Recently on Menopause & Malarkey … (click the cowboy)
Quite possibly a contender in the Peekaboo Olympics.
When crafting my last post, “The Photos Mom Warned You About,” I considered adding the following PSA on profile pics that purposely hide the peepers. Instead, jump right into this mini post! Enjoy!
According to Match.com, January 4th is supposed to be their busiest day of the year.
New Year, old expectations?
I took the bait and decided to peruse. And peruse. And … sigh. You get the picture.
After receiving a “like” from a spot-on candidate for Red Flag Friday, I cranked up the computer, fully prepared to whip up the latest witty exposé. Then suddenly, I was tired.
Tired of scrolling. Tired of swiping. Tired of what feels like a big joke. Just … tired.
There are times (like tonight) when I swear there are zero acceptable matches anywhere on the internet. Posts and profiles that deserve nothing more than an eye roll somehow pick and pull at my self-esteem. Guys who wear tank tops in bathroom selfies and definitely failed Grammar & Punctuation 101 send me messages and “likes.” But it’s not about those who are attracted to me.
It’s about those who aren’t.
In Metro-Atlanta, there are 6.09 million people. I have no clue how many of those people are online looking for a genuine connection leading to a serious relationship. Seems like the odds should be pretty good.
So why am I being directed to the equivalent of the $5 movie bin at Walmart?
My favorite movie is Sleepless in Seattle from 1993. Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan in their rom-com glory. One quote in particular — the one I’d like to believe — is this:
However, given the virtual rocky road that continuously leads to exhibits for Red Flag Friday, I’m more prone to believe …
“It’s easier to be killed by a terrorist than it is to find a husband over the age of 40!”
That statistic is not true.
That’s right, it’s not true. It only feels true.
— Sleepless in Seattle
Ladies and gents, maybe you’re in the same boat where the rule of metaphorical fishing is catch and release. Maybe you run headfirst into a wall decorated with red flags, scammers, and a whole lotta “bless his heart.” And perhaps — like me — you quietly ask, “What’s wrong with me?”
Listen to me … Close the app. Take a deep breath. Exhale slowly.
If you take away one thing from today’s post, let it be this:
There are zero acceptable matches online today. Which is not the same thing as ever.
The truth is, the internet is crowded with auditions, not partners. Many profiles read like they were assembled by raccoons with Wi-Fi. And the cocktail of chemistry, emotional intelligence, self-awareness, and punctuation is… tragically small. You’re not failing at dating. You’re outgrowing the nonsense.
I, for one, refuse to settle for nonsense, just okay, or “well … maybe.” Nor should you.
It’s beyond brave to open our hearts to love after loss. That courage deserves to be met with honor and respect. YOU deserve nothing less.
I’ll keep wading through the shallow end of the dating pool — rolling eyes, blessing hearts, and trying not to take those quirky algorithms too seriously or too personally. In spite of the occasional pity party, I am truly grateful that God says, “Not today, Satan” and keeps me from anyone unworthy of all the sass and sweetness that is unapologetically me.
Welcome back to Menopause & Malarkey, where it’s Friday night, dinner’s been eaten and dogs are sleepin’, and once again… the internet has audacity.
Tonight’s specimen arrived wrapped in good looks, thoughtful prompts, and the emotional vocabulary of someone who clearly owns at least one throw pillow.
He laughs at inside jokes. Believes in loyalty. Loves deeply. Builds real connections. Even listed The Grapes of Wrath as a favorite book. I paused. I considered. I adjusted my glasses.
Then I saw his employment.
Government.
Just… Government. Not city, not state, not federal.
Not “I work for the county and complain about meetings.” Just Government—like a manila folder with secrets inside.
🚩 Flag raised.
But wait—there’s more.
Within moments, I received a message that read (and I paraphrase only slightly):
“Hello Heather, I would love to get to know you better and maybe become friends or more. Please contact me immediately via Gmail or WhatsApp.”
Ah yes. Ye olde eHarmony-to-WhatsApp migration. A classic move straight out of the Scammer Starter Kit.
Red Flag Friday reminder: nice photos don’t equal nice intentions.
Let’s review the Red Flags, shall we? 🚩 Employment listed as “Government” 🚩 Immediate request to move off the platform 🚩 Email + WhatsApp combo platter 🚩 Phone number typed like a Sudoku puzzle 🚩 Not a single reference to my actual profile 🚩 Polite, generic, emotionally fluent… and entirely hollow
This, my friends, is why the phrase, “Not today, Satan” was invented.
Here’s the thing: We are not cynical—we are experienced. We are not bitter—we are efficient. And we are no longer entertaining men whose profiles read like romance novels but whose intentions collapse under basic scrutiny.
So tonight’s Red Flag Friday reminder is this: ✨ If his employment could not be verified by Google, LinkedIn, or common sense… ✨ If he wants to flee the app faster than a bra at the end of the day 🏆 ✨ If his message could have been sent to 47 other women named Heather —then bless him, block him, and move on.
Because we are not lonely. We are discerning. And our BS detectors are fully operational.
Happy Red Flag Friday, ladies and gents. See you next week—same sass, fewer scams. 😏🚩
Some nights, the date-iverse is too much to handle.
Scratch that.
MOST nights of seeking a genuine connection via dating apps in 2025 are uninspired.
I have reached the point where I don’t visit the Kmart clearance rack of poor punctuation and shirtless shenanigans unless I receive a notification. (Hmm, wonder if I can assign an ominous tone to it 🤔) But, I digress.
In four days, my subscription to Chapter 2 (a site specifically for widows and widowers) will expire. I shan’t be renewing. Not that I have anything against the site; I’m just, well, tired.
Four days until the finish line.
Still plenty of time for interested suitors to come a-callin’.
So when a message popped up, I took a gander at his profile.
When you’re the emotional support airplane for a woman who keeps getting matched with men 1,600 miles away.
My reply was polite.
“Thank you, but 1,600 miles isn’t conducive to building a relationship.”
His response, also cordial, carried the aroma of snowflakes, cocoa, and Hallmark. ❄️☕️💕
“If two hearts connect, no distance is too far.”
Sir. I am 55 years old. Driving down the street to Kroger is too far. 🚗🤷🏼♀️
As humorous as “Men without Maps” can be, the truth is —
It makes me sad. I find myself sitting here contemplating if a long distance friendship could be possible. But then I ask, what if he’s another scammer with a decent grasp of grammar?
That right there — that exact emotional seesaw — is the honest human cost of dating in 2025.
It’s not just frustration. It’s not just annoyance. It’s not even the exhaustion of dodging Keith Sweat disciples, and men whose job title is “Boss at Self-Employed.”
It’s the sadness beneath the snark. That little ache of:
“What if he’s real?” versus “What if he’s not?”
Ladies, if you’re rowing in this boat too, listen up:
You’re not soft for thinking it. You’re not foolish. You’re not naïve. You’re human. You’ve lost real love. You’ve lived real life. You know what connection feels like — and how rare it is.
So when someone shows up sounding… normal, kind, respectful, gentle, and not shirtless in front of the bathroom mirror … your heart can’t help but tilt its head a little.
Because part of you wants to believe a good man might still exist — even if he’s 1,600 miles away, even if he’s just a pleasant blip in the algorithmic chaos.
But then?
The reality of dating in 2025 barges in wearing a name tag, shouting:
“SCAMMER! FLUNKED GEOGRAPHY & CARTOGRAPHY! TOO GOOD TO BE TRUE!”
And you’re left in limbo between hope and heartbreak, without ever having met the man.
It’s the quiet sadness of:
“I don’t want to be played. ”
“I don’t want to be disappointed.”
“I don’t want to waste emotional energy.”
“I don’t want to be fooled.”
“But… what if he was just nice?”
It’s the emotional equivalent of standing at the window watching birds — one might be beautiful, but at any moment it could squawk, steal your fries, and fly away.
Still… there’s something tender in you wanting to believe in friendship. That’s not weakness. That’s wisdom wearing softness. That’s a heart with miles on it — but still open enough to feel.
Brought to you by Menopause & Malarkey — where the flags are many and the patience is limited.
Ladies… I present to you a man who is:
“Boss at Self-Employed” (Translation: The boss, the employee, the HR department, and also currently on an unpaid lunch break… indefinitely.)
80 miles away but behaving like we’re all just out here ready to road-trip for romance like it’s 1995.
And — be still my heart — his entire music section is Keith Sweat. Not a sprinkle. Not a vibe. Not a nostalgic “one song on a playlist.” No, ma’am. Keith. Sweat. Or. Bust. This man is out here preparing to beg somebody through a cassette deck.
But wait… the photos.
Ohhh, the photos.
We have:
• The Glamour Cowboy: A wide-brimmed hat, aviators, and a shirt so bright it’s gotta wear shades. He’s giving “Line dancing at noon, sermon at three, vibes by Keith Sweat at five.”
• The Close-Up That Didn’t Need to Be a Close-Up: Half a forehead. Part of a visor. A sprinkle of existential dread. Thank you for this offering.
• The Truck Cab Philosophical Hour: “Cool drama free cool as a fan” (Sir… you wrote “cool” twice. And for that reason alone, I have questions.)
And yet — YET — the best part?
He proudly lists Beauty as an interest.
BEAUTY. Dude, you are Keith-Sweat-ing in a Ford F-150 with an Instagram filter from 2013.
—
Verdict:
🚩🚩🚩MULTIPACK RED FLAGS. We’re talking Costco-level quantities.
Would I swipe right? No.
Would I make a meme out of him? Already did.
Some men come with careers, ambition, and financial stability. Others come with Keith Sweat, a cowboy hat, and a mysterious lack of tax documents. Choose wisely. 😔🔥
A Rare Moment of Applause in the Dating-App Wilderness
Every now and then, in the endless scroll of shirtless gym bros, filtered-to-oblivion selfies, and men who lead with their Halloween alter ego like it’s a personality trait…
A hero appears.
Today, that man is Rob, 55.
He did something almost no one on Facebook Dating remembers how to do anymore: He crafted a profile with structure. With restraint. With logic.
Let’s break down the magic:
✅ Photo #1: A normal, friendly, fully clothed human man
Good lighting. Relaxed expression. No sunglasses indoors. No nostril selfie. A rare and delightful start.
✅ Real-life pics first, costume pic last
This is the hallmark of a gentleman who understands:
> “My Captain Jack Sparrow moment is a bonus, not a warning.”
The pirate photo wasn’t a threat. It wasn’t his opener. It was the dessert at the end of the menu — optional, sweet, and mess-free.
✅ A bio that doesn’t read like an obituary
Simple, straightforward, not dripping with desperation or “I’m just a simple man looking for a simple girl.” Just enough personality to show he’s real. Not enough to make you run.
⭐ The M&M Verdict
I swiped right. Not because I’m picking out a dress. Not because expectations are sky-high. But because sometimes you have to acknowledge when someone actually did the homework.
Rob, sir, wherever you are… Menopause & Malarkey salutes you. 🫡 Not for perfection. Not even for chemistry. But for remembering the golden rule of online dating:
> “Lead with the man. Save the pirate for last.” 🦜
It began the way all great horror movies begin: in the dark, just before dawn, when the world is quiet, your guard is down, and nothing good ever comes from checking your phone.
4:51 a.m.
My phone glowed on the nightstand — soft, eerie, and absolutely up to no good. You know the scene: the quick cut, the ominous music shift, and the audience whispering,
“Don’t… pick… it… up.”
But I did. Because I am the Surviving Heroine in this psychological thriller, and also because I regularly make bad decisions before caffeine.
I cracked open one eye. Then the other. I reached.
And with the naïve innocence of the victim in the first 10 minutes of a slasher film… I unlocked the screen.
This is why do not disturb was invented.
There he was.
Andre. From Illinois. Awake at 3:51 a.m. HIS time. Which already raises the eyebrow of suspicion.
His opener?
“Good morning 😃 You’re pretty!”
I should’ve closed my eyes and gone back to sleep. I should’ve thrown the whole phone out the window.
But no. Curiosity won — as it always does — and the typing bubbles began.
Fast. Aggressive. Like a chatbot on steroids.
🩰 Scene 1: Ballet, Cheerleading… or Cult Initiation?
The questions came rapid-fire:
“Did I wake you?”
“You work out?”
“What competitive sports were you in?”
“Ever did ballet?”
“Cheerleading?”
Dude. It is before 5 a.m. I haven’t even remembered my own name yet.
This was no small talk. This was an athletic inquisition.
Hold me closer, Tiny Dancer …
This image is EXACTLY how it felt: Andre, hunched over a keyboard in a dim lair, illuminated only by the unholy glow of his laptop and a deep desire to measure my quads.
🍗 Scene 2: “Nice curves!” — and the Descent Into Madness (Muah, ha, ha)
As I scrolled his profile — trying to confirm whether he was:
human,
Martian, or
texting from an abandoned Gold’s Gym
— my phone buzzed again.
“Nice curves!”
In our movie, that was the whisper before the jump scare.
And then came the final blow…
🔥 Scene 3: The Line That Summoned The Cyber Police
Just as my thumb hovered over BLOCK, he fired off the message that cemented his place in Red Flag Friday history:
“Your thighs pretty strong?”
Wait … WHAT.
It’s before sunrise. The house? Dark. The dogs? Asleep. My patience? Gone.
You can’t ask about thighs at this hour. Or any hour. Ever. It violates at least three federal laws and one sacred truth:
✨ No thighs before sunrise. ✨
No. No, no, no.
Period.
Even the ThighMaster — abandoned since 1993 — knows this is a violation.
❌ Scene 4: The Final Girl Moment
It happened in slow motion. The music swelled. I hit BLOCK so hard my phone considered filing a complaint.
Can I block someone more than once???
Andre vanished. Banished. Slithered back to whatever early-morning Thigh Dimension he crawled out of.
🎬 FINAL SCENE — PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT
And now, friends, a crucial PSA:
If a man asks about your thighs before sunrise… That is not romance. That is not flirtation. That is not curiosity.
That is:
🚨 A Thigh-Based Emergency 🚨
Report immediately. Block swiftly. And repeat after me:
No thighs before sunrise.
The Bold Before The BLOCK
Tune in next week for another installment of:
Red Flag Friday — where the flags are bright, the men are bold, and the dating apps never disappoint in disappointing me. 🚩🚩🚩
Menopause & Malarkey 