Life Moments: That One Time I Terrified Russell Crowe

Russell Crowe and I first fell in love in 1999. 

That was the year “Mystery, Alaska” was released.  We locked eyes in that semi-crowded, dark multiplex and though neither of us expected it, our worlds just fundamentally shifted. Sure, he was on the screen and I was seated in the theater with my then-husband Tony (better known to my friends as “That Little Fucker” or “TLF”).  And sure, we ran with different crowds on mostly different continents.

 But we knew it was for real.  There was no denying the attraction.

Seriously, it's almost embarrassing how much he wants me in this photo.

I mean, look at all we had in common!  He was a movie star—I liked movies.  He was rich and famous—and I had always assumed I would be as well.  He was single, gorgeous, and could have any woman on the planet—I was married, 40 pounds overweight, and could have been almost any woman on the planet.

It started innocently enough, as these things often do, with frequent purchases of “People” magazine.  It quickly escalated to long, lazy afternoons spent Googling for the latest news and photos and reading www.maximumcrowe.net.  Let’s face it, we were hooked on each other.  And I knew, I somehow just knew, that one day fate would put us in the same place at the same time.

Being me, I hedged my bets on this chance meeting by cyber-stalking Russell… and my efforts eventually paid off when I learned that he and his band, 30 Odd Foot of Grunts, would be in Austin for a month recording their next album… and would play for 3 consecutive weekends at Stubbs BBQ. Austin was only 160 miles away (I lived in Houston at the time). And my weekends, despite (or perhaps because of) being tied down to the most unlikable man in North America, were unusually free.  My initial thought:  Oh, he will be mine.

My second thought, immediately on the heels of that was: Oh crap, I need to lose weight. And so it began:  My Russell Crowe make-over.  Make no mistake, it was hard.  40 pounds is a lot of weight on a 5’2” frame, and I was almost always hungry.   But was I going to let some jiggly thighs stand between me and the man I was meant to be with?  Puh-SHAW, people!

And so, 3 months later and 40 pounds slimmer, I found myself (and unfortunately TLF as well) standing about 5 rows back from the stage at Stubbs BBQ, awaiting my destiny. I was wearing a black halter top, black shorts and the kind of come hither-stare that one typically reserves for movie stars.

And suddenly… there he was. 

Look, I’m not demented.  I knew I was there with my completely unlikable and not-at-all fun husband.  I knew there was little chance for some sort of meeting of the minds (or bodies, oh yes please, bodies)… so I told myself I’d be happy if we just made eye contact, if I simply knew that he saw me, that we connected for a moment in time.

And you know what?  We DID. 

And that was it.

I returned to Houston, pleased with that moment and yet still unsatisfied.

So two weeks later, I returned to Stubbs.  This time I left TLF at home and brought a girlfriend with me.  We arrived late and subsequently were much farther back in the crowd than on my previous visit. And yet, and yet… I knew it was going to happen. I had come too far.  I had planned too much.  I had lost 40 mother-fucking pounds, for God’s sake.  Friends and neighbors—it was ON.

So the concert ended, the venue emptied, and my friend and I found ourselves standing in the now almost-empty amphitheater, awaiting some new friends we had met in the crowd to return from the ladies room.  The plan was to go hit 6^th Street and drown my unrequited love sorrows.  Wait, I said almost empty amphitheater… right?  There was one man left in the vast expanse of empty space.  One man, and somewhat inexplicably, one folding chair in which he was sitting.  

And because I had spent MONTHS stalking Russell, I happened to recognize the man:  It was Russell’s brother, Terry.  (Terry was a shorter, stockier, and much less rich and famous version of his brother.  Still, he was my TICKET.)

Well, as you might imagine, I just marched right on over to Terry and introduced myself.  We struck up a conversation about the upcoming “Cinderella Man” and Jodie Foster and God only knows what else.  Seriously, I was at my most maniacally charming… and was dancing as fast as I could. I remember at one point, he actually touched my hair and said something about how beautiful it was and I thought “Oh…so…if I can’t land Russell, I think I could nail his brother.  And that would be close, right?”

Listen, I’m not proud.  But at least I’m honest.

Terry invited us to the Afterparty.  He gave us the address of the unmarked private club where we should meet him…and where he’d introduce us to his dreamy brother.  I felt like I might just DIE from happiness!

So off we went.  I had no camera.  I had no pen/paper. I had nothing but my slimmer body, my months of stalking, and my hope.  And oh yes friends and neighbors, make no mistake, hope floats.

We waited outside of the club for Terry to show up.  We said hello to Ron Howard.  We said hello to Sandra Bullock.  Child’s play, people.  I nodded and smiled and said “hi” like they were the janitor in my office building. I was keeping my eye on the prize.

We met the other band members of 30 Odd Foot of Grunts. Like a total weirdo, I happened to know all of their names and momentarily convinced their trumpet player that we knew each other because I was so familiar with him.  I was IN.

And then, a black Ford Explorer pulled up.  The door opened.  And out stepped my future.  The love of my life.  The man of my DREAMS.  He was smiling, looking around…and then he was upon me.  We made eye contact.  He smiled at me, and looked at me expectantly.

This was my moment.  I had spent MONTHS preparing for it.  I had traveled hundreds of miles, dropped scores of pounds.  I had researched this man to the nth degree.  I had chatted up his family and his band mates.  I had learned all of his songs.  I knew what he ate for breakfast, who his favorite artists were, how much he adored his niece. And here he was, smiling at me, looking me in the eye, expecting something.  I smiled back.  And I opened my mouth to speak.

And suddenly and without warning, I started weeping hysterically.

And what came out of my mouth was a garbled and mashed up string of words that made absolutely no sense.  I think I was even hyperventilating.  Through my gasps for air, I managed to say something like “Omigod, yourshowwas sogood, ohmigod, ohmigod, ohmigod!”  Russell looked at me like… oh, I don’t know… how someone might look at a rabid rabbit that is completely adorable but foaming at the mouth and perhaps even dangerous.

And then, he kept on walking.  All I could hear was my friend whisper “Annie, STOP.  You’re making an ASS out of yourself.”

And then he was gone.  He walked out of my life without looking back.  I think I probably gained back at least 5 pounds in that instant. Fucking water weight.

The next day, my friend and I were driving back to Houston in a companionable silence, when suddenly I announced “You know what?  This is for the best.  Russell and I really didn’t have anything in common anyway.”

She looked at me.  She waited a moment and then said “Really?  You’re just figuring this out now?”

I’m a slow learner.

And then, without ceremony, Russell and I broke up.  It was over.  And I never looked back. Sure, I recalled our summer together fondly…and I knew I’d never forget him…but we were finished.  I went on to divorce and then remarry and then divorce again.  And he married a beautiful actress and had some kiddos.

We were happy for each other.

Until this morning, when I learned that he and his wife had separated.  And of course, my phone started ringing.  I could see on Caller ID that it was a New Zealand number, so I of course ignored it.

I love Derek.  He’s The Boy.

Russell had his chance.  And he blew it.

I’m sure the next time he finds himself in a dark, semi-crowded multiplex, he’ll think of me. And honestly, who could blame him?

Plus, I totally could still nail his brother.

Adventures in Dating, Episode 9: The Requirements

This is the 11th installment of my Adventures in Dating series, and yet somehow only episode 9.  It's as perplexing as Herman Cain's candidacy only my approval ratings are higher.  (We do share a similar grasp of foreign policy.)  You can dig on episodes 1, 2, 3, 4, 4.5, 5, 6, 7 , 7 revisited and 8 here. 

First of all, I take umbrage with a comment I received regarding the Oompa Loompa. Umbrage, I say.

A friend, who shall remain nameless but who I call "Chad" because that's his name, mentioned to Derek that the Oompa Loompa sounded as though he would've been fun to date.

Umbrage alert!

Um...no.  The very fact that you think this makes me wonder if I took it too easy on the OL in my post.  When I mentioned that his eHarmony profile made a big show of his wealth, what I meant was that it was a big show.  As in make-believe, like my enthusiasm for skiing or how I never make my pets wear costumes. 

Look, maybe this makes me seem shallow, but your girl here, desperate or not, had no intention of hitching her wagon to someone needing financial assistance.  Been there, done that.  Twice. And have the collection of last names to prove it.  Trust me, this ain't no soup kitchen.

So maybe this is a good time to lay out what my requirements were...just so we're all on the same judgey page here.

Originally, I described my perfect man thusly:  A childless billionaire quadraplegic octogenarian in failing health.  I'd be unable to seal the deal, you see...and therefore exempt from it.  And there'd be no meddling kids to take me to court once he joined Uncle Marty and the angels.  The world would never find out that I was once an "exotic" dancer in a crappy bar in Mexia, Texas before rising to international fame as a Playmate and Guess model. 

Oh wait, there I go channeling Anna Nicole Smith again.  Hey, we all have our role models.

When my match.com suitors revealed themselves to be a largely shiftless lot with ridiculously large trucks, even larger mustaches and fake British accents-- but no billions-- I realized I might have to redefine my requirements.  And so, in no particular order, here they are.  Or were.  I'm having trouble with tense.

• You must be at least 5'8" to ride this ride.  I once carried on an email conversation with a super-cute guy named Darius for about a week.  We made it all the way to the planning-the-date stage before I noticed his profile listed his height as 5'4".  I'm 5'2"...but consistently wear 4" heels.  And if I can't climb you like a tree, what's the point?
• You must be gainfully employed.  In this instance, "gainfully" is code for a six-figure income.  Otherwise there is no gain for me.  Dabblers need not apply. 
• You must own real estate.  When you tell me that you rent an apartment "by choice" because ownership is such a hassle, it makes my nostrils flare. It makes me want to stand, point at you and yell "LIAR!"  If you meet the requirement immediately above, there's no freaking way you are "choosing" to rent.  You're over 40. Own it.  And some real estate.  
• You must not overuse "LOL" while texting.  If you feel the need to say things like "I had ribs for lunch...lol" then all I have to say is "TTFN."  Lol.
• You must have a firm command of the English language. If you are unsure of when to use "your" versus "you're" or are fond of the dangling modifier, I cannot hold a conversation with you, written or otherwise.  Husband #1 used to use the term "that's a mute point."  'Nuff said.
• You must be masculine.  It's fine if you like pina coladas, just don't order one unless we're alone (aside from staff) on your yacht. Getting caught in the rain is a bonus.
• You must not have tattoos.  I get the whole attraction of tats.  It's just that, should we ever need to go on the lam, you will become a liability with such an identifiable mark.
• Your credit card must not be declined on our third date.  Sadly, this happened.  With a man who represented himself as owning a company that charters flights and sells aircraft.  Um...yeah.  Me too. I'm selling a helicopter as I write this.
• You must be funny.  And not a little funny-- a LOT funny.  I once dated a very tall guy (6'5"-- he met the tree-climbing requirement, seriously, I had to stand on my running board to kiss him goodnight) who I mistook as funny because we laughed alot during our first 4 dates.  What I finally realized, at approximately 8 p.m. on New Year's Eve when there was no escape from the evening until midnight, was that he wasn't funny.  I was funny-- and I was laughing at my own jokes.  Should old acquaintance be forgot indeed.

These are not big things to ask for.  I was looking for an equal.  I was looking for a true partner.  I was looking for someone who could at least pick up the check 50% of the time.  And maybe occasionally pick up my dry-cleaning while he was at it.  What I got, with a few very-nice-just-not-right-for-me exceptions, was a group of men I wouldn't trust (and who were ill-qualified) to hold my purse while I tried on shoes.

But my mama didn't raise no quitters...and so onward I slogged.  And now onward I blog.

Adventures in Dating, Episode 8: Oompa Loompa Doompity Don't

Okay, I'm having a social media crisis:  The Oompa Loompa sent me a Friend Request on Facebook.

Spoiler alert:  I've decided to ignore the request.  Some stories simply must be told... and the lure of knowing the mundane details of his life, like which Sex & The City girl he'd be or what he ate for breakfast ("Oatmeal with raisins, yes!") cannot stop me.

So here it is, the 10th installment of my "Adventures in Dating" series.  You can enjoy episodes 1, 2, 3, 4, 4.5, 5, 6, 7 and 7 revisited here.  How am I on #10 if this is the 8th episode?  Well, as previously stated, I'm a mathtard.  I barely understand how money works.

Let's travel back in time, shall we?  It's mid-March.  I've wasted the previous 6 months of my life on the freak show that is known as match.com.  Well, Yoda (my shrink) would say it wasn't wasted-- I was simply practicing my dating skills.  So skills summarily practiced, self-esteem completely deflated, and with nary a spring in my step, I embarked on a new lurch towards love via eHarmony.

For those of you without televsions but with a lot of free time on your hands, let me briefly explain (as if) the difference between the two sites.  On match.com, you can set search parameters and view the entire catalog of men within those parameters, the way you'd build the perfect Volvo for yourself or order a pizza from Dominos.  Romantic, right?  So basically, you've got a bunch of guys looking to get laid by the hottest chick they can score...and a bunch of women lying about their interests, their number of cats, and their level of desperation.  It's like going to a club in the late 80s, only without all the pesky human interaction and spastic dancing.

eHarmony, on the other hand, does not show you the entire oeuvre.  eHarmony is interested not at all in your witty description of yourself.  eHarmony makes you take an extensive survey about your deepest feelings about family, love, sex, money, etc and then ONLY shows you the men with whom you share those feelings.  And by the time you turn to eHarmony, you're so worn out from all of your horrific match.com dates that you're honest.  Except maybe about your number of cats.

In my exhaustion, I agreed to meet Bob. 

Like many men involved in online dating, Bob made a big show of his wealth in his photos (taken at various locations around the world, including the obligatory photo on a boat).  He described himself as an adventurer looking for a partner with whom to explore the world in the style of "The Amazing Race."  And if you know anything at all about me, it's that I'm a natural athlete, so clearly this was right up my alley.  I figured he had a great sense of humor because in one Halloween photo, he was dressed as George Hamilton complete with ridiculous fake tan and cheesy suit.  Plus, the computer said we were a good match, and who am I to argue with Computer Science?  I mean, I come on, I made a D- in COBOL.  That shit's ironclad.

As always, I was nervous before the date and my nerves were compounded by the fact that I was recovering from a sunburn and therefore had a peeling face.  I warned him ahead of time so that he wouldn't think there was something wrong with me...and we laughed and pretended like it mattered or it didn't or whatever, just for the love of God, show up so I don't have to die alone.

We met for dinner at a restaurant on the South side.  As I walked up to the door, there he was.  I definitely recognized him from his photos but was a little bit confused as to why he was still dressed in his George Hamilton costume.  As we said our hellos and shook hands, he took a look at my peeling skin and said "Oh, it doesn't look that bad!" effectively sweeping me off my feet with his gallantry and tact. 

I likely would have been offended if I wasn't trying so hard not to openly stare at his fake tan.  Seriously, he was absolutely tangerine, like Julian from "Bridget Jones's Diary."  And to make matters worse, he was a little on the short side.

We were seated by Vanessa, the hostess.  I know her name was Vanessa, because Bob apparently frequented this restaurant often and felt compelled to introduce me to all of the personnel.  Sadly, Tony wasn't working that night so our water glasses had to be refilled by a relative stranger.

Bob enjoyed talking about himself and was a bit of a name-dropper.  Yes, that Halloween photo was in fact taken at the Playboy Mansion (pause for dramatic effect, wait for gasp).  I tried to play along and act interested, but my heart was sinking.  He was a nice enough guy and he was clearly trying to impress me.  But as I plowed unenthusiastically through my seared ahi salad (my customary date dish-- it says "she's healthy but adventurous-- I can tell because she likes meaty fish") I just kept thinking "How can I take a 52 year-old man who fake tans seriously?"

So the date crawled to its end.  Before we walked out, I took a brief trip to the ladies room where I checked my text messages to find that two of my friends were coincidentally and unexpectedly sitting in the bar of the same restaurant and had been watching my super-hot date.  If I can paraphrase:  "Hey, I can see you.  How old is that guy?"

I didn't want Bob to know that we were being spied on...nor did I want to introduce him to my friends, so I let him walk me to my car.  I drove around the building, waited til he left, then parked again and went back in to join my friends.  I'm sure Vanessa and crew likely ratted me out later, but I really needed the girl time.

Try to contain your shock when I tell you that Bob asked me out again, via text.  I made Yoda tremendously proud by not taking the cowardly way out and was instead honest.  I texted back "You seem like a wonderful man, but this just isn't a match for me.  I wish you luck on your journey."  That second sentence is one that is quite hard for me to say (or text) with a straight face, but Bob was very much the type of man who is on a journey.




But not quite like this.


As bad dates go, it was harmless.  But it reconfirmed what match.com had taught me-- that online dating was never going to work for me.  And also that I should stop lying about my number of cats.  So I decided to give up for good.

But first, I checked my eHarmony inbox one more time... to find that a handsome man with a great-looking dog who lived in a little town southwest of Denver had contacted me. 

Bonus:  He can READ!


Shortly after that, this man became The Boy.  And that has made all the difference.

Adventures in Dating, Episode 7 Revisited: The Time I Killed Uncle Marty

An update to Episode 7 of "Adventures in Dating."  

I have a horrible habit of going back to my previous posts and reading and re-reading them and obsessing about how I could have written each one better.  I usually decide to leave them alone and remind myself that I'm not actually getting paid for this and perhaps I should put a bit more time into my paying gig... but this time Stacy reminded me that I forgot to mention Freddie's "Uncle Marty."

Sigh. 

I've never been a murderer before, so it's possible I blocked this from my memory.

As you may recall, Freddie was either a 14-year old boy, a wheelchair-bound hunchbacked shut-in with 4-inch long fingernails who saved his scabs, or a slightly overweight old-fashioned millionaire with an affinity for gummi snacks.  I wish I could be more specific, but I'm apparently not a good judge of character.  So that's pretty much as far as I can narrow the field. 

So yes, Freddie was freaking me out... and because I lacked the sense of self to say "Hey, this isn't a match for me," I just became very busy.  Most of us have been on the wrong side of the "I'm just not that into you" equation, so it's not surprising that the Fredster recognized the pattern.  And so suddenly and without warning, "Uncle Marty's" health began to fail.

"Who the hell is 'Uncle Marty?'" you may find yourself asking.  I know I did.  But the heretofore unmentioned "Uncle Marty" was apparently one of the guiding forces in young Frederick's life and it was destroying him to watch his loved one die.  Had he ever mentioned this relationship before in the hours and hours we spent talking?  No.  But a man's heart is like the ocean... Oh wait, that's not quite right.  A man's heart is directly tied to his penis and when the catch of the day starts making a run on the end of the line, a man's penis has to stand strong.

Am I mixing metaphors all over the place?  You bet.  I'm in uncharted waters here.

I want you to draw me like one of your French girls, Freddie.



Because last Fall I was a complete tool, I of course replied with a series of platitudes that would have made a glittery little coffee cup greeting card proud.  Did I suspect that "Uncle Marty" was no more real than the $32 million, the fishing boat, and the buff physique from twenty years ago?  Absolutely. And hence the unnecessary quotation marks around his name.

But I couldn't risk it.

  

So each time I faded away, Freddie trotted out the plight of "Uncle Marty" and each time I did the "right" thing by serving up a bunch of banalities which simply continued our conversation... much to the delight of his little stalking, creepy (and quite likely) enlarged heart. 

When I finally stopped replying, it should come as no surprise, "Uncle Marty" died.  In fact, the way Freddie described it in his poorly-spelled and mercilessly punctuated email, "Uncle Marty" joined the angels.

I tried to feel something, other than abject terror that this freakshow had my home address.  I'm a nice person.  You know, deep down, underneath all the sarcasm and judginess and dating sanctimoniousness.  But all I felt was relief that "Uncle Marty's" pain was over and that meant mine was too.

As I write this, The Boy is researching Freddie.  He says it's because he wants to keep me safe...but I suspect he's also curious to know if my Haribo Hero was for real...if there was $32 million, an Uncle Marty, any of it.

Admit it-- you're a little curious too.

The last time Freddie contacted me (which I think was roughly 6 weeks ago, so look for an update in two weeks), he invited me to lunch again.  Stacy BEGGED me to go so we'd have some new material...but as much as I love that girl, I don't want to find myself chained up in a well in someone's basement, putting the lotion on my skin. 

If only match.com had allowed videos then.  On a side note, I had that poodle's haircut in 1985.

Call me selfish.

Adventures in Dating, Episode 7: Stalk It Up to Experience

This is the 8th installment of my Adventures in Dating series.  You can chuckle at my misfortune in episodes One, Two, Three, Four, Four 1/2, Five and Six here.

Last Fall, I cultivated a stalker via match.com.  Which in retrospect is kind of designed to do precisely that.  His name was Freddie. 

Yes, Freddie.

The funny thing is, we were about one week into it and I emailed my Texas girls and told them that I was pretty sure I had met someone really special.

Well, not really met, per se, since we had only spoken on the phone and texted at this point.  But sure, he was special.  Why?  Um, I think it was because he was paying attention to me and no one else was.  And God knows, I had a long and sheepish history of liking the people who liked me.  If you were to ask me why I married my first husband, the truest answer I could give you is "because he asked."

Freddie allegedly lived in Phoenix but maintained a residence here in Denver as well.  He owned his own commercial real estate company and business was gooooooood, people.  In fact, he rarely even flew commercial.

What did he look like?  Well, I'm not really sure.  He had 3 photos on his match.com profile:  One of his alleged dog sitting in his alleged Jeep at the beach, one of the back of his shoulders and head reeling in a marlin or sailfish on a boat, and one from about 100 yards away of him looking incredibly buff on a jet ski.  Okay, if I was being honest with myself, the jet ski photo was suspiciously yellowed and crinkly-looking, like something quite old that had been scanned into the computer, and probably at Walgreens.  But hey, maybe he left it in the sun or something?  Maybe on his boat while he was sport fishing?  And after all, the back of his head certainly looked attractive enough, even if the shoulder looked slightly meaty.

This is where I remind you that I was lonely. Terribly lonely.

Plus, Freddie said his net worth was $32 million.  I actually had to ask a friend if that was good.  Clearly, I have an issue with finance-- and have long felt that math is a faith-based initiative.

So we chatted by phone at night and texted during the day.  And why didn't we meet in person?  Well, it seems Freddie grew up Catholic and felt it was improper for us to go on a date until my divorce was final...which was roughly 60 days away.  So "we" decided to wait.  Yes, I'll admit I thought it was something right out of a rom-com-like plot line in which the mega-rich hero is a little portly and needs to slim down before meeting the girl of his dreams... but I told myself that he was trying to do the right thing.

Insert Rocky-like montage of Freddie on a stationary bike in his amazing home gym, watching his personal chef preparing a chicken breast for him, jogging on the treadmill while staring dreamily at my photo (which would be taped to the display screen), peering hopefully over his belly at the numbers on his scale as they head south.

This is simply how my head works.

Freddie wasn't so much about the spelling.  And his punctuation was...well, let's go with creative.  And sure, sometimes he muttered things under his breath that sounded strangely like words he was pretending I was saying.  Still, I soldiered on for a few weeks, certain that I had met a nice guy who was just trying to do the old-fashioned thing.  A nice guy who talked a lot about taking me on fabulous trips via chartered planes.

In what can only be described as a rookie mistake, when he asked me for my home address because he wanted to mail me a gift... I gave it to him.

And several days later, it arrived.  A greeting card.  More exactly, a glitter-covered greeting card, with a drawing of two cups of coffee on it (cuz coffee-liking was something we had in common), and some free verse about how glad he was that I was his friend.  He signed it "Luv ya lots," a sentiment I hadn't seen since 500 people signed it in my high school yearbook.

I truly wish you could see the glitter.

I tried to imagine my handsome multi-millionaire game fisherman in the Hallmark store, choosing that card.  And I just couldn't.  His handwriting was a huge childish scrawl, and he wrote things like "your [sic] the best."  I began to suspect that my Freddie wasn't a slightly overweight yet incredibly successful businessman with whom I would spend lazy afternoons in the tropics...but rather a shut-in.  Or perhaps a 14-year old with a prematurely deep voice, likely caused by a disfiguring and inoperable tumor.

Before you start to think that Freddie was just a sweet and socially awkward guy, understand that at the same time that he was sending me his sparkly little greeting card, his texting and emailing had taken on a decidedly naughty tone.  Freddie had ideas.  Lots of ideas-- some of which strangely involved gummi bears.  And he was interested in talking me through each one of them.  Incongruously, he signed each of these emails "Take care and God bless."  It's one thing to be the object of someone's desire... it's quite another to be the object of a pseudo-religious nutjob's completely bizarre desires which involve high-fructose corn syrup and other things we don't speak about in polite company.  Especially when you really don't know what he looks like.  And he has your home address.

I stopped taking his calls, responding to his texts and emails.  I started feeling weird (well, more weird than usual) when I went out in public because I wouldn't know him if I saw him on the street (unless he was about 100 yards away and slightly yellowed). 

On the outside, my Texas girls and I laughed about it.  Stacy and I decided that he was a 500-pound wheelchair-bound hunchback who lived in in my attic.  We admired his chutzpah for getting his wheelchair up there, especially while carrying his oxygen tank.

But inside I worried.  A lot.

Freddie got upset with me for dropping him.  His emails and texts escalated rapidly...and then suddenly stopped.  He sent me a final missive in which he told me he was deleting my info from his Blackberry and I wouldn't be hearing from him again.  But that he'd be in town in January and maybe we could have lunch.

Sigh. 

This was last November, and I still hear from Freddie every two months.  It is so to-the-day that I'd swear he has an Outlook reminder that pops up saying "Stalk Andrea."  Sometimes he'll do something like accidentally send me an empty email...with the hope that I'll hit reply.  I don't.

I do still have the greeting card.  It sits in a tray on the desk in my home office...mostly because if I disappear at some point, it contains his handwriting, his home address, and likely his DNA.  Also because sometimes Stacy texts me with "Take care and God bless" and I return the favor by sending her a photo of the card.

So what did we learn?  Well, we learned to keep our home address to ourselves.  We learned that there is a seedy side to the gummi bear.  And we learned to get a recent photo and a fairly immediate date before entering into a virtual relationship with an old-fashioned hunchback.

Damn it, I was never meant to fly commercial.

Yes, really.

Adventures in Dating, Episode 6: Truth in Advertising

This is the seventh installment of my "Adventures in Dating" series. Enjoy episodes 1, 2, 3, 4, 4.5, and 5 here.

Shortly after the zombie apocalyptic date with Plan Z, I just gave up.  On the whole, that winter the men contacting me through Match.com were, well...they just weren't in my league. Not even close. I'm not even sure what league they'd be in.  I don't think there was a single man over the age of 65 in the greater Denver area that had not asked me out. And the ones near my age? Good Lord. They were definitely out-punting their coverage as well. It was as if I was the only person along the Front Range who was clear on the theory of Natural Selection.

Actual Match.com suitor. As if.

In a rare moment of clarity, I had this thought:  When it is actually hurting your self-esteem that men are attracted to you, it's time for a game-changer.  A fairly big one.

I had approximately 2 weeks left on my Match.com subscription and I decided to just absolutely go down in flames. Truly and seriously. It was time to stop playing nice and just put something out there that was so over-the-top ridiculous that it could no longer go unnoticed by the forty-something hotties that had to be out there.

It was one of those "this might be just crazy enough to work" moments.

So with the help of my friend Mike (who I met on Match.com but who was geographically undesirable because he lived in Chicago) I updated my profile:

"Just about everyone on this site loves to travel, loves taking long walks on the beach, loves puppy dogs and describes themselves as honest, loyal, compassionate, caring, sincere, trustworthy, loving, friendly, confident, financially secure, intelligent, happy, healthy, fun loving, and spontaneous and is looking for the same... but not me.


I don't like clowns. Or carnival workers. Or mimes.


I am seeking a rude, obsessive, compulsive, neurotic, nagging, anti-social, manic, emotionally unavailable, paranoid man who has major anger and jealousy issues... but basically is normal. Bonus points if you never want to have sex, let me see my friends, want to spend all of my money and are mean, controlling, moody and manipulative.


Also, I'm also looking for a man who has a good memory. For instance...remembering to bring his credit card when we go out.


As far as for what I am really looking for? Good question. Honesty, check. Funny, check. Comfortable with who he really is, check. Pretty much everything else is negotiable.


We are not perfect, thus the reason for this site. Have you spent time in prison and it wasn't your fault? Tell me about it. Did you do something so inappropriate at last year's company Christmas party that you were terminated unfairly immediately? Let's hear about it. Was that whole thing where you were issued a restaining order just a silly misunderstanding? I'm listening.


I'm looking for someone intelligent who must enjoy talking about big and deep issues in addition to whether Brangelina are going to adopt any more kids or what is going on at "The Jersey Shore." So, if you think the topic of Brangelina or "The Jersey Shore" qualifies as a big and deep issue, my guess is we would not be a good match. Alternatively, if you have no clue who Brangelina or what "The Jersey Shore" is, I'm also guessing we would not be a good match.


I know I don't want to be a "Match Lifer" and am guessing you don't either. I'm not going to tell you I'm Snow White, but I'm closer to Snow White than the Evil Queen...even if I'm not into dwarves.


The whole mysterious chemistry thing is the key here. Intangible. Elusive. What everyone is really looking for. It can’t happen on a web page. I know if we go out, you will laugh...a lot. And you'll likely think things line up rather well physically, too.


I think if we met and there was mutual chemistry, we'd find out over time what makes us each unique. And I guess that's the real challenge here, isn't it?"

Sadly, it was decidedly crazy, just not crazy enough to work. No one seemed to "get" the sarcasm. In fact, I went from having 65 year-old men pursuing me to having 65 year-old enraged coots pursuing me, each convinced I was as angry at the world as he was. I suppose I should've been flattered that they they were taking time away from their manifesto-writing to say hello...but mostly I was just disappointed.

Disappointed that in six months time, I had managed only to reconfirm my worst fears: That I was unworthy of love, that I was destined to die in my house and be eaten by my cats, that I'd soon be traveling the world alone wearing a caftan and large wooden jewelry.

Like this, only with chunky wooden jewelry and more chins.

So I gave up on Match.com and turned unenthusiatically to it's older, more successful but less attractive brother, eHarmony.  I spent minimal time putting together a very honest, if not at all sarcastically hysterical profile, answered all of the questions about my 27 levels of deep compatibility truthfully, and tried to ignore the fact that the guy on the eHarmony commercials looked like a pedophile. I figured he'd likely be the only septuagenarian on the site who wouldn't ask me out. Upside, people!

And then I met an Oompa-Loompa.

But that's a story for another day.

Adventures in Dating, Episode 5: Night of the Living Dead

This is the 6th installment of my "Adventures in Dating" series. Enjoy episodes 1,2, 3, 4 and 4.5 here.


It was late February-ish and I was still suffering through the winter of my discontent. I'd been knee-deep in dorks and poozers for months on end with still not a single normal relationship brewing on the horizon. Most mornings found me crying alone in my bed, so desperate for affection and human touch that even I, master of the dramatic, was taken aback. I just wanted to connect with someone, to feel appreciated, to have someone with whom to share my ever-multiplying stash of Groupons. Seriously, how the fuck was I supposed to eat $40 in dine-in Thai food alone?

But I had learned several things the hard way in the previous months:

A) Do not go out with someone that you haven't had at least a 10 minute phone conversation with, unless you particularly enjoy uncomfortable silences, the sound of crickets and the possibility of a tumbleweed blowing through your alleged "conversation."

B) Do not go out with a man who refuses to provide you with a photo. I promise there's a good reason for the omission and it's not because Quasimodo is a CEO trying to protect his identity or his millions.

C) Not everyone you meet online is a well-adjusted, normal person.  In fact, it's very possible that you yourself may not be a well-adjusted, normal person.

These make perfect sense, right? So it stands to reason that in desperation, I chucked this hard-won logic out the window and accepted a date with a man not properly vetted.

What could possibly go wrong?

His name was Rick and he looked like Anderson Cooper, just with a hard-on for zombies.  Of course for all I know, Anderson Cooper really does have a hard-on for zombies. But as usual, I'm getting ahead of myself.

Sure, his profile photos were a veritable "Welcome to My Mid-Life Crisis," and at least one featured him wearing something he called a "utility kilt." Still, the prospect of having a glass of wine with a man in a skirt was more appealing than another night alone. Plus I totally wanted to impress him with my new word: "Utilikilt."

Like this, only way cooler.

We met in the bar of a restaurant. After a quick physical appraisal we both sat down and commenced with the small talk. Approximately 5 minutes into the date, he suggested we play a game.

If someone suggests you play a game on your first date, you should know that things are about to get severely goofy or about eighty-nine kinds of inappropriate.  But whether it was because I was desperate for acceptance (totally true) or because I knew it would make an entertaining Facebook status (also true), I agreed. And so we played "3 Reasons."

"3 Reasons" is just good family fun. The object, he explained, was for me to pick another woman in the bar at random and give him 3 reasons why I'd be a better girlfriend. Despite the strong urge to point to my boobs and say "You only need 2'" I sat silent for a moment, then declined to play.  In a sudden and surprising rush of self-esteem that would've made Yoda (my shrink) fiercely proud, I justified myself by saying "I don't feel the need to justify myself to you or anyone else."

To which he said "You're no fun."

WTF? I'm the poster child for fun! Which is why I remained seated and let him propose another game. After all, the entire population of Facebook-- and eventually you, dear reader-- were waiting to mercilessly mock this guy.  And he did not disappoint, by suggesting we play "3 Questions."  (He was apparently obsessed with the number 3 and quite frankly, the possibilities this suggested were best ignored.)

"3 Questions" is another family favorite in which we each could ask the other 3 questions about anything...and each had to then answer the questions honestly. Not surprisingly, he queried first.

Before I tell you what his first question was, I want you to think of the opportunity and possibilities here. He could ask me ANYTHING he wanted in order to uncover what makes me unique, what makes me tick, what I feel in my little heart of hearts. And so obviously his first question was: "Shaved, natural, or waxed?"

I shit you not.

At this point, morbid curiosity set in and I was determined to see this date through to the bitter end. Not surprisingly, he next revealed he was a Libertarian (well hello there, Dutch!) and then lectured me on why my political beliefs were wrong, stupid, misguided, constitutionally illegal and quite possibly dangerous. My best friend's husband is Libertarian so I'd heard these bullet points before, complete with puffed-out Ayn Rand references as if no one else has ever read a work of fiction.

Yawn, supress urge to roll eyes, change subject.

After the stump speech, Rick must've felt really close to me because he began to share his interests.  I've found that the more you allow a man to talk about himself, the more fascinating he'll find you, and this was no different.  And what interested Rick? In a word:  Zombies. And then more zombies. And then, just for giggles, even more zombies.

Rick, or "Plan Z" as I began think of him, owned 127 zombie DVD's. Over the next two hours, he told me so much about them that it felt as though I was experiencing all 127 of them in real time. We discussed (and by "discussed" I mean he talked and I nodded) his participation in the largest Zombie Walk in the U.S. and he even showed me a photo of this crowning achievement. And yes, even as a zombie, he was wearing a dress.

It's possible we were made for each other.  I'm one hot zombie!

As we ordered dinner, Plan Z mentioned that he was a "Paleo-eater." Not-at-all-interested, I of course asked what, pray-tell, was involved in paleo-eating? His answer began: "Human beings have been on the planet for 13 million years."

Um, hold the phone there, Homo erectus.  Most scientists believe it's more like roughly 200,000 years. But what's a few million years between friends? So, much like during his Libertarian monologue, I bit my tongue. And then bit it again, harder this time, as the sensation was more enjoyable than the actual conversation he was having.

Plan Z continued to educate me:  "Yep, 13 million years. And the reason people have diverticulitis and gluten allergies today is because we're eating the wrong things. We need to eat like cave men did."

And although I was smiling and nodding and acting all engrossed-like, inside I was thinking, "Didn't cave men, robustly gastronomically healthy or not, live to the ripe old age of like 12?" But Plan Z plowed boldly forward, prescribing a simple diet that would cure all that ails us.  According to him, there are only 3 things we should eat: Meat, fruit...and tree nuts.

And then I giggled because he said "nuts."

Oh, and we should also stay away from anything that is intentionally farmed.  So basically, we should all become hunter-gatherers.  I fought the urge to ask him if we should also be nomadic-- is shelter killing us too?

To underscore his point, Plan Z ordered grilled shrimp for dinner. Now I'm certainly no paleontologist, but I'm kinda thinking that most cave men "13 million years ago" were not harvesting shrimp, unless their rudimentary tools included a private jet to the coast, a nice boat, and some naturally-occurring netting. And I'm still a little unclear on whether or not their stance on fire was "fire bad" or "fire good."

You might be asking yourself what a handsome cave man in a skirt does for a living?  I know I was certainly curious!  So when I asked what he did, you can imagine the look on my face when he replied "I dabble." Plan Z was apparently a dabbler of the highest accord who went on to infer that said dabbling was incredibly profitable and in fact, he had published books with 3 different publishers. I began to wonder if he was just a shaved Trout.

In the end, the restraint I showed on this date was remarkable-- I think Gandhi himself would've smacked the guy. But all good things must come to an end, and it was eventually time to bid my dabbling doofus adieu. After the build-up of his political philosophy, the description of his expansive DVD library, the references to his lucrative and varied career, I was remarkably interested in what he drove. Would it be the E Class? A little something from the 700 series? Perhaps something low, sleek, sporty and yet compensatory?

At the heart of this line of thought was this: If this guy was loaded, could I overlook the Utilikit, the zombie fascination, the Tea Party leaning, the cave man diet, the dabbling...and make a go of it to secure an economic future for myself? Might it be possible to ignore his deranged need to define my groin grooming habits in order to avoid becoming a dog food-eating Walmart Greeter in my golden years?

He walked me to my car, said he had a wonderful time and would love to see me again (of course he would).  And then Plan Z drove off.

In a 2000 Isuzu Rodeo.

Complete with a Libertarian bumper sticker.

"Hello, and welcome to Walmart."  It really does just roll off the tongue, doesn't it?

Adventures in Dating, Episode 4.5: The Amazing Lady Panties

You may grow to hate me for this one.

January was a rough month.  I went home for a week at Christmas and being back in Colorado had me horribly homesick.  My Colorado friends were busy with their own lives and I was not at all busy with mine.

The month started off in a very promising fashion.  Sure, I was dating two different people in whom I was completely disinterested.  And yes, the most nightmarish co-worker of my entire life had answered an entire department's prayers by leaving the company.  So one could say that things were rolling in my favor.  But most nights still found me holed up at home alone, drinking wine like it was my job, feeling not-so-great about my dating prospects.

And then someone from my past, someone who I once had an enormous crush on, started emailing me on Facebook.  It was clear he was interested in me and I had at one time been hugely interested in him...so we emailed a few times and then switched to texting.  He was funny, if in a horribly misspelled way, and very attentive.  And when he occasionally sexted, I either ignored it or played along if the mood struck me.

He was strangely fascinated with my feet.  And yet for some reason, I continued to text with him.  What can I say?  I'm a little bit of an attention whore.  (Exhibit A:  This blog.)  Also, as I may have previously mentioned a billion times, I was horribly lonely.

One night, he and I were texting when my phone chirped the "photo delivered" sound.

At this point, I'd been match.comming it for long enough to be afraid, very afraid, of any photo sent via text.  I'd seen more penis photos than a urologist.  Perhaps even more than a Playgirl photo editor.

(Side note to the guys out there doing online dating:  We women are aware that you have penises.  But on the whole, we don't find them visually appealing.  Please, please for the love of GOD PLEASE do not send photos of your junk to unsuspecting potential matches.)

So I was understandably wary of opening the text.  But loneliness does strange things to people (and depletes the wine supply).

And then, there he was, in all his glory.

I'm going to warn you now that, should you scroll down, you will never be able to unsee this image.  Ever.  It will be burned on your retinas for all eternity.

But before you scroll, I have some questions for you:

1. Are those lady panties?
2. Exactly how much man jewelry is there on that awful, cheap bathroom counter?
3. Where are the goods?
4. What's that little fold?
5. And most importantly... WHAT THE HELL WAS I PUTTING OUT THERE THAT WOULD MAKE THIS MAN THINK THIS WOULD TURN ME ON?

Deep breath, people.  Aaaaaaaaand... scroll.

As I mentioned in Episode One, seriously, make that shit work people.

And I'm not gonna lie, this photo was sent around the world within about 5 minutes.

Adventures in Dating, Episode 4: The Disappearance of Dart League

I'm not against games played in bars.

I've been known to dominate a trivia game, put forth a valiant effort In Shuffleboard, and once played an excruciatingly uncomfortable game of pool in front of a group of bikers who stared at my ass while on a touchy/grabby match.com date with a man I like to refer to as "Panty Raider" for reasons I'd rather not disclose.

And no, there will be no episode on Señor Asaltante de Pantalones. 

But I don't get darts. What do you mean I'm not supposed to try for a bullseye? And hang on, there's math involved?  Yeah, count me out guys, I'd rather spend the evening with the Love Tester machine in the vestibule. 

So when "Tim" (that's his real name, I just like the sarcastic tone of voice I use in my head when reading names in quotation marks) contacted me on match.com and a closer look at his profile revealed that he played on a dart league, I was admittedly dubious. Also he looked a little like a douchetard in his profile photo... but as previously confessed in episodes One, Two and Three, I was horribly lonely. So we agreed to meet at Earl's on the 16th Street Mall. For those of you not in the know, this is a touristy, crowded, well-lit public place and perfect for a blind date for those who can't help thinking of shallow, unmarked graves and the pathetically few people who would notice if I never made it back to my home.

(Gotta give a quick shout out to my girl B who served as my safety during these adventures...I'd tell her where I was going, at what time and what his name allegedly was along with his phone number. What up, B? We made it through the reign of terror!)

10 minutes to D-time, I pulled into a parking lot, paid at the self-service machine and walked back to my car to place the ticket on my dashboard.  As I was walking back towards the street, apparently in the goddamn middle of the driveway (so weird when you realize that you're that girl), I became uncomfortably aware of a vehicle with an impatient driver trying to navigate around me. Without even looking, I knew it was him. Cuz that's pretty much how I roll. I stepped aside, turned and there he was.

Admittedly, I don't know a lot about trucks, but for a non-commercial vehicle, this one seemed to have an over-abundance of both doors and tires. I didn't recall him mentioning a ranch or a road crew, so I immediately named his truck "The Compensator" in my head. It's just what I do. I judge.

Seems practical.  If you have a ranch or perhaps a thumb-sized penis.

We greeted each other, laughing at the awkwardness of the situation, and proceeded to the restaurant. It was a pleasant summer night and we snagged a great table on the upstairs balcony. As I recall, he ordered a slightly girlie drink (Bacardi & Diet Coke maybe?) and I ordered a beer and as expected the waitress got it wrong when delivering the drinks.

In person, he was actually quite handsome, having apparently abandoned the salt and pepper pompadour for something a bit less Rick Perry-esque. He was tall (I'm 5'2", so everyone is tall to me), appeared relatively fit and had an easy laugh. I was surprisingly at ease with him and the witty repartee began.

Do I enjoy darts?  Yes indeedy-do!

If you're keeping score at home, and no doubt you are, the game is all tied up at this point. In the plus column, we've got witty repartee and non-douchetardy looks.  In the minus column, we've got The Compensator and a possibly dorktastic past time.

About twenty minutes into the date, we were talking about weight loss and tight jeans and such and he said "Oh believe me, you'd never fit into my jeans," and while I know what he actually meant was that they'd be far too big, I replied "And based on that statement, you won't be getting into mine."

We belly-laughed, and it was a nice moment. Next to inappropriately-timed laughter (think: grandpa's funeral or your own execution), belly-laughter is absolutely my favorite kind.

The next thing I knew, two hours had passed and things were still surprisingly fun...so when he asked if I wanted to stay for dinner, I said yes.  (For those of you who have never endured online dating and who simply have to try it based on just how appealing I've made it sound, here's a tip: Never, and I mean NEVER, commit to meeting for dinner on a first date. Just commit to drinks or coffee so you can kick the tires and don't have to feign illness or chew your own arm off to escape the horror. Look for an upcoming episode featuring "The Whale" which will illustrate.)

Dinner passed in a flash and although we were still clearly enjoying one another's company, I suggested I needed to get home to let my dog Jackson out (poor lil Jax, Mommy's dating pawn). Basically, my intent was simply to leave him wanting more.

It worked. He walked me to my car (a giant Durango absolutely dwarfed by "The Compensator"), and we spent several surprisingly awkward moments saying goodbye and trying not to kiss each other. I mean, we absolutely clicked...for real. There were crazy sparks flying all night and we both knew we wanted it to continue... just at a respectable pace.  Well, maybe semi-respectable.  Okay, I at least wanted to have clean-shaven legs.

I got in my car and drove away, my heart and other regions of my body all aflutter. I hadn't gotten out of downtown before I got a text message from him telling me how much fun he had and how we absolutely had to get together again and he was counting the minutes.

Do I know how to hook 'em, or what?

After The Tongue, Dutch, Trout, Panty Raider and other dates that deserve no blog posts for their ordinary awfulness, you can imagine how pleased I was.  I went to sleep that night with a strange warm feeling I couldn't quite identify. In retrospect I think it was a surge of high self-esteem.  Or maybe just a low-grade fever.  It's a tough call.

But then the weirdest thing happened. Dart League completely disappeared. Not a phone call, text nor email to be had.

Because I'm me, I spent copious amounts of time navel-gazing to determine exactly where I went wrong. I enlisted the involuntary help of countless girlfriends who assured me he'd call. I spoke at length with Yoda (my shrink) on the topic. She said I had nothing to lose and should just contact him.

So, pride suffering, confidence shaken, I finally said "fuck it" and sent the following text (I curse a lot in my head):

"Hi Tim, I really felt like we clicked last week so I'm a little concerned you may be trapped under a heavy piece of furniture. I'm a good person to know in a crisis so please feel free to call me."

And...nothing.

Enter the well-meaning friends to tell me "He just got scared, clearly he really liked you." "You're too good for him." "Are you out of wine?"

Um... No, quite possibly, and fuck yes.

Fast forward 5 months.  I was sitting at the bar at Sushi Den, awaiting the arrival of "The Wookie" so that I could break up with him (details to be shared in a future episode). I was feeling very self-conscious because I was wearing a kilt and Uggs (also to be explained in said future episode) and I realized someone was staring at me. I glanced down the bar and there was Dart League.

Seated next to him was his long-standing wife.

How did I know that a) they were married and b) for more than a few months?  Well, they were wearing wedding rings, clearly together, and miserably indifferent to each other.

We made eye contact.

I looked at the wife and then back at him.  And laughed.

Bullseye.

Adventures in Dating, Episode Three: Fly-Fishing

This is the third installment in my "Adventures in Dating" series.  Read episodes One and Two here.


We called him "Trout."

Not because he was a fisherman, although certainly many of my match.com suitors were.  The obligatory photograph of man presenting fish to camera always made me smile... single men apparently don't have an over-abundance of photos of themselves and so ones taken on fishing trips or mountain bike rides, or where the previous girlfriend is clearly cropped out of the photo were to be expected.

Honestly, I don't remember what his real name was. But he definitely wasn't holding a fish.

Surely our choice of "Trout" was influenced by the abundance of fish photos we had viewed that morning. But really it was the mustache that did us in. Trout's was huge and full, his upper lip crouching somewhere beneath it's brushy glory.  A girl could get lost in that mustache, and not in a good way-- more like maybe a bread crumb or a random droplet of soup. I don't remember if I said it first or if it was Stacy, but the phrase "Is that a Trout on your lip, or are you just happy to see me?" lives on to this day.

Wouldn't we make beautiful, pensive babies together?

It was Labor Day weekend, 2010. I was visiting my sister Priscilla in Texas and my friend Stacy came up from Houston for the weekend. We were each going through our second divorces (strangely, we went through Round One together as well), and so she was uniquely positioned to understand the shit storm through which I was slogging.

Priscilla had an upstairs guest room that held 5 twin beds and Stacy and I were lying in two of them, reading my most recent batch of match.com emails and crying, we were laughing so hard. And there it was, the email from Trout.

He was a good writer, I'll give him that much.  That alone would've caused him to stand out from the crowd of mouth-breathing troglodytes that were vying for my clearly acerbic attention. And then there was that glorious achievement in facial hair. But what really hit me where I live was the sentiment expressed in his initial email.

He said he was a novelist. We later decided it was probably of the bodice-busting, breast-heaving Harlequin kind.  He said he was looking for love. He said he was 57 (so we assumed 62).

But mostly he said he was concerned about finding a woman who could keep up with his love-making.

Yes, his love-making.

Really, Pops? I think I got it. You know, if I could get past the startling bristle of strawberry blonde hair on your upper lip and the fact that you use the term "love-making" in a completely non-ironic way. And the collarless shirt you're wearing in what looks like a book jacket photo.  And the ponytail.

(Hahahaha, I said "jacket.")

He went on to say that while he had found women who were passionate, they weren't monogamous. And conversely, the monogamous women he met had no desire. So he and his hirsute little friend remained alone, together.  Like a furry little caterpillar clinging to a great oak.

By this point, Stacy and I were screaming with the kind of raucous laughter that causes family members to come upstairs to see what's so funny.  So Priscilla flopped down on the third bed and I read the email to her and soon she was in tears as well. They both wanted me to reply just to see where this thing would go. But cruel sense of humor aside, I didn't want to toy with the poor man. I mean, someone so virile in the twilight of his life...he deserved better. He needed a faithful blind bookworm nymphomaniac...and I simply didn't fit the profile (my corrected vision is 20/20).

I spent the rest of the weekend closely guarding my Blackberry so that Stacy and Priscilla wouldn't send Trout a breathlessly horny email on my behalf.

We must have accessed his profile 52 times that weekend, and each time Stacy and I belly-laughed and felt better about our miserable lives...and wondered who might be skulking through my online profile and taking pot shots at me ("Oh riiiight, she skis!"). And for three glorious days that September, the shit storm abated.

I left Texas with a smile on my face and laughter in my heart...the love of good friends and family can do that to a person.  And when I landed in Colorado, alone and lonely once again, I occasionally looked back at Trout's unanswered email and silently wished him well in his search for a passionate, yet monogamous woman with a taste for Nehru jackets and Yanni tunes. And a completely non-ticklish upper lip.

And sometimes when I was feeling sad, out of the blue Stacy would send me Trout's photo and it would crack me up.

It still does.

Separated at birth?

Adventures in Dating, Episode Two: Enter Dutch

This is part two of my "Adventures in Dating" series.  The fun starts here: Adventures in Dating, Episode One

I feel I'm emotionally ready to tell you about it now.

His name was Rich, but he will forever be "Dutch" to me.  His photos showed a passably cute, if perhaps a bit eccentric, late-40-ish man with sweet eyes and a mischievous smile.  After several witty email exchanges, we spoke by phone on Sunday afternoon and made plans for a Tuesday night dinner. 

On the plus side, he informed me he spent half the year in the U.K. and the the other half managing his real estate investments in Boulder, Colorado (ka-ching!).  On the minus side, when he spoke he had that sort of fake part-time British accent that Madonna had while married to Guy Ritchie.  Much like my current approach to Madonna, I simply chose to ignore his use of the term "MO-biyle" when referring to his cell phone and I made myself stop cringing when he said something about going "across the pond."

Why yes, I'm wealthy & well-adjusted and somehow inexplicably single!

Did I mention I was horribly lonely? 

So we agreed to meet for dinner at a little Mediterranean restaurant in Golden.  I was running late due to a business obligation, so he beat me to the restaurant and when I arrived he was seated on the patio.  Okay, I thought to myself, he at least looks like his photos.  I sat opposite of him with hope in my heart and perused the wine list.  Just as I was selecting a $9 glass, he mentioned that while he was waiting for me he saw a bar down the street where we could each get a hamburger, fries and a beer for $5-- and maybe we should go do that after this drink.

Exactly what part of me says to you that I want to go to a bar where you can get a hamburger, fries and a beer for $5?  Are we in college?  Are you retarded?  And how can you afford to live in two separate countries if you can't afford this restaurant?

Instead of confronting this head on, I smiled sweetly and made some sort of noncommittal noise in my throat.  And so we commenced with the "getting-to-know-you" stuff.  I learned that he owns several rental properties in Boulder and enjoys tormenting the liberal hippies of that particular community (did he not read my profile in which I specifically stated my political leaning as liberal?).  I learned that he has a girlfriend in England who totally understands that he dates when he's in the U.S. (oh, I bet).  And finally I learned of his strong stance against drinking and driving.  It came out like this:  "If I have another drink, I'm going to have to spend the night with you.  I'm not going to get a DUI on my way back to Boulder."

Oh, reeeeeeeally?  Well then I'd suggest you not order another drink, Mr. Powers.  We won't be shagging tonight.

And yes, he had already used the term "shag."

Suffice it to say that I had heard enough and was ready to go.  The waitress brought our check and I sat stone still, waiting for him to reach for it. Seriously, Lot's Wife has nothing on me-- it's like I became an inanimate object while that check rested between us.  I kept glancing at my cell phone (or perhaps, my "MO-biyle") and exclaiming to him that my boss wouldn't leave me alone about a project.  That horrible bitch!  (Incidentally, she was a horrible bitch, but my phone was completely silent.)

45 minutes later, as I remained glacially still waiting for him to pay the check and my anxiety began to surpass Xanax-treatable levels, he finally picked it up and said "Well, let's see...your wine was $9 and I had a pint.  So here, I'll just give you a five." 

And yes, he said "pint."

I can almost guarantee that my nostrils flared.

As we were walking out of the restaurant, he again suggested the $5 deal down the street.  I told him that I had to get back to work and so I thought probably not.  Remembering my experience several days earlier with "The Tongue" (see Adventures in Dating, Episode One), I then mentioned that he didn't need to walk me to my car, and so we hugged it out.

Tormenting liberals, indeed.

Did I mention I was horribly lonely?

Farewell, Dutch.  Pip pip and cheerio, Guv-nah!  Modern-day Madonna had a better shot than you... and she makes my ass twitch.

Adventures in Dating, Episode 1: Winner Wonderland

When I was in the thick of my online dating misadventures, I told my married friends "No matter how fucked up your marriage is, make that shit work.  You have no idea how rough it is out there." 

Really, you don't. 

You may be asking yourself, "How could it have been so awful for someone as beautiful, intelligent, funny, successful and humble as Andrea?" Believe me, I thought the same. So in the Fall of 2010 off to match.com I went, thinking "how hard can this be?"

On match.com your first task is to create a profile name. You can't actually see other profile names at this point, so you're at what us marketing types call a "competitive disadvantage." After some quick and not-at-all creative thinking, I came up with "txtrue1." I didn't really consider the fact that, on the whole, Coloradans dislike Texans for our poor ski etiquette. We, in turn, are mystified over their love for the Subaru and their apparent distaste for both cosmetics and body fat.  So, strike one against me.

Your second task is to write an engaging description of yourself-- your likes, dislikes, interests (assuming you have any) and whatnot. Again, you have no other profiles after which to model yours, so you are flying blind.  Unfortunately, mine did not mention anything at all about my love for running marathons, climbing fourteeners, riding centuries or watching hockey-- mostly because I, like you, have no idea what those things are or why anyone would want to do them.  So, steee-rike TWO!

Then you choose some photos of yourself. Best to choose recent photos and to include at least one full-length shot of yourself so as to appear height/weight commensurate. For good measure, I included a full-length shot of myself on skis so that I'd appear athletic and outdoorsy. In case you haven't already surmised, I am neither. In fact, I think I spent roughly 7 minutes on those skis before marching down that bunny slope in a cold, murderous rage and straight into the warm embrace of the hot tub. Still, you gotta love my moxie.

Sadly, match.com men appreciate neither moxie nor the women who can spell the word or use it in a sentence. You'd think this would be strike three against me, but no.  I was swinging for the fence!

Why yes, I loooove to ski!

So like a good singleton on a happening Saturday night, I published my profile (to the tune of somewhere around $75) and sat back, waiting to be dazzled by the plethora of eligible bachelors who would rush to wine and dine me. In my haste, I didn't think to ask for pointers from anyone unlucky enough to venture before me into this winner wonderland. Mistake.

I almost immediately got some nibbles and settled in to see what happened next. Ok, wow, I didn't expect to be IM'd so quickly by someone who wanted to give me a virtual kiss. Eeeww! How do I block this person? Next up, an email from Lee, whose profile painted a portrait of a successful man who has everything but is looking for that missing piece. Oh wait, in his book, that means a piece of ass. We exchanged phone numbers and he immediately texted to see if I wanted to come to his house to "watch football." How about noooo?  Block!

And so it went. Undaunted, I forged ahead, certain that Mr. Right would find my profile charming and pursue me with flowers, trips to private islands and priceless jewels. I mean, why not me?  Those crazy bitches on "Real Housewives" (any version) can't have married all the millionaires.  Plus, my boobs are real.

Within the first week, I was being pursued by roughly 100 interested parties. And so that next Saturday afternoon I found myself chatting by phone with a handsome "executive." After several glasses of wine and some witty repartee, Mark (or as I later came to think of him, "The Tongue") convinced me to meet him for a drink. I figured I needed to take the plunge with a first date sooner or later, and so at 10 pm, tipsy, on a Saturday night, off I went. In retrospect, I understand that I may have been sending the wrong signals.

We met at a restaurant/bar near my house for said drink. Okay, so he was actually handsome in a 52-year-old kinda way, and an engaging conversationalist-- not that I was a tough audience after several glasses of wine. But he kept touching me. OMG, this dude was waaaay in my bubble and I wasn't digging it. In addition, my Blackberry died within minutes of my arrival and I realized that no one knew where I was or with whom. Thoughts of unmarked graves were dancing through my head as I made my excuses to leave. I foolishly let him walk me to my car, where he shoved his tongue down my throat and told me of his plans to woo me. Um, okay, thanks for the drink.  Gotta run home and Windex my mouth now.

Seriously, make that shit work, people.  This is not a drill.

Stay tuned for Episode Two of Adventures in Dating:  The Unusual Suspects.