In Search of My Soulmate - Bachelors No. 5

The Dating Service


“Come on,” my friend Wanda urged. “Fill out the form and I’ll send them in. You never know. We could just meet somebody.”
So--we’d fallen to this, joining a dating service.
“How come we get to sign up for free?” Didn’t sound right to me!
Wanda ruffled the papers. “Not many women’ve signed up yet and he said if we signed up fast, he’d waive the fee.”
Tongue between my teeth, I studied the papers.Not much there, but what the heck. I wasn’t doing so good man-hunting on my own and this might just be the start of something wonderful.
“Okay. It says to describe myself. Do I say pretty? Average? Okay?”
Wanda chewed on her pen. “I’m going to say average for me.”
“Me too! Saying I’m pretty makes me feel sort of funny—like I’m vain or something.”
I checked the next box. “Okay. Am I voluptuous?” I arched my back, striking a pose.
Wanda, who was voluptuous, laughed. “I don’t think so. Say average there too.”
Okay, I marked my way down. Average. Average. Average. So I was average.
We signed our names and Wanda threw them in the mail. Within a short time, the prospective applicant referral forms arrived in the mail.

Dating Service Date No. 1: Referral form indicated he was 34 years old, a construction worker, divorced, one child, handsome. Okay. Sounds good. He called and we agreed to meet for lunch at a local Mexican restaurant.
I arrived, trepidation causing my knees to shake. What was I going to say to a perfect stranger? And would I even recognize him. He was supposed to be wearing a blue T-shirt, tall and dark blonde hair. I saw him right off. Okay-not quite what I envisioned. We introduced ourselves and I sat down.
“Do you have a problem paying for your own lunch?” he asked.
“Uh….uh, no,” I stammered. “Good idea actually. Just a friendly lunch and then we don’t owe anything to each other.”
He smiled, seeming relieved.
The waitress arrived, I placed my order. He only asked for a glass of water. Strange.
During a stilted conversation, my food and his water arrived. After the waitress left, he pulled out a sack lunch and began eating.
I glanced around the café, somewhat ill at ease.
“I’m short on money most of the time. Child support and living costs,” he explained.
So why was he trying to date? Wasn’t like I was going to pay all the time.
Lunch over – date over – referral over.

Dating Service Date No. 2: His form said handsome, 39 years old, divorced and liked to travel. Didn’t sound bad. At 32 myself, 39 was an acceptable age. He called and we agreed to meet for lunch at the same Mexican restaurant where I’d met No. 1.
He said he’d be wearing a red shirt. Now there was a red shirt, but the guy was 60 if he was a day—and handsome was stretching that word like spandex on a Suma wrestler’s butt.
He must have sensed my perusal because he caught my eye, waved me over, teeth jutting like old ivory pegs. Dragging my feet, cursing my luck, I stumbled to the table.
He pulled out a chair. “Wow,” he gushed, wiping his florid face. “I hit the jackpot with you.”
Oh goody!
I pasted a smile on my face and sat down, thankful that I was only going to lose an hour of my life.
The waitress arrived, took our orders and left.I so wanted to go with her.
“I don’t know about you,” he snickered, trying to hold my hand. “But I don’t need to look any further. I’ve found my woman.”
My fake smile slumped, my stomach lurched.
The food arrived, I stared at my plate, wishing I was anywhere but here.
He took a bite, coughed and sputtered, spewing food. “Hot.”
Another bite. His already red face flushed purple, sweat popped out on his forehead. He grabbed for the cloth napkin, blew his nose and then wiped his face, neck and underarms with the dainty white square.
I lost what little appetite I had.
“Your application said you were 40?” I said it like a question. “You seem. . .older.”
He grimaced. “I’m 58. I was afraid if I gave my real age, all I’d get were fat old women. I’m not looking for fat old women. You’re just what I wanted.”
Cripes!
He wiped his neck again. I imagined I could see smears of snot sliming his exposed neckline. “When I get home, I’m calling the service and tell them to forget sending me more applications. I’m happy with you.”
Lunch seemed interminable but eventually it ended. I grabbed the bill and paid for both. No way I was going to owe this guy anything.
“I’ll call you,” he said as I ran from the room.
Date No. 2 – Over - dead.

Dating Service Date No. 3: 37. Chef in a downtown restaurant. Handsome, shy. Okay, I liked the word “shy.”
He actually picked me up and we drove to a nice restaurant. I wouldn’t have described him as handsome but looks aren’t everything.
“Why are you using a dating service,” he asked. “You’re too pretty.”
“I don’t consider myself pretty,” I said. “I’m average.”
“My daughter filled out my application,” he explained, hand brushing his bald pate. “She thinks I’m handsome and she wants me to be happy.”
“I think that’s absolutely wonderful.”
Dinner was really nice. He was considerate, a good conversationalist, and I enjoyed the meal. I actually liked this guy. So there were some decent men out there.
He drove me home and patted my hand. “You’re too pretty for me.”
“Wha…?” I was flabbergasted. Too pretty? What kind of a remark was that?
He never called back. I was sort of disappointed.
Date No. 3 – No, but I was kind of sorry.



Dating Service Date No. 4: Rugged, owns his plumbing business. Divorced. 35. Okay, the age was good—if it was true and rugged was good. Brought to mind guys like Mark Wahlberg—but I was wary.
He called and wanted to meet that night. It was a weeknight and I had my three year old son to contend with. He said no problem, bring him over and we can visit at my place for awhile. Get to know each other. Okay, sounded like a plan.
We drove to his place, my angelic three year old excited and happy about being included. We stopped in front of a reasonably nice condo. Not bad.
I knocked on the door and it flew open almost immediately.
“Come in,” he said.
It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the difference in light. When they did, I’m sure my mouth dropped open. Rugged? This guy said he was rugged? Heck, I could take him on a bad day. He hunched over me like a big spider waiting for the fly. I could smell the musky scent of sweaty body odor. Murky eyes glistened behind pop bottle lenses, sandy brown hair stood on end in little tufts. Sorry, but this guy was truly…creepy.
My sweet baby boy took it upon himself to go crazy. He ran to the coffee table and climbed on, jumping and screaming as he flew from the sofa to a chair, to the next chair, back on the coffee table. Threw the centerpiece to the floor (unbreakable thankfully), started stomping on the table and warbling a full throated battle cry, throwing out his little arms and generally going bananas. I watched, stupefied. What was happening? My little angel who never caused me any concern was going frickin nuts.
I grabbed him up. “Uh,” I said. “He’s never acted this way before.”
Spider man hunched over me even more, his blurry eyes widened even larger. “No problem. He isn’t hurting anything.”
“No, no, really. We have to go.” I practically ran out the door to the safety of my car.
Little guy regarded me with a large amount of concern. He knew he was in so much trouble.
I leaned over, gave him a big kiss. “I love you, sweet baby.”
He looked at me like I’d gone crazy. I bought him an ice-cream cone on the way home.
Date No. 4 – Hell no.

“Okay, Wanda, that’s it. I’m done with this stuff.”
“Why? You’ve only gone out with four?”
Yeah, but I don’t like the unexpected—and from future referrals, I didn’t think it was going to get any better. I was doing as well on my own. At least I had an idea in advance what I was getting. If the guy turned out to be a jerk, wasn’t anybody’s fault but mine.
Dating Service dates – done! (Note – I did let Wanda meet Spider Man—couldn’t let that one pass by.)

In Search of My Soulmate -Bachelor No. 4

The Cowboy Ladies Man

Every once in awhile, you meet a guy that causes your heart to flutter, your knees to shake and your female parts to charge up and head for the finish line.
That was the cowboy. He was one of those guys who aged early, lots of curly silver hair, blue blue eyes and that weathered look from being out in the sun too much. And funny. I loved his funny sense of humor. From the onset, I was a little concerned about the overindulgence in drinking, but I liked a cocktail once in awhile so I forced my anxiety into the back of my mind.

“Meet me at Shorty’s,” he said over the phone. “I’ll be there about 9.”
I flew about the room, finding the perfect outfit, took a quick shower, spent extra time on my hair and makeup and I was ready. Short drive to the bar and, nervous, I entered.
I spotted him at the bar, perched beneath a rather inebriated female. He caught my eye, smiled and…I was hooked again.
“Who’s this?” She was still plunked on his lap, a drunken grin on her heavily made-up face.
“Aw, nobody,” he said. “Just tripped and fell into my lap.”
She tripped and fell into your lap?
He pushed her away and she staggered off in search of a new victim.
“Wanna go hunting this weekend?”
Besides being a cowboy, he liked to fish and hunt anything that moved, any season of the year.
“O…kay,” I agreed somewhat reluctantly. “Where to this time?”
“Up near Cambridge. My aunt’s fixing breakfast and then we’re all going out.”
Another female entwined her arms around his neck.
“Who’s that?” Sheesh, this was getting ridiculous!
He gave her a hug, kissed her cheek and patted her butt. “Just an old friend.”
An old friend?
Four o’clock comes early. A huge crowd gathered at his aunt’s place. Looked like the annual meeting for Hillbilly High.
A woman squealed and ran for the cowboy, hugging him and planting kisses all over his face. “Where’ve you been?”
Cowboy had the decency to at least look embarrassed. He turned to me. “This is my girlfriend,” he said, jiggling my arm.
Her face grew confused, stormy. “Since when?”
“Uh,” he stammered. “For awhile.”
“Eat shit,” she growled, stomping away.
His aunt was a gracious hostess. I sat down at the table and she slapped down a turkey platter-sized plate of sunny-side-up eggs, rashers of bacon and sausage, a mountain of hash brown potatoes and a pile of toast. I, of course, assumed it was for the whole table. Nooooooo – it was my plate. First, let me preface this. Eggs to me should be cooked until they are so dead, they couldn’t move if they tried. But a plate full of sunny-side-up eggs? All for me? My stomach rolled. But my mama taught me good manners. I picked up the fork and forced down a bite, pretending to myself that it wasn’t really the nastiest thing I’d ever had in my mouth. Each chew rendered the eggs even slimier in my mouth. ACCCKKKKK!!!
The forest beckoned. About the time we left the rest of the group, I noticed he’d only packed a hunting bow.
“Shouldn’t we have a gun?”
He looked at me like I’d grown antlers. “For bow hunting?”
“We’re bow hunting?” Out here in the wilds where there are bears and wolves and all kinds of man-eating creatures—with nothing but a bow?
“Well, yeah,” he said. “It’s bow season.”
“You didn’t tell me that last night.”
“I thought you were smart enough to figure it out.”
When I was six, I was cornered by a big cinnamon bear in Yellowstone Park. Since that time, I’ve lived in fear that somewhere, someday, a bear would show up to finish the deal. For that reason, camping to me is the nearest motel from the family site and I rarely go further than ten feet beyond the campground. Not my style.
Huddled behind him for protection, we headed out. About an hour later, we came across a deep brushy gully-- one we needed to cross.
I noticed movement across the way. A huge black bear was tearing bark from a dying pine tree. I froze. There he was--the hideous nemesis of my worst nightmares. Huge and lumbering, it hadn’t spotted us yet as it clawed the tree, ripping off strips.

Catching our scent, he whirled, darting into the brush of the very gully we had to cross.
“Come on,” cowboy said, pulling my arm. “We need to get to the other side.”
“Not on your life,” I gasped. “That…that thing is down there.”
He laughed. “He’s more scared of you than you are of him.”

“I seriously doubt it.”
But being the idiot that I can be sometimes, I let him lead me down into the deep dark recesses, the sky obscured by the overhead limbs blocking the sun. A small game trail wove its way through the bushes, just wide enough to squeeze through. My heart was beating in my throat, teeth chattering, knees quaking. This was such a freakin' bad idea!
Something big crashed through the brush, headed right for us! By the sounds, it was big. The bear! I knew it was the bear!
Cowboy grimaced. “Maybe we should’ve brought a gun.”

No shit, Sherlock!
The pounding was almost upon us. I tripped falling backwards, dragging the cowboy down on top of me. Maybe the bear would eat him first and leave me alone!
A trophy sized elk, snorting in terror, flew over us, landed and raced up the side, Shocked, I could only stare.
Cowboy struggled to stand, stumbling after the elk. I crawled after him, refusing to be left alone in this hell, praying I could reach safety and see my children again.

He never shot the elk and I didn’t care. Numerous women friends and a drunken car crash later, I finally accepted the fact that the cowboy was a dead-end street. He was never going to change and women were a dime a dozen.