D'oh!

OK, I'm an idiot. I have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about. Obviously, I should have known that as soon as I wrote him off completely, and of course, publicly, Bachelor #49 would appear at long last, leaving me happy and greatly relieved, but looking like a damn fool on my own blog.

Now, I still think FOUR DAYS LATER is nothing short of ridiculous, but I guess I have found out -- big shock here -- that men are completely beyond my powers of comprehension. I just do not understand the workings of the male mind. You meet an utterly fantastic woman, you hit it off, you have a great time, you seal it with a kiss, and then ... you disappear without a word for 4 days? Nope, can't even begin to understand it. See, here's how it works for women: you meet a great guy, you hit it off, you have a great time, you seal it with a kiss, and then ... you think about nothing else. Ever. Or at least until such time as he starts doing dumb things and pisses you off. Seriously, how men and women ever get together on anything is a giant mystery to me.

Anyway, in case you're wondering, the email was ... interesting. He is clearly out-of-his-mind busy and in total work-mode, because it was the most business-like email I've ever received from a man. But it was almost charming in its utter absence of charm. Ultimately though, he said all the right things -- apologized for taking so long to write, said he had a great time, and that he'd like to go out again some time. The snail-like pace is a bit of an adjustment for me, and I think I will have to busy myself with bad dates to keep the obsessive waiting in check and not feel as completely available as I am, but all in all, the pity party is off.

Thank you universe. Much appreciated. And sorry about the frantic impatience. I'll work on that.

Easy Come, Easy Go

Well folks, I give up. I officially throw in the towel. I have called off the vigilant phone-watching. Faced the music. Given up the ghost. It ain't happening. Bachelor #49 is not calling.

I know a lot of people believe a busy guy might not call for a week or more, but I'm pretty sure that is just an exercise in self-delusion, serving only to prolong the agony. We are not 22 here, people. Meeting someone who doesn't make your skin crawl is a rare occasion not to be squandered. We are supposed to be grown-ups, all recent 12-year-old style boy obsessing notwithstanding. We're too old for silly games and made-up rules. If you are so fortunate as to meet someone with whom you share enough of a mutual attraction that not only does the thought of seeing them naked not make you want to hurl, but you actually want to kiss them, you do not casually go about your business for a week or more, barely giving it a second thought. You act. Fast. The connection you make on a first date is tenuous and needs added reinforcement to make it last. You call/email/text WITHIN 24 HOURS. Especially if you ASKED for that person's phone number AND email address, and talked about what you want to do on your second date.

I can only conclude that, since I was my utterly charming self, of course, and he was clearly falling for my charm, that Bachelor #49 had a change of heart due to his own issues, and is, in fact, far less perfect and way more screwed up than I originally thought.

Of course, we all know that I am appallingly bad at this whole dating garbage and could easily be dead-wrong, and we also know that deep down a little part of me is hoping I am, and one day in August Bachelor #49 will suddenly find a spare minute in his terribly busy life, and I will be the first thing that pops into his head.

But I am also planning my retirement around a big lottery win.

On the plus side, this means more bad dates to write about. Bring on the next 50.

How long is too long?

Dating is not for the feint-hearted, the neurotic, or the obsessive compulsive. I have checked my phone not less than every 40 seconds for the last 48 hours, praying, wishing, willing it to ring. Where are you Bachelor #49? You can't tell me we didn't have a great first date. I was there. I know.

I think maybe bad dates are easier.

So here's my question: How long is too long? Here's how completely loony I have become: I've now resorted to polling my friends, my friends' boyfriends, and any dating site I can Google in order to answer that question.

Here are the varying viewpoints:

- If he was REALLY interested, he would have called the next day. (I HATE all the people who have said this. Hate you hate you hate you. Oh wait, that's my opinion too. Fine. Whatever.)

- Any time in the first 48 hours is totally acceptable. (I have, as of tonight, added these people too my hate list too. Welcome. Thanks for coming out.)

- Any time in the first 3 days is fine. (I do not hate these people yet, but this time tomorrow if my phone has yet to ring, look out.)

- Any time up to a week is OK. (These people are pretty safe for a while. Actually I'm growing more fond of you by the minute. Hi guys. How's it going?)

- The male equivalent of The Rules says he HAS to wait a MINIMUM of three days, lest he appear too available and frighten me off. As if. (These people are my new best friends. Love to all of you!)

So I ask you, good people of the blogosphere, where do you sit on this pressing issue? How long is it still sane to cling to hope, construct elaborate proposal fantasies and shamelessly sit by the phone? When is it time to face the music, drown yourself in Shiraz, and resume your rightful place on Jdate?

Enquiring minds want to know. Please be kind.

Special thanks to the always relevant Partridge Family for the inspiring song name after which this post was titled.

Bachelor #49

I don't want to shock anyone, but you might want to sit down for this:

I HAD A GOOD DATE.

Correct that. I had a great date. I know, it seems pretty much impossible. And in all likelihood he'll vanish off the face of the earth and I'll never hear from him again. Or maybe, just maybe...

My friend E first mentioned fixing me up with her fiance's friend a few months ago, but for a hundred reasons it got put off again and again. And, he's not big on blind dates, so we had to arrange a night when E and her fiance were free to go out with us. No exaggeration -- this has been going on for months, and for someone who goes on blind dates as often as she goes to Starbucks, that's a lot of build-up for a blind date. Turns out another friend of mine knows him too, and she also had a good feeling. This thing was getting some serious hype, and I was getting seriously nervous.

Still, I couldn't help thinking, maybe it's not such a bad thing to be out of my dating comfort zone. Sure, I'm more at ease in a regular blind date situation, with no chaperones/audience, and full control over where/when/how quickly I want to get out of there. But if you've been reading my blog, you may have noticed that that's not really working out so well for me. We are, after all, at NUMBER FORTY-NINE. That's A LOT of bad dates. So I started to enjoy the hype and the nerves. I bought new shoes. I might even confess to getting a little bit excited. I NEVER get excited about blind dates.

And, amazingly, it couldn't have gone better. Sure, it was a smidge awkward at the beginning, but nothing a couple of cocktails couldn't look after. All in all, dinner was relaxed, comfortable and fun. Bachelor #49 was smart, charming, funny, engaging, confident, and sophisticated, yet warm, open and sincere. And it didn't hurt that he's dark haired, sexy, and successful too. Check, check, check, check. I'm not one to kiss and tell the Internet, so I won't go into details here ... but let's just say it was truly a lovely evening.

If there is any kindness in this universe with my name on it, he will call. If not, there's going to be a hell of a pity party, so think good thoughts for me.

Stay tuned...

Bachelor #48

When an online dating prospect suggests plunging right into the face-to-face meeting, I’m always greatly relieved. No awkward phone call this time! But I’m starting the re-think that strategy. Bachelor #48, for example, could have EASILY been screened out at the phone call phase.

After a very brief “I-liked-your-profile” “thanks-I-liked-yours-too” email exchange, we booked a time for a quick drink. He suggested we meet at the bar at a nice restaurant downtown. He mentioned that he lives in a condo downtown. He works downtown. Can you see why I was getting a very clear “downtown guy” vibe? So imagine my surprise when I walk in and find him sitting there in a plaid shirt. And imagine my further surprise when he opened his mouth, only to find that every sentence he utters is punctuated with the charming phrase “and what-not, eh?” Here are some examples:

- I pretty much only drink beer, except when me and my buddies go out for drinks and what-not, eh?

- The thing I miss now that I live in a condo is not having a yard. I used to really like going out and cutting the grass and what-not, eh?

- You know, I’d be out cutting the grass and the neighbors would stop and say hello and stop for a beer and what-not, eh?

- I’ve always lived in a small town until I moved here a few months ago. I really like the small town life better but I like being able to walk outside and there’s all these places to go for a beer and what-not, eh?

Luckily, after about half an hour, he said:

- I don’t like the email back and forth much. I’d rather meet face-to-face and see if we like each other and what-not, eh? Then you know if you want to go out a second time. What do you think? Do you want to go out again?

And so, seasoned dater that I am, I responded:

- Well, you seem like a really nice guy and what-not, but I just don’t think it’s a match for me.

OK, I didn’t really say “and what-not” but I did get out of there in less than 40 minutes. That may be a personal record. I’m getting better at this.

Next and what-not, eh?

Bachelor #47

When my friend S met Bachelor #47 online, she quickly realized he was more my demographic than hers, so she passed him along. I think I may have reached a new low: I'm now taking hand-me-down dates from my friends.

But according to S, Bachelor #47 was cute, funny, Jewish, successful, and very interesting to talk to. She did warn, however, that he's JUST A LITTLE opinionated. No problem, I thought. Who isn't A LITTLE opinionated? I've been known to voice an opinion of my own now and then. I can take him.

So he called, and indeed, he was quite the conversationalist. Somehow we got on the topic of religion, which he VERY ADAMANTLY does not believe in. Yup, he's got opinions. Fortunately I tend to lean the same way on that topic, so that was OK. I told him I'm not religious either and don't keep kosher, except for a teeny bit of leftover brainwashing from childhood that makes all things pork-related completely unappealing.

Well, Bachelor #47 was having none of that! He was going to cure me of my silly 40-year-strong brainwashing once and for all. And so for our first date, I agreed to let him take me Pork Hopping.

Yes, you heard it hear first, folks. PORK HOPPING. Couldn't make it up if I tried. You've heard of bar hopping, where you hit a bunch of bars in one night? Well, Pork Hopping is sort of like that, only with a lot more saturated fat.

Here are the rules of Pork Hopping: Wherever we go, we can only order pork products. No carbs, no veggies, no sides. Just pork, all pork, all the time. And I have to at least try everything we order. Man, am I a good sport.

For our first stop, we went to a diner. He ordered two things: bacon, and back bacon. Mmm mmmm. In actuality bacon I can handle. But back bacon, on the other hand, YUCK. Still, it was all in good fun, so I tried it.

Then we went to a Greek place and ordered ... you guessed it ... pork souvlaki. No pita, no tzatziki, just pork-on-a-stick. I begged for a salad but he wasn't bending. I was getting the feeling bending wasn't something Bachelor #47 was especially good at.

Next stop was a steakhouse. Before he confiscated my menu, I saw that they had grilled shrimp and filet mignon and all kinds of things I actually LIKE, but oh lucky me, Bachelor #47 was taking care of the ordering: pork chops and ribs. Sure, lots of people like ribs and I'm sure someone out there actually likes pork chops, but I was really hungry by this point. I thought maybe he could let up a little on the gimmicky date and for the love of God, let me order a baked potato. Oh wait, forget the love-of-God thing, I'm out with a crazy ass atheist! Anyway, there was no such consession to be had. Bachelor #47 takes his pork very seriously. He was actually thrilled that I was starving because now I'd really get down to consuming some serious pork. Oh goody.

The thing about forcing people to do things they don't really want to do? Tends to backfire. By the end of dinner, I was so thoroughly disgusted by all that pork I don't think I'll ever go near it again. And we didn't even get to his last planned stop: a local deli for a ham and cheese. Thank whoever-atheists-thank-instead-of-God for that.

And as for Bachelor #47, pork chops weren't the only thing we didn't agree on. As expected, Mr. Opinionated Pants had unbending opinions I didn't happen to agree with on a lot of things. You know, like parenting and relationships. In fact, I think he could come up with a conflicting opinion to just about anything I said. Call me crazy, but I want a boyfriend, not a debating partner.

Still, I'll always think of him whenever I smell bacon.

Next.

Bachelor #46

When I saw Bachelor #46's picture, I was stunned. He was GORGEOUS. Not passable, not OK, not maybe-he-looks-better-in-person. He was BEAUTIFUL. His profile didn't say a whole lot, but the demographics were good: 46, divorced with 2 kids, Jewish, 6"2. And did I mention HOLY CRAP IS HE GORGEOUS? So we emailed and made plans to meet for a drink.

Would you like the good news or the bad news first? Let's start with the good news. He was every bit as good-looking in person. Tall, dark hair, tanned complexion, dark, soulful eyes. He was striking.

Unfortunately... much, much to my dismay, that was about it for the good news.

Shall we discuss wardrobe? I have no words of explanation for what I'm about to tell you: The man was wearing a puffy shirt. Yes, just like in the famous Seinfeld episode, it was white and flowy and puffy. I kid you not. I wanted to ask if maybe he was running off to join a band of pirates later on. Or maybe he was low on laundry and dipped into his daughter's closet? During a power failure? And if that wasn't enough (which Lord knows it was) he was wearing cowboy boots. Now I'm sure that's perfectly normal in some places, but this is NOT one of them. I haven't seen anyone around here in cowboy boots since 1991. But there they were. In fact, he told me he wears them all the time, even in summer. With shorts.

Stunned as I was by these questionable wardrobe choices, I am not so superficial as to dismiss a VERY VERY attractive man just because he's fulfilling his inner 6-year-old's dress-up fantasies. In public. It was weird, no doubt, but wardrobe can be corrected. So I probed a little to find out what he's all about. Which, in hindsight, might not have been such a great idea. It probably would have been better to do all the talking myself and let him just sit there and look pretty. He was awfully good at THAT.

But instead, I found out that the handsome pirate/cowboy recently quit his normal, decently paying corporate job because he's decided he missed his calling and is now ready to pursue his dream. He's going to be a rock star! Isn't that awesome?! I didn't have the heart to ask if he was aware that he was 46 years old. He was dead serious. For the last 8 months, he's been living at his brother's house and working on his demo-tape. He just knows his big break is going to come really, really soon. Especially because, as he said, "I know I've got the looks." Cool, huh?

Next.

Bachelor #15, Revisted

It's not often that I regret my dating-and-dumping decisions. And Bachelor #15 is no exception. He was a lot of fun, but PITIFUL on the post-date follow-up. Call me old fashioned (at least when it works in my favour) but I believe the man should call/text/email after a good date. Bachelor #15 didn't seem to see it that way. He also has no kids and hopes to some day, which makes him out of my target market and not to be taken seriously.

So taking him seriously is out of the question. But does that mean I can't take him at all? When he emailed me this week after months of no contact, suddenly it occurred to me: Bachelor #15 is what every single girl needs when Mr. Right isn't coming along: Mr. Right Now. And he's the perfect Friend With Benefits: takes me out for nice dinners, sexy, great flirty banter, always brings wine, and, if memory serves, great in bed. What more could a girl want, you know, other than someone who actually cares about her?

Sure, I thought I'd matured beyond the era of the booty call, but a little something to take the edge off might be just what the doctor ordered. Even though I'd rather order a doctor.

The Case of the Vanishing Men

Lately my single friends and I have been noticing an alarming trend among the men we are ATTEMPTING to date: they have developed the ability to vanish at will. Amazing, no?

Case in point: My friend J was perusing an online dating site, as we bored, dateless singles tend to do. She discovered that someone new had hotlisted her. His was one of the rare well-written profiles, free of grammatical errors and, astonishingly, displaying actual personality, and his picture wasn't bad, so J, a kindred spirit in her extreme lack of patience in awaiting the arrival of Prince Charming on a silver platter, took it upon herself to write to him. And then? Vanished. For two days she sat by her computer, puzzling, and saying over and over, "But HE hotlisted ME."

Case #2: Similarly, I noticed a rather hot looking man who had smiled at me online recently, and decided that I too am getting more than a little impatient waiting for my prince to come of his own accord, so I took matters into my own restless hands and wrote to the hot man. To my great pleasure, he promptly replied "Thanks for the note. Would love to chat. Your number or mine?" Now ordinarily I prefer to take the man's number rather than give out my own, for fear of inadvertently handing my contact information out to serial killers and the like, but, knowing how I dread having to pick up the phone and make that first call, I thought it might be best to toss the ball back to him. I replied with my cell number, and told him to call any time. He said OK. That was Friday night. Did I hear from the hot man all weekend? Not a word. It's now Tuesday, and has he called? You guessed it. Another vanishing man.

I ask you... what the...? Sure, I know all the obvious answers. Maybe they're juggling multiple women. Maybe he dreads making that first awkward call as much as I do. Maybe he's busy, legitimately or otherwise. Maybe I have disappeared on my share of men with no rational explanation. Maybe J & I should get a life so we don't spend so much time trying to figure out why strange men we HAVEN'T EVEN MET are letting us down. OK, that last one is probably more of a "hell, yes" than a "maybe." Yet still, I am puzzled by all this senseless vanishing. Can I not just get past all this heinous dating garbage and cut to the good part already? If anyone knows the secret to THAT trick, please send it my way. Much appreciated.

Bachelor #45

Remember the Overpriced Dating Service called to tell me about the pilot, and I got all caught up in the fantasy of dating a pilot, only the pilot, well, took off, and so I never got to meet him? So then they found me a very, very attractive lawyer, only the lawyer was too busy with some big important trial, so I didn't get to meet him either?

Well, they knew I was getting a little frustrated, what with all the fantastic men they WEREN'T setting me up with and all. I can be so difficult that way, hoping to actually MEET men. So they called to reassure me that, not to worry, they've found yet another candidate for me, and they've already checked and this one is available right away.

Bachelor #45 was 44, 6"2, two kids, owns a successful consulting company, active, cultured, good looking. Sounds great, right? Only I couldn't shake the nagging suspicion that this was a consolation date. They knew I was getting impatient and so they'd better send me out on a date -- any date -- to shut me up. Obviously, my good friends at the Overpriced Dating Service have failed to notice that sending me on just any date is likely to have precisely the opposite effect.

Bachelor #45 arrived at the restaurant before me. As soon as I saw him, I knew my suspicions were right. I was on a consolation date. It wasn't that he was atrocious. He was just so far removed from the type of man I'm attracted to it was almost comical to think I'd paid $114 for "skilled matchmakers" to set me up with him.

Still, I tried not to focus on the fact that I didn't find him remotely attractive. Fortunately, that was easy, because I soon found something else to focus on: counting the seconds of awkward silence. And there were many, many silences. In fairness, a lot of it could have been my fault, because after the first embarrassingly unfunny joke he told and then the 5-minute monologue about his work history, I stopped trying and started plotting my escape. I'm sure he's a very nice man, and if I was looking for an awkward, geeky, prematurely middle-aged man with limited conversation skills, I probably would have really liked him.

Still, to my great astonishment, after what to me was an excruciating hour of sporadic and dull small talk punctuated by textbook awkward silences, he actually asked if I'd like to do this again sometime. Now let me see ... would I like to spend another evening I'll never get back on an alarmingly bad date, counting the minutes until it's polite to leave?

While I was pondering that difficult decision, the waitress brought us SEPARATE BILLS. Now, I've been on more than my share of dates, and I have NEVER been handed separate bills. I can only surmise that Bachelor #45, who told me enough about himself for me to know he's not exactly hurting for money, arrived first and instructed the waitress to bring two bills. Without even meeting me first. What if we had hit it off? What if he hadn't bored me into a near-catatonic haze, rendering me unable to summon any of my usual charm and keep the conversation lively? What if we did agree to go out again? Would he still have been too cheap to buy me a $9 glass of Shiraz?

Once again, a stellar matchmaking job by the Overpriced Dating Service and an outstanding use of $114.

Next.

Bachelor #44

Online dating sucks. I know this. And yet, for lack of random encounters with handsome strangers, I just keep banging my weary head against the same old wall.

Bachelor #44 sounded just dandy. 45, nice enough looking, no major grammatical errors in his profile, and he swore up and down that he's 6"1! Hallelujah! We talked on the phone and he was charming, funny, interesting, yadda yadda yadda. When he said he feels that coffee dates are a train wreck, and he'd like to take me to dinner, the oddest thing happened: magically, all previous experiences of being trapped in restaurants for hours on end with horrid men vanished from memory. I have no explanation. I know better. Blind dates must allow for an easy exit. And yet, there I was, happily agreeing to dinner. So I deserve whatever fate awaited me, right?

Well, as it turns out, I understand perfectly why he doesn't like coffee dates: not enough calories. I swear, I am not exaggerating AT ALL when I tell you the man weighed EASILY 350 pounds, quite possibly more. He was a mountain. He was, without question, 150 pounds heavier than in his photos. In fact, in one of them he was engaged in actual physical activity, obviously not something he's done in the last couple of years.

I know this is typically the male online dater's domain: nearly every man I've met online has a horror story of the girl who posted a picture taken 50 pounds ago. Up until now, I thought men were more interested in lying about their height than their weight. But isn't it nice to know that sometimes men and women are from the same big, fat, dishonest planet after all?

The one saving grace was that he picked a small, out of the way restaurant (with generous portions) so I didn't have to worry about being seen by anyone I knew. I did, however, have to sit through an entire dinner, because I just couldn't think of a polite way to say, "You know it's funny, but you didn't say anything in your profile about being morbidly obese." Or "I wonder why I couldn't see all your chins in any of your photos."

Fate's a bitch.

Next.

A second opinion

Good news people, there is a God. No, I did not have a good date. Let's not be totally unrealistic, OK? But in light of yesterday's fiasco, this is almost as good.

I just saw another podiatrist, who is clearly FAR more qualified than the first mean horrible podiatrist, and he told me the following:

a) 4-inch heels are indeed off limits for actual walking, but 2 1/2" is FINE! He could have handed me a check for several million dollars and I don't think I would have been any happier. OK, that would buy A LOT of shoes of all kinds of varying heel heights, but still. It is VERY possible to be attractive to the opposite sex in 2 1/2" heels! Oh happy day!

b) There is a little do-hickey that a shoe-repair place can put into your shoes that will make them far less dangerous to your long term walking abilities and much more comfortable to boot (pun pretty much intended). I just hope they don't cost too much because whatever it is I have to multiply it by... oh, I don't know, several hundred or so to get them into all my shoes. Oh whatever. Money, shmoney. I can wear shoes again!

Anyway, a great big thank-you to everyone for your sympathy. There will be NO Rockports in this girl's foreseeable future. And worry not, your regularly scheduled man-hunting programming will return tomorrow.

No shoes, no dates

A sad, sad thing has happened. It is almost too upsetting to write about, but here you have it:

So yesterday, there I was, minding my own business, doing actual WORK at work, in a cute pencil skirt and, obviously, high-heeled pumps, when, gradually over the course of the afternoon I noticed that the ball of my right foot was in so much pain I could barely walk. By the time I got to my car at the end of the day, a 10-minute walk from my desk and down 3 flights of concrete stairs to the rapist-infested parking lot which is the only place my single mother budget allows me to park, I was in tears and came frighteningly close to launching my pretty brown croc pumps into oncoming traffic.

I drove home barefoot and hobbled into a foot clinic, where kind souls took pity on this sad, shoeless, limping girl, only to learn that I have pinched a nerve as a result of a) an unusually high arch (genetic and incurable), b) wearing down of the fat on the bottoms of my feet (Yes! A part of my body that DOESN'T HAVE ENOUGH FAT! Great news, but although I read something recently about women in New York injecting fat from other parts into their feet, I don't think this fits into my aforementioned single mother budget) but mostly it's because of c) my propensity to wear wildly inappropriate, though awfully pretty shoes ALL THE TIME.

Here's what the podiatrist said: pretty shoes are a treat to wear for short periods and special occasions that do not involve precarious activities such as standing and walking. If I do not want to end up completely unable to walk, I am henceforth restricted to a life of 1 1/2" heels and wedges. They have a word for shoes like that: they are called SENSIBLE SHOES. Oh, the horror. The despair. Only the female receptionist at the clinic could understand why my eyes were welling up as he went on about the virtues of wedges and the imperative nature of his warnings and showed me the Birkenstock catalog. Why me, I ask you? Why?

When I got home, one glance at my red patent peep-toe slingbacks was all it took to send me straight to the wine rack.

But of course, my biggest fear is this: Who will date a woman in sensible shoes? Why could I not have found a husband BEFORE this atrocity? How do you wear a pencil skirt with a low heel? Well, fear not, good people of the blogosphere. I am nothing if not resourceful in the pursuit of A Man I Do Not Hate. I will, from now on, carry with me a pair of sexy back-up shoes to slip into before dates and trolling (perched on a bar stool, I promise) or should I spot a handsome stranger. So I may have to buy a bigger purse. And obviously there is shoe shopping to be done, albeit sensible shoe shopping. Do they make sensible shoes in hot pink patent leather? I'll let you know.

Miscellaneous Online Bachelors, Part Two

I swear, I really am going to abandon the whole online dating thing. Any minute now. Just as soon as someone tells me where else on earth one can find an ongoing stream of dates.

In the meantime, however, I think I may be too jaded on the topic to get any actual dates out of the deal. Witness the following online conversations:

Miscellaneous Online Bachelor A (who, for the record, contacted me, lest you think from the following that perhaps it might have been the other way 'round): So, I should probably tell you, I met a woman about 5-6 weeks ago, and we've been on 3 dates. I kind of like her but it's going awfully slowly. And I had another date with another woman who I think I'll see again. Just thought you should know.

Me: Well, don't let me complicate your life any further.

Miscellaneous Online Bachelor B: Do you want to meet for a drink this weekend?
Me: Sure, that sounds good.
Miscellaneous Online Bachelor B: Well, the thing is, my car's in the shop this weekend. So can you swing by and pick me up?
Me: Well, see, the thing is, yeah, no.

Miscellaneous Online Bachelor C: You're yummy.
Me:
Miscellaneous Online Bachelor C: You there?
Me:
Miscellaneous Online Bachelor C: Hey sexy, where'd you go?
Me:

Miscellaneous Online Bachelor D: Would you like to get together for coffee?
Me: To tell you the truth, I've never had a successful coffee date. How about a drink instead?
Miscellaneous Online Bachelor D: I don't drink. How about we meet for soup?
Me: Oh, of course. A soup date. Why didn't I think of that.

Miscellaneous Online Bachelor E (EVERY SINGLE TIME I LOG ON): So, how are you on this _____ (insert daily weather report here) evening/morning?
Me:

See what I mean? There has to be a better way. Please, someone, anyone, tell me there is a better way.

Mothers, please don't name your sons Horace

OK, I haven't actually met anyone named Horace. Yet. But I have met a whole bunch of men lately who've left me wondering, what on earth were their mothers thinking? Were women in the early 1960s secretly hoping to hinder their sons' future dating endeavors by giving them decidedly unattractive names in the hopes of keeping their little boys at home? Yes, I know, what's in a name? And if I meet a smart, interesting, charming, funny, attractive, gainfully employed man and his name is Wilbur, yes, I will get over it. Happily. But I would expect a healthy dose of mockery from my friends.

I give you the following selection of names I have encountered recently:

Howard

Harold

Myron

Marshall

Sheldon

Barnie

Leonard

Rolf

Arnie

Claude

Louie

Pim

I swear, I am not making these up. And I know it really doesn't matter. But it would take some getting used to when you want to shout your lover's name out in the heat of passion and it's the same as a large purple dinosaur. I'm just saying.