CPR: An Instructional Guide

My first girlfriend was a 25-year-old widow who laughed at my performance the first time we had sex. This didn't help my ego much, as this was my first sexual experience. (I was a late starter at 27.) Stupidly thinking I was in love, I stuck around and even bought her a pedigreed dog. On the way home from the breeder, the puppy pooped on me. That was a sign, but I ignored it.

I also think this girlfriend had murdered her husband. (The police ruled it a suicide, even though he blew a hole in his head with a rifle in their tiny apartment; she claimed she never heard it while she slept with her two dachshunds, who barked when the wind blew.) She did buy me two pairs of jeans with some of the life insurance money, but I refused her late husband's Rolex. She told me we should get married and have a baby, all the while berating me for not having an insurance policy. Upon hearing this, my ever-helpful friends decided they should get an insurance policy taken out on me, so that when she whacked me, they'd get rich, too.

I moved out, and 30 days later she married some guy who had already tried to commit suicide, so he was a good choice.

Five years later, I moved to Ohio and tried dating again, this time with a blond Evangelical Christian. She believed God spoke to her in her dreams. One night God told her to dump me. I couldn't even formulate a response, so I did the sensible thing and moved to Seattle.

Two years after that, I had a drunken one-night stand that lasted six weeks with a recovering heroin addict. Despite being clean, she couldn't handle dating and shot up. Two years after that, I started seeing a woman who made it a point to tell me she wasn't a materialistic yuppie. I had my doubts about this, as her previous boyfriend had given her a Porsche. Anyhow, one night she ran into a friend who had just married a wealthy businessman, and she promptly dumped my embarrassing middle-class ass.

In between these sporadic dating episodes, I've tried personal ads, video dating services, matchmakers, setups, and giving $50 tips in drunken desperation to cute bartenders, all without success. My female co-workers invite me out with them and their husbands, so I know I'm not hideously ugly nor a rude, crude dude. Yet most women I've met or tried to meet don't want to date me. Before I buy a Ukrainian bride, I thought I'd solicit your esteemed advice.


There are three things you need to become a successful dater: confidence, perspective, and resilience.

Confidence: Quit being a pantywaist, and ferfuckssake, quit throwing 50s at bartenders! That's pathetic. Besides, bartenders are the rock stars of the service industry—you don't get to date one. Girls won't go out with you because you don't think you're worthy. Start thinking you are, and they'll start believing it, too.

Perspective: So you've had some bad girlfriends—cry me a river, sob sister! C'mon . . . have you ever actually read my column? The broads you described are strictly amateur hour in the pantheon of evil. (OK, except for the murderess, but then again, she didn't murder you!) Anyone worth talking to has had at least one psychotic twist use their heart for toilet paper.

Resilience: I was just looking through my journal and stumbled upon an entry from a couple months ago. Apparently the guy I'd gone out with that night had shiny, over-waxed eyebrows and sprayed food out his mouth throughout our dinner together. My copious notes made it clear that I'd found him shockingly disgusting, yet I have absolutely no recollection of either the dude or the evening in question—and no, it's not because I had some sort of alcoholic blackout! It's just that I go out on a lot of dates. Some of them suck ass, so then I move on. Others go great but I end up getting dumped anyway, and so I move on. See a pattern here? Move on. Quit focusing on what's behind you and grab something in front of you.

The doctor is in. Write Dategirl at

dategirl@ seattleweekly.comor c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western Ave., Ste. 300, Seattle, WA 98104.

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