As mentioned in my recent post, I haven’t spent time on the dating sites lately. The only active subscription I have is eHarmony — I let the others end with no regret. 👋
Last night I decided to log in out of morbid curiosity. Truly. I was watching a true crime documentary about couples who met online and one wound up deceased. 😳 I wasn’t looking for trouble. Just … looking.
Updating my profile and photos landed a message in my inbox, and at 5am I was greeted with …
To be continued on our next episode of 🚩Red Flag Friday!
If you’ve been wondering where I’ve been, allow me to assure you: I did not fall in love, run away to Scotland, or get abducted by a man with a fish photo and unearned confidence.
I moved.
Which means my life recently consisted of cardboard boxes, donation piles, sore muscles, and that specific kind of exhaustion where even your thoughts need a nap.
Proof that fresh starts don’t have to be perfect to be meaningful. 🏡✨
But there’s another reason for the quiet. I stopped looking at the apps. Not dramatically. Not with my own personal declaration of independence. I just… didn’t open them.
And friends, let me tell you something shocking: Nothing bad happened. No missed soulmate notifications. No algorithm-induced heartbreak. No urgent need to evaluate a man’s relationship with punctuation, hats, or freshwater bass.
Abs fade. Fish rot. Bathroom selfies are forever.
Instead, I unpacked. I breathed. I laughed at things that didn’t involve a dating profile promising “hot fun” like it was a Groupon.
And when I did peek back in recently? Oh, my stars and garters.
The apps were exactly as I left them.
Still confidently delivering men who: ✅️Think “chemistry” is something you spray on ✅️Believe three-word profiles count as a personality ✅️Are one midnight message away from a public safety announcement ✅️Look like they accidentally photo-bombed a picture of their bathroom sinks
Meanwhile, the ads have escalated. 🙄 Everywhere I look is a suspiciously ripped silver fox who absolutely does not exist, staring into the camera like an AI Romeo.
Well, maybe like Romeo’s AI grandpa.
At some point I had to ask myself: Is this dating… or performance art? 🤔
So consider this post a reset. No pressure. No promises. No pretending I’ve been “actively looking” when I’ve actually been actively choosing peace, furniture placement, and sleep.
Menopause & Malarkey isn’t going anywhere. Red Flag Friday will return. Mischief Monday is stretching and hydrating.
I’m still here. Still observant. Still amused. Just a little more unpacked — literally and figuratively.
🚩 Brought to you by Red Flag Friday, where the specials are cheap and the apps are questionable.
When I was a kid, Mom sometimes fed us good old Campbell’s Alphabet Soup. The warmth, the comfort, the spelling lesson in the form of noodles. Good stuff – not simply because it was filling and tasted great when accompanied by a peanut butter sandwich. It was good because if we expected alphabet soup, we weren’t surprised to receive “word soup.”
However, when ordering from the dating app menu, there are times when the server brings me something I did not request. Part of the process is to send messages to people you want to know. Unfortunately, there are those who obviously didn’t read the not-so-fine print (a.k.a.: my profile) and want to order off-menu. Or perhaps, make enough changes to the dish that the chef throws her hands in the air and claims (in a very cheesy French accent), “I cannot work in such horrible conditions!”
Meet Derrick, a gentleman who swiped right on my profile last week. It was as if I ordered alphabet soup and instead, the waiter brought me a word salad. 🥗
Please take a breath at some point in this sentence.
Let’s translate this from Dating App Word Salad into plain English:
“I want someone I can trust and want to be trusted” = I have no idea how trust is built, but I’d like it delivered immediately.
“Someone I can love and want to be loved” = I have discovered the concept of mutual affection. Recently.
“I know where I’m at in life and I hope she do to.” = Grammar has left the building, but expectations remain high.
“Time waits on noone” = I will rush intimacy while claiming I’m not playing mind games.
“I want a natural woman without all the makeup.” = I enjoy policing women’s appearances while offering zero commentary on my own.
“Who I go to sleep with is who I wake up with.” = This sentence did not need to be here. At all. Ever.
“I’m not Denzel but I’m not Freddie Kruger either.” = Sir. Those were not the only two options.
“Let’s keep it 100 and be 100.” = I have reached the end of my motivational poster vocabulary.
Menopause & Malarkey official verdict:
This is not dangerous… but it is exhausting.
It’s giving:
sincerity without self-awareness
pressure disguised as romance
and a faint whiff of “I will be confused when you have boundaries.”
Also, bonus Red Flag Friday note 🚩: Any person that says “I’m not looking to play mind games” almost always plays emotional Jenga.
The Photos Mom Warned You About 🚩 Dating App Edition Menopause & Malarkey
Whilst perusing through Match profiles, I landed on one that caught my eye. Not because he was, as my daughter says, “not ugly.” Not because his bio was charming. (It consisted of one sentence. That’s it.) Not because my heart skipped a beat.
It was because if you looked up “The most overused profile pictures men use on the dating apps” in M&M’s Guidebook to Swiping Left — this gentleman would be the poster boy.
The Fish 🐟
All I can think is, “Teach a man to fish.” I have no clue as to how that relates to dating.
The fish is not the problem. The grip, the pose, and the “this defines me” energy are.
If your personality requires gills, we are not compatible.
The Flex 💪
Yes, we see your biceps. No, we do not see your eyes.
Mirror. Tank top. Lighting from the underworld.
Sir, I did not ask to attend your workout performance review.
The Fedora 🎩
Was it too bright outside? Did you forget your sunglasses? Have pinkeye?
Ah yes. The fedora.
Often paired with: • a bathroom • a vest • confidence disproportionate to reality
This hat has seen things. None of them were good decisions.
The Combo Meal Nobody Ordered ☠️
The unholy trifecta … bless his heart.
When The Fish, The Flex, and The Fedora appear in the same profile…
That’s not coincidence. That’s a warning label.
The Real Issue
This isn’t about looks. It’s about self-awareness.
If every photo screams “Please be impressed,” I already know I’ll be tired.
M&M Rule
If you wouldn’t send the photo to your daughter, your sister, or your mother…
Maybe don’t make it your dating profile.
In Conclusion …
Dating apps are not a costume party. You do not need props.
Just clarity. Effort. And at least one photo in which I can see your eyes.
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. 😏🚩
Twas the night before Christmas, and with festive smiles, We drove to the mountains – all 100 miles. My gas tank was full. The dogs had been fed. “Join us in Blue Ridge,” my daughter had said.
“We rented a cabin — twill be so much fun!” Four dogs, three kids, and room for each one. So, trunk packed with presents and GPS ready, The dogs and I traveled along sure and steady.
We got to the cabin — what a delight! Why not expect everything to be right? My daughter looked frazzled searching her phone. “We need the door code,” she let out a moan.
Her husband called VRBO begging for help. The dogs were barking, and one let a yelp. The children — all hungry — started to whine. My bladder was screaming, “No, it’s not fine!”
Christmas Eve plans: cabin in the mountains. Reality: locked out, dogs judging me, 220 miles later… back home. Still counts as an adventure, right? 🎄🤷🏼♀️
The afternoon sunshine started to fade Into the dark, like the plans we had made. After an hour that seemed more like two, “Sadly, there is nothing more we can do.”
The grandkids were angry, and so was I. My daughter, defeated, wanted to cry. My son-in-law? Bless the heart of this spouse. He laughed and said, “How about Waffle House?”
By this time the dogs had marked every tree. No longer caring, I squatted to pee Behind a trash can, safely out of view. Security cameras? Just one or two.
We had to decide — it was getting late. No decent options provided by fate. We all hugged good-bye and got in our cars. We drove back to Georgia beneath the stars.
One hundred miles, and then I was home, Travel completed and nowhere to roam. Christmas lasagna was not meant to be. Instead, a sandwich — dogs staring at me.
“Please, Mum, might we have some more?”
Tucked in my bed, I was sleepy and warm, With Maggie and Phoebe — back to our norm. My eyelids grew heavy, but not my soul: There are things in life I cannot control.
I fell asleep with no pain or sorrow. Christmas morning will be here tomorrow: Not in a cabin surrounded by trees, I don’t need fancy; my heart is at ease.
We’ll gather together, the kids and me, And open the presents under the tree. We’ll eat Christmas turkey and drink eggnog, And later enjoy that post-dinner fog.
Laughter will ring through the air like a bell. Past Christmas stories will make my heart swell. With love in my heart and kids in my arms, Holiday magic will sprinkle its charms.
When the day’s over, I’ll slip into bed, Dogs by my side, pillow under my head. Stars in the sky will show up and twinkle. I’m glad I can stay indoors to tinkle. 😁🙃🙈🎄🎁
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.
Menopause & Malarkey 