answer your questions with the meticulousness of an OCD CPA with a 1040 in his hands. I’ve been thinking about this a lot as of late (and not alot…definitely a lot, though).

When people don’t or won’t respond to what you say and tend to deflect the conversation, I really think it says one of three things:

I don’t care what you just said – I’m going to talk about what I want to talk about. It’s the egocentric response. ME ME ME. Admit it – they completely ignored you and went off on a one-way trip to MeVille and left you on the pier wondering why you didn’t bring any luggage. We’ve all done it and it’s a pretty asshole move.

I’m not listening to you. That’s right, I’m not listening. I’m in my own head and for whatever reason it is, I can’t even hear you right now. So there. Hey – is that Elvis?

I heard you loud and clear and don’t have the balls to respond. Awwyeah. This is a common one. When something scares us, freaks our shit out, or in some cases, delights us, we can’t bring ourselves to utter the truth in return. So we say something that’s kinda what we think the other person wants us to hear. It’s a total Hail Mary move, saving our ass and the feelings of the person in front of us because we’re too chicken shit to say whatever it is we’re thinking, good or bad.

They all have something in common, however.

Hurt and frustration.

Tell me, my monkeys – how annoying is it to have to have three conversations in order to get someone to answer your question? How much time does it waste to send 4 emails on one subject when you can’t get the other person to focus? It’s like the world has ADD and we’re chasing it down with Ritalin.

How hurtful it is to sit in front of someone who professes to love you who can’t bring themselves to speak the words? Who responds with “goodnight” instead of “I love you, too?” Granted, words are precious and shouldn’t be wasted. There’s a certain sweetness that accompanies the knowledge that the person in front of you, whether lover, colleague or friend, is saying exactly what they mean and it’s genuine. But the non-topical response hurts and leaves room for question.

What’s so scary about actually telling the truth in life? Do we spare feelings more through pure honesty or through the little tango dances we do around issues that make us uncomfortable? Why can’t we say the GOOD things that scare us? Not saying them makes them…well, bad. Something to fear.

I don’t know about you, but I like to be uncomfortable. I relish that itchy feeling in my pants (and NOT the one that requires a trip to the free clinic). I want to be challenged. I want to say what no one else is willing to. I want to throw myself under love’s bus and get run over (repeatedly). When you’re uncomfortable, you offer yourself the greatest possible outcome: joy.

I went to a baseball game last night for the first time in over a year with Ryan, Elisa and her wife, Meg. I sat there watching a field full of players who make millions of dollars each year to be uncomfortable. They slide through dirt, they make moves that have no guarantee of success…they steal home base.

God, I want to steal home base. I want the people I work with to slide into that fucker and pray to whatever god they know that they didn’t just get tagged-out…and if they did, be ready to take that same risk again next game. Those players are paid well for their topical responses and you never see the second base man sitting down with a coloring book when a line drive comes his way with a runner on first.

Here are my thoughts on the bullshit art of the non-topical response:

• If you can’t say it, find a way.
• If you can’t say it, perhaps you don’t mean it.
• If you can’t say it and need to find the inspiration to say it, think of how you’d feel if you never again got the opportunity to say it (as many people each day never do).
• Understand what the person in front of you needs. Don’t assume anything and no one’s a mind reader. Ask.
• You can’t expect anyone to read your mind, so open your pretty little mouth and SAY WHAT YOU NEED.
• If you’ve said what you need and still can’t get what you want or need…maybe it’s time to re-evaluate your audience.

Time is precious, and non-topical responses waste time. They make us wonder why we wasted our breath and our bandwidth. Stop wasting people’s time and answer the damn question already. Don’t be cruel – be present. People deserve our attention because we demand it from them without even knowing it.

Yippee-kay-yay

As most of you know, I’m the resident Sex Advice Columnist (@DearRedhead) for ToyWithMe.com. I have a post that I’m working on and I need your help. Please complete the following TOTALLY ANONYMOUS SURVEY and let me know how twisted you are. Thanks in advance!

I am confident that the key to happier relationships between men and women rests in one simple skill:

A woman’s understanding of when she should open up and shut up versus pet the puppy.

Let’s be honest: a woman could gift-wrap a blowjob and give it to her man for eight days straight at Hanukkah. And he’d never ask for anything else…except possibly a back rub and another blowjob later.

And then there are times where all your partner wants is your ear. His day sucked, he fired someone, your three-year-old tossed cookies on his work shirt. Whether the Yankees lost or he lost four hours of his day to some “stupid fucking database error” <blink blink>, he needs to vent and honey – you’re handy.  At times like these, they don’t really want to hear what we think. They just need reassurance. They’re puppies in need of petting. And they need YOU to do it. Those sweet, manly puppy dog eyes looking up at you…how can you say no?

For all the whining that womankind does regarding the lack of oral sex and mankind’s affinity for sports and the remote control, wouldn’t it be more productive (and orgasmic) for us to play on their field every now and then?

We gals – and a powerful, intelligent bunch we are – tend to do a lot of thinking about what they’re thinking.

Why won’t he talk to me? Is he mad at me? Was it something I did? Can I fix it? Am I fat? Does this skirt make my ass look fat? Maybe he’s pissed at me because he thinks my ass looks fat in this skirt! Well, I’ll show him. Fucker. He can get his own dinner! I’m going upstairs to write a bitchy email to six of my girlfriends because he thinks I’m fat and doesn’t love me for who I am. He’s probably fucking his secretary.

Just. Stop. It’s really not that complicated.

Stop thinking it’s always about you and acknowledge: yeah, it can actually be about him. Instead of buying new lip gloss or a dress you think he’ll notice, why not give him the killer combination that will have him look at you like the rock star chick you are: reassurance and a blowjob.

He’s awesome/right/they’re wrong/yes, that sucks/no, he’s not crazy – but he wants to hear it from you.

He knows you’re a smart cookie – but sometimes, he needs you to go back to the Symbolic Logic course you took in college and work out the following If/Then statement:

If Man is frustrated (or breathing) and woman gives him a blowjob then he is happy.

or

If Man is frustrated and woman gives him reassurance without trying to “talk,” then he’d appreciate a blowjob (and will then be content).

Bottom line: sometimes guys just don’t want to hear us talk. Stop thinking that guys want to “talk.” Generally speaking, they don’t. They’d be just as happy with one of two things: reassurance and/or a blowjob.

This isn’t demeaning or belittling a woman’s strength and fortitude as an intelligent and equal partner. Admit it: sometimes we don’t want to hear THEM talk. Sometimes we just want a back rub or a foot massage or for them to not stand in front of the fridge and drink the OJ out of the carton right in front of the kids. But our feminine talents for deductive reasoning and emotive response give us an edge when it comes to understanding there’s a delicious power that stems from our sympathetic nature coupled with our sexuality. It’s not objectifying women or making the case that we’re not valued by men for our conversational skills, intelligence and accomplishments. On occasion, however, our needs (and those of our partners) are a bit more primal and have nothing to do with intelligence. If we spent more energy on accepting men for being male and women for being women, we’d have a lot more energy to romp in the sack. Just sayin’.

It doesn’t mean you shouldn’t bring up the stuff that’s bugging you or pissed you off. But instead of launching into an instantaneous, petty tirade about how much of a dick he’s being, cool off a bit. If it still pisses you off 24 hours later, then you can have a “talk.” It’s likely to be a more productive talk and one that will lead to his reciprocation in some make-up sex following.

And yes – he’ll still want the blowjob.

“Happy” – Martin Sexton

Special note: this blog is being posted on a day where I have sworn to forego caffeine, Twitter hash tags, the f-bomb and all online conversations about food in order to benefit Autism Speaks. Welcome to an alternative breed of Redheaded Fury. It’s like the “softer side of Sears” – without the appliances.
********

Dear Douglas -

That’s my brother’s name. I like it.  Just wanted to dash you a little letter about the article you published in the Denver Post on May 28. Yeah – the one about “cougars.” I believe it had the clever title “Cougars on the prowl in Colorado nightclubs.” Did you think of that yourself or did your older girlfriend help you with the overused play on words? Nevermind – it’s really not important. The last letter I wrote was to Chris Brown after he slapped Rihanna around. Congrats – you’ve made it to the big leagues on Redheaded Fury.

Just wanted to give you my elderly wisdom on a few things before I popped a Geritol and settled in on my couch wrapped cozily in my Snuggie for re-runs of Golden Girls. Won’t take but a sec – I can’t stay awake that long. After all, I’m 36. A cougar, by your definition. An “older woman.”

Now, being a twice-divorced and presently single woman, I think you’ve pegged my “breed” pretty well: running around town, looking for strange and preying on young, unsuspecting boys. Granted, it’s tough for me to find a place to park my electric scooter when I come rollin’ up to the clubs, but the doormen here in Denver always jump to help an old gal and then I’m parked in pretty short order. Now that I’m parked, I can put my teeth back in and have both hands free to flip you the bird.

Your article has done nothing to promote any sort of “investigative journalism” or alert the good citizens of Denver to a wrong in need of righting. What you have done, however, is heartily promote the stereotype of the “woman on the prowl” and put out some pretty jaded human nastiness in the process. Personally, I think your article belongs in the obituary section, as it’s merely a eulogy for the death of human discovery and the collective citizenry’s ability to evaluate another human being based on (deep breath) qualities other than age.

I found the woman in your article who described men her age (44) with a blanket label of “fat and gross” to be simply charming. An iconic example of what the average 44-year-old woman thinks and feels. Wherever did you find her? Ah yes – it was the Entitled aisle at the Safeway in Cherry Creek, I’m sure. Honestly, I don’t know where she’s looking as I see men of that age DAILY who are stunning specimens of what a good dose of testosterone can achieve. Then again, I’m old and my eyesight might be going.

What occurs to me is that your article has successfully achieved the creation of a complete caricature. A caricature of everyone in your article and those to whom you apply the tasteful age-restrictive labels of “cougar” and “manther.” (Personally, I’d always heard the term “Silver Fox” used, but no matter.) From the description of your subjects’ clothing to the venue and the pretty yet vapid boys, it’s all nothing but a superficial take. One thing I’ve learned in my old age is that if people are in search of the superficial, it’s what they’ll find. And honestly, they don’t quite care what designer label it’s wrapped in because it’s bound to end up on someone’s bedroom floor by the end of the evening. But maybe I can shed some light on “cougars” beyond the dim one at the bar at which you conducted your investigation on the mating rituals of the urban feline.

Riding my bike this morning along the Cherry Creek bike path, I found myself purposefully steering into every possible rain puddle I could access. Water splashing up on my legs, my face … I giggled and even openly laughed once. When I took a good look at myself upon arriving back at my car, the sight was laughable. And certainly not “pretty.” I was completely un”hit on”able. But you know what?

I had fun. Fun at 6AM this morning playing in rain puddles. And then I summarily went back to my house, hopped in the shower, got my girl on and headed into the office. Today, it’s a fabulous denim pencil skirt accompanied by a Calvin Klein wrap top and a pair of kick-you-in-the-nuts Charles David strappy sandals.

I’m your cougar.

The people in your article aren’t looking for love. They’re looking to hook-up. And what you fail to mention in the stunning examples throughout your article is that it takes two to tango and it ain’t about a “cougar on the prowl.” If an older man/woman is looking for fun and fun alone, they’re generally going to turn to a younger mate. Why? It’s the “fun factor.” And the fact that they’re not looking for anything serious. Have I done it? Oh, most certainly. And it was fun.

But at 36, I’m looking for more than the “fun factor.” Yes, fun is a huge consideration in the men with whom I choose to spend my time, but it goes beyond that – it’s humility as well. The humble process of opening yourself up to learning about someone (and allowing them to learn about you in return) – their history, their loves before you, their life. Their quirks.

The endearing quirks and idiosyncrasies that take a person from being someone who tells a good joke at a bar to being the person you want to laugh with on a Sunday morning in bed.

Your article brazenly bypasses any and all mention of the things that make us each human, painting a pathetic, two-dimensional view of dating after age 35 for those of us who refuse to settle. I think your piece is the weak antithesis to that Lori Gottlieb rib-tickler in The Atlantic last year (Marry Him! The Case for Settling for Mr. Good Enough) that chides women for not settling for any one of a slew of Mr. Good Enoughs and holding out for Mr.Right.

But I won’t settle. The lyrics above – one of my favorite songs ever – are what I’m looking for. The daily surprise of discovering something new about the man I’m learning to “fit” with, not really knowing where it’s all going to go but embracing the childlike laughter that escapes my lips each time we splash through one of my aforementioned rain puddles. And laughing even more each time I see him laugh back.

That’s why I’m single. Not because of what “society’s handed me” (as your character Ms. Spuelher believes). I’m lucky enough to have had two men in my life whom I’ve loved enough to take a swing at “forever.” While they didn’t ultimately end up with the fairy tale ending, I’m delighted. The gift of being 36 and single is that I learn more each day what I love, what I want…what I don’t…where to compromise. Why, looking back down my life’s hallway, even two years have changed my perspective on a lot of things. Time is a gift and not the curse or something to battle as your characters purport. I think the man to find me today is a lucky one, and he’ll be grateful for the time I’ve taken to be with myself, to explore my demons, revisit them and emerge a better person.

I’m the cougar you speak of, along with every woman out there who enjoys time with her friends – regardless of their age, gender, looks or financial status. We go to bars on occasion, we carouse and engage in mischief…and we’re delightfully embracing the value of friendship and self-discovery while we look for our own “Happy.”  So take your kitty-cat labels and characters shaped with your superficially glazed pen and step aside. This cougar is looking forward to the day she has a man in her life whose lap she can curl-up on, soaking in a sunbeam as it glides through a window on a lazy Sunday morning. As he strokes my hair, it’s likely I’ll even purr. And I look forward to doing the same for him.

There is one thing you DID get right in your article, however:

…Cougarism is more complicated than the reductive picture forged in TV shows, comedy monologues and the snide commentary of office e-mails.

It’s about being 36, loving my life, and having enough balls to tell you your article was the most ridiculous piece of pulp I’ve read since Gottlieb’s abomination on the inherent value of “settling.” We cougars – we’re snappy little cats, ain’t we?

Now excuse me – I have to pay my bar tab and get my scooter out of valet.

Yours Truly,

Erika D. Napoletano

I’ve gotten a fair amount of shit lately for my uproarious tone, blue language and apparent irreverence towards the goodness inherent in human nature. It’s led me to thinking: why am I such an asshole?

Last Sunday, I went to church. (Yes, The Redhead went to church – fuck off.) I’ve been searching for awhile for answers that that elude me on this terra firma I walk daily and figured that I was due for my own little personal “Come to Jesus” moment. Big believer in those moments in life, I am. They shake foundations and realign thought processes like only the most almighty of bitch slaps can.

While it’s taken me three days since to let it all settle in – I came to a realization over the past few days:

It’s possible to rant without being an ass.

I don’t need to call people “motherfuckers” and make allusions to Deadwood and the ripe language that litters their scripts.

I don’t need to listen to celebrity shenanigans and waste my time (or yours) with diatribes on their behavior.

YOU sure as hell don’t need to hear me pontificate on the grammar-challenged populous that riddles the online dating world.

So I’m turning over a new leaf. In my own little Redhead Redemption, I’m going straight. Having toddled and torn down the crooked path for so long, I’m wondering what life and writing will be like with a bit more sugar and a lot fewer bees.

Hope you decide to hang around for the ride.

So I’m asking my readers to complete a poll: STRAIGHT OR CROOKED? You read me for a reason and I need to know.

Click HERE to take the poll. Your feedback is, indeed, appreciated.

Having utilized various online dating sites over the years (and with statistically wondrous results – no shit), there’s one thing for which I’m a complete sucker: a well-written profile. A man who can write an intelligible profile and introductory email is, by far, enough to make me drop hundreds at Agent Provocateur in anticipation of meeting this rare, elusive and delicious beast.

That’s right: RARE.

In a sense, I owe this blog to a man I recently met on Match.com. Our initial phone conversation went the way of profiles and our mutual agreement of how difficult it is to find one that:

1. Reads as if it’s written by an adult with some functional grasp of the English language;
2. Isn’t laden with a litany of usage errors, punctuation nightmares or smiley-fucking-face emoticons;
3. Gives you a hint as to the personality of the computer operator writing said profile and isn’t merely some generic iteration of Joe or Jane Anybody.

Said gentleman inspiring this blog shall remain nameless at this juncture. However, our conversation on the subject ended with his statement that, “Good grammar – it’s just common courtesy, isn’t it?”

Why, yes…yes, it is.

That said, school is now in session. Whatever the hell it is you might have forgotten since you last took English composition, we’re going to run over it now so you can stand a chance of getting a date. Well, a date with someone who doesn’t live in a home that they (proudly) “just took the wheels off of.”

The Redhead’s Rules of Online Dating Communications: Profiles, Emails, and (for fuck sake) WINKING/POKING and other Offensive Practices

• Spell Check – It’s What’s for Breakfast. For the love of all that is holy, cut and paste. While MS Word can occasionally offer useless advice, it’s generally pretty spot-on about the whole spelling thing. Just follow the little red squiggly lines! When writing your online profile or an introductory email, drop it into MS Word (or some other product that’s not a spawn of the satan that is Microsoft) and click on that little icon that checks the spelling. Members of the opposite sex will THANK YOU. It blows my mind as to why online dating sites (not a freakin’ ONE of them) never have a spell check in their messaging or profile building applications. Maybe they believe in Darwinism. But I say see the beginning of this blog. I’m offering to go lingerie shopping for men who can SPELL. Seriously – make me spend.
  
• Capitalization – Use It. Your online profile and initial emails with a prospective mate are nowhere to be sloppy. The first word of a sentence is Capitalized (like that…see?). There are no exceptions here and unless you’re a published author with a New York Times best-selling novel and you want to go toe-to-toe with me on this, sit the fuck down and hit the shift key. Oh, and profiles and emails are also NOT the place to use text messaging lingo. It’s mind boggling how many emails I’ve chucked from would-be suitors (urp) who have written me emails saying something to the effect of, “UR gr8. Wuld u like 2 chat?” (uh, no.) Use whole words. Real words. Fo schizzle.
  
• Usage – It’s Not a Crime. I can forgive a simple slip up between “its” and “it’s.” Once. But when a profile is riddled with poor spelling and horrific usage, I throw up just a little bit and wonder what I (a professional writer) am doing looking for love in a place where it all begins with images and the written word. I’m likely a masochist. However – let’s have a simple usage lesson that can serve as a gentle (shin kicking) reminder for use even beyond the glorious realms of online dating:
  • It’s vs Its - One’s a contraction…one’s a possessive pronoun. No, that doesn’t mean a noun “in favor” of something. Check it out:
    • It’s (it is) likely that The Redhead is a masochist.
    • The Redhead has lost its (possessive) fire.
      
  • Your vs You’re – Again, it’s hell on earth to determine the difference between these two words that sound so much alike, but it’s contraction-versus-possessive pronoun time again:
    • Pardon me, but your (possessive) car is on fire. Is that your ex-wife I see running away?
    • You’re (you are) going to be my next ex-husband. I can feel it.
      
  • There vs Their – Holy crapola. This one’s a doozy. Well, not really. One indicates a location and one is a (shocker) possessive pronoun:
    • After realizing her reaction to his collection of belly lint, he picked up his coffee and decided to end the line of conversation there (location).
    • On their (possessive) first date, it was clear by the second drink that they were going to bone.
      
  • Too vs To – I’m all for letter conservation, but sometimes ya just gotta buy a vowel, Vanna. One indicates direction and one “additional.”
    • Aw, honey…I think the chicken fingers at Applebees are great, too (as well/additionally).
    • I gave the house to (loss of mine/gain of his) my ex-husband in the divorce.
    • Actually, “to” has a plethora of uses. Check ‘em all out here, Walt Whitman.
      
  • Moot vs Mute – OK, this one’s just really a pet peeve.
    • Moot – means “doubtful,” as in a “moot point.”
    • Mute – means silent, incapable of speech…or DUMB. Anyone who confuses these two is just…dumb.
      
  • If you confuse any of the above, please go to the bookstore and purchase a copy of Eats, Shoots and Leaves.
    
• Winking and Poking – Just Fucking Quit It Already. You…yeah, you with the finger stickin’ out. Don’t even THINK about poking me on Facebook or Winking at me on Match.com. Here’s the rub: write me a goddamn email. If you wink, I’ll think you have something in your eye and hand you a bottle of Visine. I would personally rather have my ass slapped by a random stranger on a street corner than have a “wink” or “poke” thrown my way online. Why? Because I’m a woman. I want you to be a man, not some pansified oh-my-god-will-she-write-me-back-shudder-in-the-corner-after-I-dip-her-pigtails-in-the-inkwell girlie boy. Ladies, I think that in general, men like a woman who’s not afraid to make the first move. Why? Because from what I’ve heard from my dates as well as male friends who partake in the petri dish of online romance, IT’S RARE. Make the first move. Read my profile. Say something witty, strike up a conversation. After all, we may actually meet one day and if we can’t talk…boy, are we fucked. (and not in the “I bagged the hot guy/gal on the first date” way)
  
• Extra Credit Assignment – Use the Buddy System. Before you go releasing that profile out into the wild, you virile guys/gals, grab a pal and get some weigh-in. Do you sound like an ass? Is your profile a psycho magnet? Are you coming across as a “listmaker” who won’t reveal your income but wants to date a man who makes at least $150k a year?

Now, in all honesty, I’ve made errors with both grammar and usage. I make them daily, but hopefully my audience never sees them. The point of this blog is that proper grammar and usage really are common fucking courtesy. They’re like opening the door for a woman, being on time to a scheduled appointment, sending your mom a card on Mother’s Day or bringing your buddy a six pack to his backyard barbeque. When you take the time to spell check, use real words, capitalize, write complete sentences and treat online conversations more like real world conversations, your online dating experiences will improve drastically. Don’t hide behind the online shield or think that, “Oh, it’s just an online dating profile. This stuff will never work.” Whether you’re on a free site or a paid portal, take the time to show the men or women out there that you’re concerned about your appearance…in writing. After all, you never get a second chance to fuck-up a first profile view.

Online dating: spending money to find love online?

It’s by design.

See, my clients are after a target customer or demographic. Just like me when it comes to dating. After having been a paying customer or lurker on several online dating sites (’cause “it’s OK to look”), a conversation this week brought me to the realizations below about how I’ve handled my online presence in the world of romance. I was practicing my own best advice to my clients when it comes to branding, SEO and SEM practices — and I didn’t even know it.

For those out there reading this who aren’t savvy in the fields of marketing-speak throughout, have faith. I’ll give you fancy pop-ups and definitions to go with my online dating advice. And I guarantee, none of the links will lead to porn sites.

Shall we? Let’s put on our cybersuits and delve into the online dating pool.

Online Dating and Branding

You’re unique. Yeah, you’re real unique.

Everyone is “unique.” So why the hell are you so special?

A company that puts out a product or service that doesn’t differentiate itself from the competition is poised to fail from the get-go. Once in a blue moon, you find the rare instance of a wanna-be that ekes out an existence, but is that why you went into business in the first place? To eke?

Successful companies have a clear identity. A clearly-defined brand. Customers know what to expect, what they’re buying and the terms and conditions under which they’re acquiring that good or service. It’s no different in online dating.

Ladies:

• Every one of us is “just as comfortable in a cocktail dress” as we are in jeans
• We’re all looking for someone to laugh with
• We all “work hard and play hard”
• And everyone (well, I think most everyone) is looking for a man who will love them and, on occasion, make them feel like a princess.

Gents:

• Most of you like sports, cars and beer
• You’re all looking for an “honest, loyal” woman (i.e.: one that ain’t gonna cheat on you, and if she is, at least not with your best friend)
• You want a girl you can “just hang-out with”
• The majority of you don’t spend hours at the mall and would prefer that’s what a chick just went and did without you, leaving you to a day with guys doing whatever you feel (or DON’T feel) like doing.

Those are givens.

Since women aren’t looking for an overweight ogre who will use them merely as an automatic beer dispenser every time they head for the kitchen and men aren’t looking for clingy, psycho Glenn Close/Bunny Nemesis type, it’s time to do some research.

There are a multitude of online dating sites that let you scope-out the competition, so why not start running your personal life and search for Happily Ever After more like a business? Successful businesses understand their competition, so get online and do exactly what Match.com says is perfectly acceptable:

It’s OK to Look!

Get in there and take a tour of your “competitors” – the other people in your age, physical stature and life demographic. See what those folks are saying about themselves. I think you’ll be surprised how similar most of the profiles appear.

Now for the tough question: what makes YOU different?

Are you an irreverent smart-ass?
Do you collect 19th century coins?
Have you climbed Mt. Everest?
Are you a stark-raving Led Zepplin fan with a portrait of the entire band tattooed across your chest?

Your online dating profile should reflect both your core qualities and your quirks (ever read a bottle of Smart Water?) This is your love life, folks. If you’re going to actually go to the trouble of paying a membership fee (or not…lots of free sites out there…ew) and actively search for someone to share your valuable personal hours with, why not actually get something that resembles what you’re looking for?

A fair and honest representation of your personal brand – your personality – is the beginning of a more rewarding online dating endeavor. When someone checks out your profile, let them know what they’re getting, what your personal brand represents, and what they can expect if they actually earn the opportunity to meet you. And don’t get me started on photos. Post current photos that look like you, because when I go to the car dealership to buy a 2008 Honda Accord, I’m looking for the Accord I saw in the Saturday paper … not an ‘86 Ford F-150 with the left side made entirely of bondo.

Truth in advertising. A key element of any successful brand.

Online Dating in SEO Terms

Truth in Advertising: photo by Natalie Dee

So, you log into your dating site du jour and it gives you a gazillion search options. Age, marital status, kids, eye color, hobbies … the list is endless. Guess what: those are keywords. Just as if you were on Google and shopping for the latest Star Trek boxed set of DVDs or the best deal on that indispensible Fendi purse, online dating  sites are nothing but glorified search engines for sex. (there, I said it)

In addition to those nifty “long tail URLs” (threw that one in there for the SEO geeks like me), your entire profile is a collection of keywords. When you sit down to write that “In Your Own Words” section or whatever the heck the dating sites are calling it these days, think of the words that describe the core of your person:

Irreverent Smart Asses: who are your favorite comics and TV shows?

19th Century Coin Collectors: uh, say you collect 19th century coins or list a favorite coin or something

Mt. Everest Climbers: words like alpinist, mountaineering, climbing, snow and hiking could be key

Tattooed Led Zepplin Fans: maybe mention the band by name and the fact that you have tattoos

Why is this important? Because several sites allow you to search by keyword.

If you think of the run-of-the-mill profiles you came across in your Research Phase (see Branding section above), who goes into an online dating site and searches for nice, cool, funny, or cars? Just as if you were in a regular search engine searching for something specific, make the words in your profile ring specific.

For example, when I would do keyword searches, I’d use terms like “rock climbing,” “mountaineering,” “alpine” and “climbing.” Found several nifty men with whom I had quite a bit in common, a few of with which I’ve enjoyed multiple dates and enduring friendships. A hell of a lot EASIER and MORE PRODUCTIVE than just putting in age and other general demographics and then having to trudge through the search results with a fine-toothed comb.

Optimize your dating profile for the same reasons businesses optimize their websites:

to attract a better-qualified lead.

Online Dating in SEM Terms

The majority of online dating sites have a membership fee. Personally, I like the minimum level of commitment that it takes a person to fork over whatever-ninety-nine a month to engage in the whole process. Kind of a low water mark, if you will.

So if you’re going to spend the money, why ya gonna screw around?

You’re online, you’re web-savvy. Perhaps you found the online dating site from a search engine query in the first place. You know those 3 listings in yellow at the top of the Google search results and all those little listings down the right-hand side of the page? Well, companies pay for those ads. Those are called pay-per-click (PPC) ads.

When someone clicks on one of those ads, the company who posted the ad pays a “per-click” fee to the search engine. In other words, those companies are paying to be seen at the top of the search results by consumers like YOU who are searching for what THEY sell. Companies also budget for these PPC campaigns in their monthly or annual marketing budget.

Just like online dating.

Your monthly membership fee is your PPC ad spend, or monthly advertising budget.

There’s a reason that Campmor, North Face and Patagonia come up in the paid search results when you search for “outdoor gear” – because these companies feel people searching for the term “outdoor gear” are a good spend of their advertising dollars. They’re consumers searching for something specific, something they have to sell, and it’s possible you could be a qualified lead and convert to a customer.

It’s time you started thinking of your online dating site membership as your monthly Pay-Per-Click advertising budget.

If you’re going to spend the dough on putting yourself out there for others to see in the online dating marketplace, wouldn’t it behoove you to have your marketing dollars attract qualified leads?

Wrapping it Up

Here are some tips that can help you make your online dating experience a well-crafted one from a Branding, SEO, and Search Engine Marketing (SEM) perspective. These all go back to the previous points I’ve mentioned and bring it all together in one convenient, vertitas-laden package of personal experience:

• Build an accurate profile. Who are you? What drives you? Represent your personal brand well. There’s no one that brings to this world what YOU do, so put it out there and be proud. Post current photos, keep your profile updated if it’s taking longer to find Mr. or Ms. “Right Now.” Understand your competition and set out to represent yourself as the dynamic individual you are. Hell, even if you’re a twin – I guarantee you bring a floatie to the dating pool that your biological cohort doesn’t! Fair and accurate representation of your You Product ensures that, once your customer (i.e. date candidate) arrives, they’re entering into a fair business situation and not the “bondo dog” pictured above. Deception is NOT a great way to begin ANY relationship.

• Don’t be afraid to be specific. Specific is GOOD! Successful companies and their associated brands understand that not every human who walks the face of the earth is the most qualified customer for their service/product. Be clear about what you’re looking for, keeping in mind what’s worked and hasn’t in your previous relationships (just like when making business decisions). Understand as well that if you’re looking for a 6′6″ Pacific Islander millionaire with three children from a previous marriage who collects lint from Arab princes, cooks like a five-star chef and watches 60 Minutes every night without fail – that’s going to limit your results. Being specific isn’t synonymous with being so narrow-minded that you’re setting yourself up to fail. Successful SEM and SEO tactics take into account the specificity of the market they’re approaching, and while Ford might be looking for truck buyers in general, they ain’t lookin’ for (and nor are they going to pay for) people who are looking for planes just because it’s “all transportation, right?”
  

• Indulge in some good ‘ol A/B testing! Ever heard the saying that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results? Not only should you review your profile on a regular basis, but if you’re not getting the results or traffic from people who fit what you’re looking for – change things up. Go in and edit that pain in the ass “about me” section. Add a new movie you’ve seen. Post a new profile. CHANGE YOUR PROFILE IMAGE! This is the oldest trick in the book, but it’ll often get you a second glance by someone who’d looked at you before (and maybe some new glances, too). Successful PPC campaigns undergo a certain level of A/B testing to fine-tune tactics so that dollars are spent in the most profitable areas and halted in those that aren’t performing.

• Pay attention to keywords. Many online dating sites allow users to search member profiles by keyword. Me? I’m looking for a dude who is into the outdoors, alpine sports, rock climbing … all sorts of nutty activity. You bet your sweet ass those words are in any profile I write – because those folks are probably looking for me as well and they’re VERY important things in my life. If you think of your online dating profile as the business plan for your PPC campaign, abide by one rule of thumb: a PPC campaign is only as successful as the keywords associated with them. By using targeted and specific keywords, you’ll likely attract a more qualified contact and one that’s got a better chance of surviving your scrutiny. Wouldn’t it be great to have a date for that whatever-ninety-five a month instead of an inbox full of people who are 180 degrees from your target customer with no chance of converting?

I’m sure there are a ton of other parallels I could have drawn here relating the online dating game to these various marketing concepts and practices, and I’d love to hear what you have to say. Bottom line is, when you start treating online dating more like a business than a scratch-off lottery ticket from a 7-11, I think you’re going to be a lot more satisfied with the results.

Who the heck am I to talk? Well, as a subscriber to various online dating sites since my divorce in 2002, my endeavors with

The Head Redhead - your blog author

profiles where I did exactly what I’ve enumerated above have netted me:

• Two long-term relationships totaling well over 4 years
• A handful of wonderful men who have remained friends though not romantic interests
  
• A clearer understanding of what’s important to me from a relationship standpoint
• Money spent in the online dating arena wisely with better-than-average (I feel) results
  
• Endless fodder for drinks with the girls

And apparently, the desire to write this blog and encourage feedback from the other folks wandering around out there in the online dating/social media world. Lay it on me, folks. I’m listening (in my best Frasier Crane voice).