Phil Torcivia's Blog, page 18

What am I supposed to do with your number?

When youdistribute your phone number to a potential bedwarmer, what are yourexpectations? Wouldn't it be logical to provide instructions along with the number?Why begin the relationship with ambiguity? Why test the man before the firstdate?
Afterexchanging a few witty (brushing my nails on my shirt right now) Match.com emails,I received a reply that contained a phone number. This baffled me. I was flatteredto receive the number, but I didn't know what exactly to do with it. Yes, I realizedthe intention was for me to use it to call her. My confusion concerned how andwhen. I put on my smart cap and decided the safest thing to do was send a textmessage asking what was best time for me to call. Gosh, sometimes I wonder howI fit all those brains in my skull.
Then myphone rang.
I allowedit to go to voice mail because I was on the treadmill and wasn't in the mood fora face-plant, plus I didn't want all my panting to scare her away.
"Hi,this is Missy from Match. I thought it would be nice to talk on the phonebefore we meet. So, give me a call when you get a chance and we can chat."
When Icalled Missy, she lectured me. This made me and my curiosity shrivel.
"I'm newto this online dating thing. Tell me: Is it normal that guys get a number and insteadof calling send more emails and then a text message.""Um,normal?""Justtrying to figure men out.""Well,let me ask you this: If I called you seconds after I received your number, whatwould have been your impression?""I don'tknow. I guess I would have been flattered and seen it as a sign of highinterest on your part, much like providing my number showed high interest on my part.""I see. Perhapsyou could have left your number with an asterisk and a note specifying a besttime to call and the fact that you expect a voice call.""Really?I need to be that specific?""Or, youcan be vague and disappointed, which will result in an awkward conversationwith a man you've only met in two dimensions.""I didn'tmean for this to be awkward. I'm only asking.""In thepast day, how many text messages have you sent and how many voice calls haveyou made?""Yes, Itext my friends more often than I call them.""Hence,my decision to send a text fell in line with your tendencies.""It'sjust so impersonal, especially when first meeting.""Iunderstand and had I known your expectations I would have met or exceeded them.Now, let's put this behind us, cupcake. Would you like to meet?""Um,sure, I guess so."
Pleasedon't analyze me. I'm old and tired. I won't chase you unless you're coated in honeyand powdered sugar. Point me to your pleasure buttons and I will comply.

What am I supposed to do with your number?

When you
distribute your phone number to a potential bedwarmer, what are your
expectations? Wouldn't it be logical to provide instructions along with the number?
Why begin the relationship with ambiguity? Why test the man before the first
date?




After
exchanging a few witty (brushing my nails on my shirt right now) Match.com emails,
I received a reply that contained a phone number. This baffled me. I was flattered
to receive the number, but I didn't know what exactly to do with it. Yes, I realized
the intention was for me to use it to call her. My confusion concerned how and
when. I put on my smart cap and decided the safest thing to do was send a text
message asking what was best time for me to call. Gosh, sometimes I wonder how
I fit all those brains in my skull.




Then my
phone rang.




I allowed
it to go to voice mail because I was on the treadmill and wasn't in the mood for
a face-plant, plus I didn't want all my panting to scare her away.




"Hi,
this is Missy from Match. I thought it would be nice to talk on the phone
before we meet. So, give me a call when you get a chance and we can chat."




When I
called Missy, she lectured me. This made me and my curiosity shrivel.




"I'm new
to this online dating thing. Tell me: Is it normal that guys get a number and instead
of calling send more emails and then a text message."

"Um,
normal?"

"Just
trying to figure men out."

"Well,
let me ask you this: If I called you seconds after I received your number, what
would have been your impression?"

"I don't
know. I guess I would have been flattered and seen it as a sign of high
interest on your part, much like providing my number showed high interest on my part."

"I see. Perhaps
you could have left your number with an asterisk and a note specifying a best
time to call and the fact that you expect a voice call."

"Really?
I need to be that specific?"

"Or, you
can be vague and disappointed, which will result in an awkward conversation
with a man you've only met in two dimensions."

"I didn't
mean for this to be awkward. I'm only asking."

"In the
past day, how many text messages have you sent and how many voice calls have
you made?"

"Yes, I
text my friends more often than I call them."

"Hence,
my decision to send a text fell in line with your tendencies."

"It's
just so impersonal, especially when first meeting."

"I
understand and had I known your expectations I would have met or exceeded them.
Now, let's put this behind us, cupcake. Would you like to meet?"

"Um,
sure, I guess so."




Please
don't analyze me. I'm old and tired. I won't chase you unless you're coated in honey
and powdered sugar. Point me to your pleasure buttons and I will comply.

Why are you hanging on?

Divine darlingsgathered for a reunion last night to drink wine and catch up on gossip and sexlives. I lurked. Finally, one of the lovelies noticed me and thought she knewme from somewhere. Yep, I dated her friend. I played along, hoping the ex didn'ttrash me too thoroughly.
"Hi, youlook so familiar to me.""You'veprobably seen me on TV.""Really?""Yep, Awful Chefs, Lifestyles of the Poor and Insignificant, or The Perpetual Bachelor.""Ha! No,I don't know you from TV.""Well,Christine, I haven't a clue.""Wow. I'mimpressed. You remembered my name.""I alsoremember where we met and what you do for a living. Still impressed, or is thisbecoming creepy?"
Takenote, gentlemen: Remember as much as you can when you meet a woman. Drill itinto your memory. Make room by casting away the useless ditties you're storing,such as:Childhoodfriends' phone numbers.Agrade school teacher's name.Thedetails surrounding your first orgasm.Importantdates, which can easily be transferred onto an electronic calendar.Howto make a margarita. (Leave it to the experts.)Thelyrics to "Da Butt."Quotesfrom Seinfeld.Highschool locker number or combination.Pi.Thecapital of Norway.Whowas president before Reagan.Whereyou hid the porn.
Turnsout the woman I impressed was married (*sigh*) but her friend was delicious and ringless (*grin*),so I began my mating dance. Turns out my target had a boyfriend I could tellshe was none too pleased with.
"Why doyou stay?""BecauseI can't see myself hanging out in places like this.""Oh, itisn't so bad.""It'ssuch a scene. Ugh.""And you'drather stay in an unfulfilling relationship?""Beatsbeing alone or desperate.""Leavehim immediately.""What?""Go homeright now and start packing. This is nonsense. You're wasting your time forcingsomething to work that has probably been over for months or years. Move on!""No. I'mnot going to go through dating hell again. I can't imagine hanging out in barsor online dating sites. That would be depressing.""It iswhat you make it, darling. If you seek desperately, you make yourself unattractive.If you're amused by the process and see it as a way to meet new people, you'llthrive.""So, areyou telling me you're here in this club tonight to network?""That'snot the ultimate goal, but it's one I can live with. I met you and you're notgoing to sleep with me … are you?""Doubtful.""See? Istill like you and am enjoying our conversation even though it probably won'tend in a sex puddle.""Fairenough."
God, Ihate to see women hanging onto to the frayed threads of remnant relationships.Please lose the man who isn't treating you right as well as your fear of being judged for doing so.

Why are you hanging on?

Divine darlings
gathered for a reunion last night to drink wine and catch up on gossip and sex
lives. I lurked. Finally, one of the lovelies noticed me and thought she knew
me from somewhere. Yep, I dated her friend. I played along, hoping the ex didn't
trash me too thoroughly.




"Hi, you
look so familiar to me."

"You've
probably seen me on TV."

"Really?"

"Yep, Awful Chefs, Lifestyles of the Poor and Insignificant, or The Perpetual Bachelor."

"Ha! No,
I don't know you from TV."

"Well,
Christine, I haven't a clue."

"Wow. I'm
impressed. You remembered my name."

"I also
remember where we met and what you do for a living. Still impressed, or is this
becoming creepy?"




Take
note, gentlemen: Remember as much as you can when you meet a woman. Drill it
into your memory. Make room by casting away the useless ditties you're storing,
such as:

Childhood
friends' phone numbers.
A
grade school teacher's name.
The
details surrounding your first orgasm.
Important
dates, which can easily be transferred onto an electronic calendar.
How
to make a margarita. (Leave it to the experts.)
The
lyrics to "Da Butt."
Quotes
from Seinfeld.
High
school locker number or combination.
Pi.
The
capital of Norway.
Who
was president before Reagan.
Where
you hid the porn.





Turns
out the woman I impressed was married (*sigh*) but her friend was delicious and ringless (*grin*),
so I began my mating dance. Turns out my target had a boyfriend I could tell
she was none too pleased with.




"Why do
you stay?"

"Because
I can't see myself hanging out in places like this."

"Oh, it
isn't so bad."

"It's
such a scene. Ugh."

"And you'd
rather stay in an unfulfilling relationship?"

"Beats
being alone or desperate."

"Leave
him immediately."

"What?"

"Go home
right now and start packing. This is nonsense. You're wasting your time forcing
something to work that has probably been over for months or years. Move on!"

"No. I'm
not going to go through dating hell again. I can't imagine hanging out in bars
or online dating sites. That would be depressing."

"It is
what you make it, darling. If you seek desperately, you make yourself unattractive.
If you're amused by the process and see it as a way to meet new people, you'll
thrive."

"So, are
you telling me you're here in this club tonight to network?"

"That's
not the ultimate goal, but it's one I can live with. I met you and you're not
going to sleep with me … are you?"

"Doubtful."

"See? I
still like you and am enjoying our conversation even though it probably won't
end in a sex puddle."

"Fair
enough."




God, I
hate to see women hanging onto to the frayed threads of remnant relationships.
Please lose the man who isn't treating you right as well as your fear of being judged for doing so.

Bar etiquette for those with rookie livers.

There's
a difference between people who drink often and people who get drunk often. I
am a professional among the former, who dabbles in the latter, when necessary. As
such, I'm out practically nightly honing my skills and occasionally slamming my
clipboard to the turf as I witness egregious fouls. Play is becoming sloppy,
people. Something needs to change. The don't-be-a-pussy beer commercials aren't
helping because they are self-serving and everyone knows light beer doesn't
taste like anything except rusty club soda.




Here are
today's lessons, which I hope you'll share with the stumbling, bumbling
first-beer-ever boobs you see out this weekend.




Do not buy anyone a drink unless
there is a legitimate chance it will make you more attractive to the recipient
and said recipient hasn't already warned you that you'll never see her or him without
clothing.


a.       If you're a man, do not buy me a
drink. If you buy me a drink, you create yet another debt I must repay. This
annoys me. Also, I'm probably not through with the drink I have, so the new
drink is going to become warm and watery before I get to it. This also annoys
me.

b.      If you're a woman, do not buy me
a drink. If you're attractive, you will have emasculated me causing embarrassment
as my brothers wonder what happened to my testes. If you're mediocre, please
allow me to determine how much I need to imbibe to make you a mating option. If
you're unattractive, you've put me in a difficult situation, which will
probably cause me to excuse myself to the toilet and set off the rear-exit
alarm as I sprint to my Jeep.

c.       If you're a bartender or server,
don't buy me a drink. I used to own a club and nothing irked me more than when
one of my bartenders said, "This one's on me." Technically, it was fucking on me, the owner. Right? So, if you're the owner,
I will accept your generosity and probably frequent your establishment. Don't
be surprised if you find me sleeping in a stall. It happens and you'd be partially
to blame. Consider yourself forewarned.

If you're posted up at the bar,
use your peripheral vision for more than locating cleavage and cock lumps. Be
aware of people who are thirstily waiting for access to the bartender. You're
probably blocking their advance. See them waving those large bills and credit
cards or doing jumping jacks? No, they're not Richard Simmons' fans; they're
parched. Move it, roadblock!


a.       If you stubbornly block access,
this is what you will encounter: The odorous armpit of stoner dude who thinks
himself a surfing Kurt Cobain reincarnated and thus refuses to wash his hair while
he wears the same goddamn plaid flannel shirt six times before tossing it in
the laundry.

b.      The two attractive ladies
standing behind you do not want to have sex with you. In fact, they're scanning
your scalp for evidence of hair plugs and coloring. Ah, but you think you're
slick. You offer to get the bartender's attention for the ladies or take it a step
further and offer to order their drinks. Neither the bartender (trying to make a
living off you're one dollar tip) nor the ladies need you involved in the
transaction. Step aside.

c.       You're going to be dripped upon.
It may be as innocuous as condensation or it may be pinot-gone-wild. In some
bars—the ones who play Taylor Swift's music—what lands on you may be tobacco drool
from the lower lip of an inbred who just mated with a cousin, four-legged
creature, or jar of Mother's strawberry preserves. Spit leaves stains, so, unless you're
wearing a body condom, scram.




Take
these lessons to heart, friends. You must study and remember that practice
makes others hate you a little less.

Who deserves thanks?

I'm notspinning a football and pointing to the sky. I'm not doing some oddlychoreographed high-five with an on-deck batter. I'm not bumping chests with asweaty fellow wearing silly shorts and a tank top. I'm not even saying "Hi Mom"into the camera. I'm simply saying thank you to readers who maintain a sufficientsense of humor and logic to be entertained by my rants without calling me adouche … to my face, at least.
"Youpost some pretty bizarre shit.""That'swhat I do.""Why?""Becausemundane shit is boring, by definition.""Aren'tyou worried about offending people?""I don'tgive offense; people take it.""Doesn'tit make you feel bad to hurt someone's feelings?""No,because that's not my intention. I'm looking for a reaction, hoping it involvesa smirk and a giggle, and I'm willing to accept a few casualties along the way.""So, whydon't you write more romantic pieces and limit the casualties?""Thatwould be suicidal. I'd be the casualty. Look, I can be loving and romantic. Ican write deep poems and letters of adoration. Those are saved for that someonespecial, when and if she ever comes along."
Think ofcomedic writers this way: They are handing you, the reader, a loaded whoopee cushion.Now, you can choose to place it on your chair and deploy the most vile soundingyogurt fart just as Uncle Ted is about to carve the turkey. Or, you can eat thecushion and be hurt by it. Obviously, the writer's hope is that you cause jelliedcranberry to come flying from your relatives' noses. If you take the gag andgag on it instead, how can you blame the writer?
"Whymust everything be about sex and dating?""Theyare two of the most desired things there are, and rarely do we get them right.""Idisagree. I love my husband.""Andthat's entertaining how?""It'sinspirational.""No, it'sannoying to your friends, like me, who have not found the golden hen or havedecided not to settle for any hen.""So youhate me because I've been successful with my relationship.""I don'thate you, sweetpea. Your story doesn't inspire or entertain me. Now, if you gohome tonight and walk in on your husband using his flesh baster to semen stuffthe turkey while watching Project Runway,you'll have me hooked.""Gross.""Ah,what was that? Did I detect a tiny smile? You may be turning to the dark side.""Never!""Thenmake sure you don't read what I post later today.""Youwouldn't."
She don'tknow me too well, do she?
Seriously, though. Thank you allso much for tolerating, supporting, encouraging, and inspiring me. HappyThanksgiving, my friends!

Who deserves thanks?

I'm not
spinning a football and pointing to the sky. I'm not doing some oddly
choreographed high-five with an on-deck batter. I'm not bumping chests with a
sweaty fellow wearing silly shorts and a tank top. I'm not even saying "Hi Mom"
into the camera. I'm simply saying thank you to readers who maintain a sufficient
sense of humor and logic to be entertained by my rants without calling me a
douche … to my face, at least.




"You
post some pretty bizarre shit."

"That's
what I do."

"Why?"

"Because
mundane shit is boring, by definition."

"Aren't
you worried about offending people?"

"I don't
give offense; people take it."

"Doesn't
it make you feel bad to hurt someone's feelings?"

"No,
because that's not my intention. I'm looking for a reaction, hoping it involves
a smirk and a giggle, and I'm willing to accept a few casualties along the way."

"So, why
don't you write more romantic pieces and limit the casualties?"

"That
would be suicidal. I'd be the casualty. Look, I can be loving and romantic. I
can write deep poems and letters of adoration. Those are saved for that someone
special, when and if she ever comes along."




Think of
comedic writers this way: They are handing you, the reader, a loaded whoopee cushion.
Now, you can choose to place it on your chair and deploy the most vile sounding
yogurt fart just as Uncle Ted is about to carve the turkey. Or, you can eat the
cushion and be hurt by it. Obviously, the writer's hope is that you cause jellied
cranberry to come flying from your relatives' noses. If you take the gag and
gag on it instead, how can you blame the writer?




"Why
must everything be about sex and dating?"

"They
are two of the most desired things there are, and rarely do we get them right."

"I
disagree. I love my husband."

"And
that's entertaining how?"

"It's
inspirational."

"No, it's
annoying to your friends, like me, who have not found the golden hen or have
decided not to settle for any hen."

"So you
hate me because I've been successful with my relationship."

"I don't
hate you, sweetpea. Your story doesn't inspire or entertain me. Now, if you go
home tonight and walk in on your husband using his flesh baster to semen stuff
the turkey while watching Project Runway,
you'll have me hooked."

"Gross."

"Ah,
what was that? Did I detect a tiny smile? You may be turning to the dark side."

"Never!"

"Then
make sure you don't read what I post later today."

"You
wouldn't."




She don't
know me too well, do she?




Seriously, though. Thank you all
so much for tolerating, supporting, encouraging, and inspiring me. Happy
Thanksgiving, my friends!

I may need to release a sex tape.

I metwith my publicist about taking things to the next level, whatever that may be.Nobody wants to live in a cubicle for fifty hours a week. To avoid thatcorporate trap, I need to sell more books. To sell more books, I need moreexposure. A logical person would surmise that increased sales should come from higherquality books. Untrue. I have one word for you: Snooki. You didn't hear me? Howabout this word: JWOWW?
"OK,here's what needs to happen: You need to leak a sex tape.""Veryfunny.""I'mserious.""And I'mfifty. Have you lost your mind?""Lookwhat it did for Tommy Lee, Paris, and Kim.""I don'thave half the penis Tommy Lee has and the other two, while closer to me ingenital size, happen to be beautiful women.""None ofthat matters. It's all about exposure and publicity.""Well, I'mnot exposing anything.""It canbe done tastefully to help your image.""Really?My image is so poor that a sex tape would actually improve it?""Well,you are known for dating and dashing as well as picking on poor, defenseless dogsand chubby gals.""But …""Youalso poke fun at cougars, bikers, Bostonites, and religious fanatics.""Technically,they're Bostoners. Heh, heh.""Hush.So, to combat all of this negative energy, we accidentally release a sex tapefeaturing you and a fifty-five-year-old woman from Boston.""I'mintrigued. Continue.""You mether at a café while on a city bike tour. She recently moved to San Diego withher chocolate Labrador.""Godhelp me.""He willbecause you two go at it in her bedroom beneath a crucifix mounted above herheadboard while you wear your bike helmet and her dog lies at the base of thebed watching.""Why thehelmet?""She'sgoing to be a little rough with you and the crucifix will fall and crack you in the skull.""Well,can she at least wear a nun's habit then? I used to have a thing for The Flying Nun.""Now, we'regetting somewhere.""I wanther to call me Reverend Lance and get nasty without saying any dirty words. Weneed to be cognizant of the Motion Pictures Association's film rating. She canbe like, 'Oh gee whiz, yes, freak me, baby. Give it to me. Don't you love my fragranttulip? You're making me tremendously not dry. Your banana is so unripe rightnow.'""Whathave I done?"
This could work, I began thinking. Still, thisdish, like most, could use more topical spice.
"What ifthe woman is a college woman's basketball coach and I have my way with her inthe locker room? Then, an assistant coach hears the moaning and slapping. Theassistant makes all sorts of racket, trying to get us to stop but we're toobusy with the pump soap, hair pulls, and all. Afraid of the fallout, theassistant runs from the locker room and calls Kris Jenner.""KrisJenner?""Yes, ofcourse. Kris just happens to be in the middle of a torrid lesbian affair withthe coach. Kris storms into the locker room in a jealous rage—OK, with adog—and demands an explanation while spraying Chloe and Lamar's Unbreakablefragrance to clear the scent of sweaty old-people sex.""Whyhaven't I learned not to tempt you?""Havethe camera crew ready by six. I'll go shave my balls."

I may need to release a sex tape.

I met
with my publicist about taking things to the next level, whatever that may be.
Nobody wants to live in a cubicle for fifty hours a week. To avoid that
corporate trap, I need to sell more books. To sell more books, I need more
exposure. A logical person would surmise that increased sales should come from higher
quality books. Untrue. I have one word for you: Snooki. You didn't hear me? How
about this word: JWOWW?




"OK,
here's what needs to happen: You need to leak a sex tape."

"Very
funny."

"I'm
serious."

"And I'm
fifty. Have you lost your mind?"

"Look
what it did for Tommy Lee, Paris, and Kim."

"I don't
have half the penis Tommy Lee has and the other two, while closer to me in
genital size, happen to be beautiful women."

"None of
that matters. It's all about exposure and publicity."

"Well, I'm
not exposing anything."

"It can
be done tastefully to help your image."

"Really?
My image is so poor that a sex tape would actually improve it?"

"Well,
you are known for dating and dashing as well as picking on poor, defenseless dogs
and chubby gals."

"But …"

"You
also poke fun at cougars, bikers, Bostonites, and religious fanatics."

"Technically,
they're Bostoners. Heh, heh."

"Hush.
So, to combat all of this negative energy, we accidentally release a sex tape
featuring you and a fifty-five-year-old woman from Boston."

"I'm
intrigued. Continue."

"You met
her at a café while on a city bike tour. She recently moved to San Diego with
her chocolate Labrador."

"God
help me."

"He will
because you two go at it in her bedroom beneath a crucifix mounted above her
headboard while you wear your bike helmet and her dog lies at the base of the
bed watching."

"Why the
helmet?"

"She's
going to be a little rough with you and the crucifix will fall and crack you in the skull."

"Well,
can she at least wear a nun's habit then? I used to have a thing for The Flying Nun."

"Now, we're
getting somewhere."

"I want
her to call me Reverend Lance and get nasty without saying any dirty words. We
need to be cognizant of the Motion Pictures Association's film rating. She can
be like, 'Oh gee whiz, yes, freak me, baby. Give it to me. Don't you love my fragrant
tulip? You're making me tremendously not dry. Your banana is so unripe right
now.'"

"What
have I done?"




This could work, I began thinking. Still, this
dish, like most, could use more topical spice.




"What if
the woman is a college woman's basketball coach and I have my way with her in
the locker room? Then, an assistant coach hears the moaning and slapping. The
assistant makes all sorts of racket, trying to get us to stop but we're too
busy with the pump soap, hair pulls, and all. Afraid of the fallout, the
assistant runs from the locker room and calls Kris Jenner."

"Kris
Jenner?"

"Yes, of
course. Kris just happens to be in the middle of a torrid lesbian affair with
the coach. Kris storms into the locker room in a jealous rage—OK, with a
dog—and demands an explanation while spraying Chloe and Lamar's Unbreakable
fragrance to clear the scent of sweaty old-people sex."

"Why
haven't I learned not to tempt you?"

"Have
the camera crew ready by six. I'll go shave my balls."

Are you a john to media whores?

We enjoy poking fun at famous people who make lots of money with little talent,
such as reality TV stars. Ironically, by doing this we are feeding the frenzy.
We should consider the art of making oneself popular (branding) to be a talent
worth admiring and cultivating. Why? Consider the following:




Snooki
is paid more for college appearances than Nobel Prize winners are.
The
Situation will make over $5 million in 2011.
The
Kardashians will make over $65 million in 2011.
Publications
pay millions of dollars for the rights to publish celebrity baby pictures,
weddings, and "Just Like You" pictures of stars who couldn't be less like us
(unless we were popular enough to hire publicists and paparazzi to pose us).





At
first, I was disgusted by this. I take part of the blame because I subscribe to magazines
like Us Weekly and regularly watch shows
like The Bachelorette and Jersey Shore as well as shows that
generate most of their success by commenting on reality shows (e.g. Chelsea Lately).




Women
are the primary johns as they can't seem to get enough of housewives, dancers,
singers, daters, addicts, and dieters. I had a female friend stay with me for a
few days on her vacation. She chose to stay in one night to catch up with the
Kardashians … on her vacation! I watched her watch. She was mesmerized, as was I.




Then, I
fell deeper into the trap.




I enjoy
watching The Millionaire Matchmaker. When
I moved to the sugar daddy and gold digger capital of the world in 2004, I was
fascinated by how many women would trade their pride to be with unattractive
men with thick wallets. I witnessed these men (most of them faking it) reel in
women with ease, only to treat them like cufflinks. That's why MM appeals to me—Patti, the host,
exploits the freaks on both ends of the transaction. Clever woman!




This
concept only works with spoiled men and desperate women. Try putting together a
Barely Getting By Matchmaker and it
will be cancelled in two weeks. "Meet Joe, a middle manager at a financial
planning company who works fifty hours a week, struggles to pay his bills and
child support, and forces himself to hit the gym to combat his expanding belly.
He can't find time to meet his soul mate. Meet ten women who spend most of
their time fighting aging with clothing, makeup, treadmills, and hair coloring,
which too often is wasted on unappreciative men." *Yawn*




I ran
into Patti Stanger from The Millionaire Matchmaker at a local club this past summer. She was attractive, kind,
and buried in her Blackberry. She fascinated me, so I bought her a drink and
flirted as she checked me out over her reading glasses. No luck. Afterward, I thought, Why
did I do that? I'm not attracted to her. Obviously, her show is produced and
scripted. Liking her on the show isn't the same as liking her in person. I
guess I was star struck.




Then, a
few weeks ago, a friend of a friend contacted me saying Patti asked him to find
her "a nice San Diego man." He had me send an email with some personal ditties and
pictures, which he forwarded to her. "Be patient. She's very busy," he warned
me. No shit.




After I
sent the email, I felt icky. Why must I sell myself to a woman I hardly know?
Screw that! She should send me a
sales pitch. Then I considered the fame aspect. If she agreed to meet me and
actually began dating me, this could help my brand immensely. She might mention
my books. I might appear on an episode. Paparazzi might become curious about
me. More eyes on me would translate into more book sales.




Still,
it felt dirty.




I
wavered and waited for her response. Finally, we spoke on the phone and
I was encouraged because she didn't seem like the hyper-critical woman from her show. She asked
me to text her another picture. I complied and then I didn't hear back. Oh,
well. A friend persuaded me to send just one more follow-up text, in case she
was too busy to respond. Finally, she responded, confessing she "didn't feel
the chemistry."




The ego
punch was gentle, actually, as I had low expectations. To me it felt like
losing a business opportunity or being turned down for a job. I responded
saying, "Fair enough. Still a fan. Best wishes." Naturally, her next text
solicited me to become a customer. Ugh. Must it always be about the money? She
has the goods and I almost paid. I nearly became a john.




Can't we
admire people for their personal qualities instead of their financial influence? Can't
we find love based on what's deep inside, instead of the shiny bows and
wrapping paper that conceal the goods? Must we consider taking on certain relationships
for the non-emotional benefits they offer? Can we distinguish the person from
the brand and love one regardless of the other? I'm not sure it's possible.