This past weekend I did a whole lot of returning to the past — which I’m realizing is NOT a good thing. Sold a guitar (I never learned to play) that was birthday present from an ex, met up with the friend of the dude that severely broke my heart after said ex … ah and then I reconnected with the last guy to really, really show appreciation for me — then oops! He over-did it again.

It’s been three months since I told (let’s call him) “Ronnie” that I needed space and am absolutely not interested in a relationship … Ok, so I never told him I’m not interested in a relationship of any kind — but I belong to the school of “If you can’t say anything nice, don’t say anything at all” with a major in “Actions speak louder than words,” so when I’m ignoring you, not wanting to see you, and should I be forced to see you — being totally indifferent and otherwise an asshole … It’s because I really don’t like you.     

Well after very much bitching out (ie deleting me from a social network’s friend list) and disappearing a few months I decided to send him a friendly “hello” — not “hello, now I want all the things I didn’t before,” just… “hi!” (I really thought he’d want to be just friends..) Now, in less than a week, I’m back to this awkward situation.

I’m definitely not above playing the role of “Ronnie.” As a matter of fact, I know I’m just as annoying about that unrequited love … Still, at some point it’s time to stop reliving the past.

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DO: keep your options open.

I like to think of my dating pool more as like a garden. In my garden there’s various species of vegetation — some are seasonal, some are evergreen … some go extinct. Nevertheless I put my green thumb to work and seeds are constantly being planted and weeds being picked out. I water my garden with my attention, time and affection. With my selection, I’m never bored, and when one rebellious flower isn’t blossoming like I hoped I have a whole field of others.

When you keep your options open, the lack of attention from one doesn’t matter as much. There are a dozen others waiting to be sprinkled with your worthy consideration.

It keeps me from sitting by the phone waiting and wondering, obsessing … and makes me more desirable because I’m not overdoing it with the showering of affection on just one person. I keep my dignity and my mystery. Win-win! Dating should be fun and even when you’re looking for “the one,” why not enjoy the possibly long journey with different people? A little practice on your flirting, seduction, makeout, sexual (etc.) skills can be beneficial in the long run.

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Commercials hype up products as being available for a limited time only… “while supplies last” to get shoppers to fret at the thought at missing out on a one-time opportunity. When you get a taste of something you like, you want more. When you know this object of your desire is in demand but limited in availability — you want it more … you yearn for it! This is known as the law of scarcity and I’m constantly screwed by it.

Many a time during that delicate, awkward beginning stage of getting to know a person when I know I’m very attracted I’ve just gone for it — physically and verbally expressing exactly what I feel and want. Yeah, well as the buffet of affection, patrons get full and walk away.

Sometimes I’m the object of desire and definitely, the first few times of hearing of someone’s growing interest is endearing, however at some point the doting texts, phone calls and emails lose their appeal. I can get it whenever I want … whatever, no rush.

If I care about the person I’ll kindly tell them to back off. I’ve had that plan backfire and that’s when the law of scarcity royally fucks me. My admirer might obey and make himself really scarce, turning the tables … and now I’m the one standing in line.

The law of scarcity can also affect a lasting relationship. For example, Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy have been together for decades. They’re just about sick of each other. At a party, Kermit is spending more time with other female guests. His attention on Miss Piggy is now limited and therefore more valuable to her. She has to fight to get it back.

The truth of the matter is that this method of persuasion is ego-based. Acting on it is done out of fear of not getting enough — or any — of the person you want. It’s best to accept a relationship as it is and be desirable by using self-control to not be so easily obtained.

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I met Dude on a Plane last night. I forgot how nice his eyes are…and how short he is.

We talked for several hours, and I still am having trouble grasping why he has been so determined to maintain email contact and forgo any and all verbal communication. He’s very friendly and easy-going, and I can’t see any reason for him to hide behind spell check and the “undo” button.

Because I’m such a slick and witty gal, I slipped in a comment about this generation’s dependence on texts and email — James Bond-style, inspired by the dry stirred martini I ordered — to see how he’d respond.

He attributed that dependence (which I equate to HIS dependence) on convenience.

Then he inadvertently explained why he initially suggested a crowded dive bar locally known for its heavy pours and kitschy theme as our first meeting place. It appears he truly loves the bar, it reminds him of simpler times surfing in Hawaii (yes, he’s an avid surfer and that’s kinda hot) and has tremendous amounts of fun each time he goes.

OK…maybe he wasn’t trying to knock me out on our first date. But you’d think maybe, seeing as though we had such a nice conversation, he’d be ready to hit second base and give me a call.

Nah.

He emailed me at noon. It appears our mutual love for the ocean is the inspiration for our next date.

“I’ll find us a good seafood restaurant.”

Can’t say no to that.

I accepted via text. Two can play at this game.

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Who in his right mind thinks loitering outside of ice cream parlors at midnight is an effective way to meet chicks?

Unless you’re Brad Pitt or that dude from Twilight (not that one, the other one) odds are you’re just going to creep everyone out, especially when you’re sporting a pastel polo and a creepy grin — common attributes of a playground pedophile.

Last night, I went out for some late-night fro-yo (that’s cool-kid speak for frozen yogurt) and made it just before the place closed. There were a few stoned kids sucking on sample cups inside, and a couple stragglers scraping the last bits from their containers, wishing they hadn’t eaten so fast.

This place is self-serve (pay by the ounce) so I packed my container as full as physics would allow and made my way outside to sit among the others, who eyed me and my fresh stash with envy.

“Heeeey,” I heard.

I turned to my left to see an older man wearing glasses, a comb-over and Dockers hemmed an inch too high who made a without-a-doubt choreographed “Why don’t you join me” motion with his hand, followed by a head nod and a toothy smile.

His table was spotless, and there was no evidence of frozen yogurt consumption. I swear I smelled chloroform.

The sidewalk could have been crawling with cockroaches and his chair laden with million-dollar bills, and I still would’ve chosen to eat my frozen treat sitting on the ground.

Sure, maybe he was a perfectly friendly guy with acceptable intentions, but if it looks like a duck, smells like a duck, and sounds like a duck — it’s probably a rapist. That’s an adage to live by.

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Um, yeah.

I was planning to write a follow-up to Monday’s announcement that I was going to make physical — and verbal, GASP! — contact with dude on a plane. But after investigating where he wanted to meet, I wished I had never stolen home plate.

SIDENOTE: At least my regret inspired some useful advice from our Chief Editor.

So yeah, dude on a plane suggested we meet at a crowded bar the size of a broom closet that’s known for loud noise and tropical drinks strong enough to knock out an elephant.

I can fathom 2 possible reasons for this suggestion: a) he wanted desperately to appear like a fun guy who likes bitch drinks; or b) he thought that because I took the reigns after 2 months of him beating around the bush via email, I was looking for a rum-filled romp.

I can’t speak for him and his beverage preferences, but I hate rum and am not into drunken sex with men with Yahoo! email addresses.

So I canceled the date. Via email.

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I refuse to believe that there are men out there — at least men I’ve spent valuable time getting to know and possibly even making out with — who are truly too stupid to know when I’m not interested.

I don’t want to pursue anything more than friendship (if that) when:

• I stop answering your phone calls.
• I tell you I’m busy every minute of every day.
• I tell you not to call me because I’m low on cellphone minutes. (If I want to talk to you, I’ll find a way, even if it means using the grimy pay phone at 711. And if I’m willing to even do that, I may also be in love with you.)
• I stop inviting you to do things.
• The once constant flow of YouTube links to wacky cat videos suddenly ceases.
• I openly talk about other dudes I’m fucking.

And the #1 SIGN I don’t want to pursue anything further:

• When I tell you, “I don’t want to pursue anything further.”

I’m not being coy and I’m not being playful. I’m being straight-forward and honest — which I understand most chicks rarely are, and maybe you’re not used to that — but unless you’re a professional rapist, you should know that “No” means, “Please go away.”

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I met a snake dude on a plane, who, after an hour of easy conversation and drowning slightly in his big blue eyes (barf, I know) asked for my business card. Of course, I was fresh out of cards (fuck you, Murphy) so I wrote my name and cellphone number on a piece of paper. After taking it, dude-on-a-plane handed it back and said, “Hey, put your email on here.” Odd, but sure, whatev. He’s cute and knows how to surf.

It’s been two weeks and the only form of communication he has used so far was a text message (which was a response to one from me) and two emails, each one sent on Monday around the same time.

Has today’s single male given chivalrous courtship a makeover? Or are emails the new “first base?” I dunno how many times I’m going to have to check my Gmail — and double-check my grammar — before I get a second-base text message, but I’d rather find a way to steal third and head straight to home plate.

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Well whoever said the dating scene was stressful, annoying and oftentimes unpleasant must have been crazy, because I’m having a GREAT time. (If you’ve scrolled through some of my other posts, you will find that I’m currently lying through my teeth. Luckily for you, I just brushed.)

I’ve found that the span of time that falls between finishing a meal and checking yourself in a mirror can feel like a lifetime as you sit wondering how much of your dinner is stuck between how many of your front teeth.

Remember: only your best friends will tell you, and the future (hopeful) bed-mate sitting in front of you is anything but. You could have an entire corn cob in your incisor and chances are your date will hold back out of embarrassment or politeness or something else ridiculous. How it’s polite to be a catalyst of inevitable humiliation, I’m not sure.

So unless you’re dating your BFF or your jaw is wired shut requiring nourishment in liquid form, word to the wise: resist the urge to go green. Salads are light and low-cal, but also the least sexy food to watch someone else consume. Spearing and cramming large leaves dripping with dressing into your mouth certainly doesn’t scream, “Take me home!” and the risk of green specs obstructing the bright white in which the previous week’s-worth of bleaching strips resulted is far too great.

But if eating a salad for dinner is some kind of neurotic life requirement, be prepared to spend that 20 minutes anxiously running your tongue across your teeth (not in a coy way), and good luck attempting to smile with your lips forced closed.

Or, if you’d like the date to end as soon as possible with a low likelihood of a goodnight face-sucking session, stuff as much ruffage into your craw as you can, talk with your mouth full, and be sure to guffaw and smile wide each time he cracks a lame joke, because your chances of having greenery in your teeth are pretty damn good, and no one (usually) wants to suck face with that.

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Do: Put yourself out there. My best friend was at the airport waiting for a delayed flight and decided to check out the solar-powered monogram license plate key chains in the Hudson News shop. (Because the non-solar-powered monogram license plate key chains are terrible for the environment?) She looked up to see a young man sporting a trucker hat, flat-ironed black locks, and skinny jeans in front of her, who promptly blurted, “You’re beautiful. Can I call you sometime?” Now, granted, had my friend not been married and had this young man not looked like the former president of the Black Eyed Peas fan club, she may have considered his offer. Why? Because he was confident enough to risk her rejection.

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