After my first marriage came to a close, I did what any reasonable, grieving woman would do. I signed up for an online dating service.
I mean, where else are you going to meet single men these days? I doubt very much that the love of your life is at a club, dry-humping his way down the bar. Clubs and bars contain men who are...shall we say...less selective. Or perhaps less a victim of "natural selection." These men don't have to worry about commitments deeper than one night and a Walk of Shame to the cab. Do I have to mention Mike "The Situation"? A man whose greatest accomplishments are his stock shares in penicillin and his poetic ability to liken women to "grenades?" Ladies, you MUST aim higher.
No, a much better idea would be to meet strange single men online first. I mean, how faceless, anonymous and dangerous could it possibly be?
My first date was with a 46-year old house-flipper. That was his title. We met for coffee and he spent the first 20 minutes on his phone flipping a house, talking about flipping houses and showing me pictures of the houses he flipped. In between, he showed complete and utter disdain for the fact that I had cats and an IQ greater than the number of minutes it took me to get back to the car. Bye bye house-flipper. Good luck being single.
Then there was Morton the Cheese Man. In his picture, he looked tan and had a nice smile. He was also sitting down (ladies, if a man is sitting down or in profile in his picture, run away. He is either short or cross-eyed.) We met in a public place, and when he approached the table, I noticed that he was about 4 inches shorter than I was, broad on top with tiny little bowed legs. He looked like a bulldog trying to walk upright. He kept looking over my shoulder, and after about 10 minutes, I asked "Did you bring someone here?" He admitted that yes, he had brought a friend "in case I didn't work out." It only got better from there.
If I hadn't made it clear before, he worked in cheese. He bought, sold, and developed cheese. He'd ask me what my favourite brand was, and whatever I answered, he'd announce proudly that he somehow had a hand in it, then he'd fist pump and high-five his buddy (who had by this time joined our table.) Then he asked a series of questions: Meat or cheese? Skiing or water-skiing? House or condo?
I mean, what else could I do but get completely and totally wasted? I was allowed to leave only after promising to join him the next night at a club called Berlin (because every Jewish mother wants her Jewish daughter to frequent a club named Berlin. Or Gestapo.)
I never went to Berlin. I did, however, remove my profile post-haste.