no matches found, suckah
On Valentine’s Day weekend, while everyone else was out on the town, I was in the bookstore reading as many books as I could for free. One disturbing find was a book entitled Are You My Husband? : I Can Find Him All by Myself, in which all the characters were cartoon birds. Clearly a parody on the children’s book Are you My Mother?, this was far from kids’ reading material. In it, Little Chick (I am not making this up) wakes up one morning to discover that she’s 30 and still single. She sets out on a mission to find a man, without success, and at the end of the story (because I of course was not going to pay for the book, so I read the whole thing in the store) goes to bed alone, somehow content with the fact that she is single. Thank goodness I didn’t buy it. What a load of propaganda. If the author isn’t a housewife somewhere in the midwest, I’d be surprised.
I spent 45 minutes of my life filling out some kind of matchmaking test at eharmony.com. After clicking “Find my matches all over the world,” the system sputtered for about five seconds before informing me that it had no matches for me and I was doomed to a life of spinsterhood and cat husbandry. Its top alternative suggestions were “join a cult,” “join a nunnery,” or “take much more than the dose your doctor recommended.” K says I shouldn’t heed romantic advice from a database, but it’s not like my well-meaning friends have any more insight than the computer. They just happen to be less binary with their suggestions.
On the plus side, I got tickets to the Sharks game Sunday, and they’re kicking ass. I wouldn’t mind a one-nighter with an NHL player. Just not Ricci. B says everyone is too picky. Maybe that’s my problem.
