How to Date That Elusive Man

skeleton

It’s often said that we are wise when we’re able to learn from the mistakes of others.   So, in that vein, let’s be on with it… you’ve met that guy who expresses pretty intense interest, you’ve been on a few dates, he calls, you want to be proactive, to reciprocate, and to reach out to him, but whenever you do, you don’t hear back for weeks.  In this day and age you have to be hip. I would suggest perhaps an e-mail such as this one:

Date: Sometime in December
Subject: Cheeto-Chompin-Communication-Cruncher (a.k.a. Your Answering Machine)

Tried to call you this eventide, but couldn’t bring
myself to leave a message. Could only imagine an obese
answering machine monster (akin to Pizza the Hut from
*Spaceballs* fame) sitting on your couch watching
re-runs of Seinfeld and garbling my scattered words like so
many crunchy Cheeto’s, chuckling at his own genius and
spewing forth bits of my orange dialogue onto your
brand new television, wiping my stained expression on
the sofa. That just wouldn’t do.

Initial Outcome:  SUCCESS!! – Meeting for cup o’ coffee scheduled for end of January.  Though, ironically, this e-mail was read on my own computer when he visited me some time in early January (apparently he had deleted it thinking it was porn.)   (Side Note:  Rather perplexed at the thought of someone thinking porn involves crunchy Cheetos but whatever you’re into I guess.)

At this juncture I would highly recommend obtaining a mobile phone.  I spoke of the importance of being hip and land lines just aren’t going to cut it in this dating age.  Anyhoo, following up with an e-mail when the coffee goes cold and the meeting never happens is a great idea.  Maybe something like this:

Date: Sometime in February
Subject: Melanie (a.k.a. NOT PORN) and That Cup Of Coffee

Dear Armando,

I’m so sorry. It’s nothing personal, Armando, but I’m
afraid I’m going to have to just go ahead and leave my
apartment now. I don’t want you to get the wrong
impression – I’m in this for the long haul, but
it’s been a bit over a month and that smell that you
said is so unique to me, to my apartment, is gone.
Right now it’s smelling like the streets of New York in
mid-August while the garbage techs are on strike.

Don’t get me wrong. I do allow myself a walk to
the front door to pay for Chinese delivery. Ming is
concerned about the current state of my appearance and asks
over and over regarding my well being as he passes the
Sweet & Sour Chicken through my bolted door. I tell
Ming that I’m okay, but I’m just so frustrated with AT&T.
For instance, today I called 43 1/2 times (1/2 means I
only held for 1/2 hour with no human contact before
hanging up) to make sure my phone is functioning
properly. (22% of the time some woman named Carla answers.)
They all adamantly assure me that it is indeed
functioning properly and, “No, I’m sorry Ms. Bates we are
unable to test your phone for the fifteenth time.” I
insert with, “Just one more time, just to be on the safe
side?” They also assure me there have been no calls
from Los Angeles and rigidly explain that if I call again
they will have to issue a block for my phone number on
their database.”

So… as I said… I’m going to have to just go
ahead and leave my apartment. It just wouldn’t do for
the Jamaican maintenance man to smash through my door
only to find a skeleton sitting next to her phone, white
bones permanently attached to her chin, eyeballs dried
and dangling inches from said phone that isn’t
ringing. Besides… as he pelted out of my door screaming, no
one would understand what the hell he was saying
anyway and my bones would further decay. That just
wouldn’t do.

Whether you heed my advice or not I just don’t want to see you, my readers, become shut-ins. It’s almost spring and I hear that the crocuses are rearing their lavender heads, and I even saw a red-winged blackbird light on my concrete windowsill when I glanced up from my phone for but a few seconds.

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