A couple weeks back, I wrote a somewhat self-absorbed column complaining because I was broke, depressed, and always ending up on ex-boyfriends' spam lists. I droned on, beseeching anyone who'd listen to help me figure out why I didn't punch out the presumptuous Bad Date Hall of Famer who tried to leg-hump me into fucking him. Much to my surprise, a lot of you actually answered. Even more shocking, almost none of you were mean! In fact, most of you were very helpful—thanks!
See, I was stumped as to why exes were always spamming me with their band's gig dates and forwarded jokes. Here's one reader's savvy take on it: "Guy logic might work something like this: Say you wake up one night, cross-eyed horny—who will you turn to for relief? Hey, how about that ex who just sent me that e-mail joke I've read a thousand times!"
I hadn't thought of that because I get so grouchy when I receive one of these e-mails that allowing the sender's penis anywhere near me (unless I could suddenly shape-shift into, say, a table saw) is the last thing I'd consider. A bunch more tech-savvy peeps advised that I could block e-mail from offenders' accounts (except then I couldn't torture myself by googling the other girls on the cc list), but a reader named Dina had the best solution. . . .
Why do men spam us after it's over? Because they think that on some level, deep down (we just don't know it yet), we still need/want them. Here is how I get rid of this annoyance:
"Dear [Insert name here],
I see I am still in your address book. Would you be so kind as to remove me, because I would rather be stripped naked and thrown into a Turkish prison than be reminded of that awful slump I refer to as my "[Insert name here] Period." I hope that you have seen a doctor about that premature ejaculation problem and that your treatment is successful. But for now, you need to let go and move on as I have. I wish you all the best."
Then I "accidentally" send this to all the people on his list and block his e-mail address. Done.
Wow. A woman crueler than I! Color me impressed! Dina also had some words of wisdom regarding my second problem. . . .
You were bored and feeling in need of stimulation, and a negative stimulus was better than none at all. And isn't it wonderful that you can warn the rest of us as to what a jerk he is? (What did you say his name was?) I personally am trying to organize a catch-and-release program whereby we implant a chip in a (loser) man's ear (like we do with our prized pooches). That way, we can leave information for the next poor woman who stumbles upon Mr. 42-years-old-and-still-lives-with-Mommy or Mr. Collects-pornography-of-blondes-with-big-dogs. Men, beware if you wake up with an earache one morning.
Nobody thought I should be dating musicians. This curmudgeonly guy cracked me right up—I could practically hear him growling through his e-mail: "What are you doing dating musicians, and, from the sound of it, rock musicians, and, on top of that, probably grunge rock musicians?" OK, Dad! Settle down! Another fella suggested, "You need to find yourself a real man—someone that isn't in a band (unless the band has already made it—see Eddie Vedder, et al.) and won't spam you and 500 other girls with the dates for his next gig." Good point in theory, but I think that dating some famous rock stud who's constantly being offered sexual favors by supermodels (and Winona Ryder) might be an even bigger pain in the ass than dating his loser bar-band brethren.
Several advisors suggested I get a dog, "They are not better than people, just a whole lot more honest," claimed one guy. This same poor fellow went on to advise that I "read a whole lot of Nietzsche, he knows about the lonely. Be proud of yourself and come out when you are ready."
Yeah, well, screw Nietzsche—I'm ready!
In a slump? Write Dategirl at firstname.lastname@example.org or c/o Seattle Weekly, 1008 Western, Ste. 300, Seattle, WA 98104.