Karen, Meet Phukhed

*Disclaimer: This post is personal. And it includes the PH word.

Post-single moms are always asked about their dating lives, as if the prize at the end of the game is a man. I think y'all know how I feel about that, but if not, let me just say that I, for one, do not think men are prizes. One too many stories from married and dating friends, I guess. I think they can occasionally be nice and all, but not prizes.

Anyway, for research purposes only (and to see what all the fuss was about), I signed up at Zoosk and Plenty of Fish. The next morning I had an email from Zoosk's expert matchmaking service introducing me to the man they had scientifically deemed to be my perfect match. The inside subject line: Karen, Meet Phukhed.

Now, I don't know if his name is pronounced Fucked or Fuckhead, but there's really no way to spin either one positive. I mean, I'm not crazy about signing up for Fucked. And if he's a Fuckhead, well thanks and all, but I can beat myself up just fine.

You may find this hard to believe (like I could make this stuff up), so I have included this little picture to the left as evidence. You can click to enlarge, if you're still a non-believer.

At least Phukhed was somewhat normal looking. The men at Plenty of Fish? Not so much. I think they're signing up from jail or maybe from a halfway house working on societal re-entry. And it's the strangest thing. They say they want to meet you, in some sort of mysterious survey that includes your profile, but they don't say anything else. Unless it's after midnight. Then, the messages pour in asking you to text or Yahoo chat. I'm not proud of this and will only admit it to you PSMers, but I did message one back the following morning and gave him my email address (not my usual one). I never heard from him again. Like I said, it's the darndest thing.

No wonder there are more and more very kewl, very happy, very active older single females out there every day. Prizes? Door # No Thank You, Bob. 

Undating

I guess to most people, this is the natural progression of things as you work your way through Post-Single Motherhood. I know now that it's expected. Not a week goes by that someone doesn't ask: Are you dating? How could you possibly not be dating? Don't you want to? Why don't you? Have you ever tried online dating? What about speed dating? Are you out there? Why aren't you out there? You should get out there, girl. You should. You really should. And you need to....

My palms sweat now typing that and not typing all the snarky comebacks screaming to get out of my head. It's like being seventeen again and asked by your parents' friends if you have a boyfriend. Leave me the (bad word in 3...2...1) fuck alone.

I do want PSM credit for a dream I had recently about dating. In it, I signed up for some sort of "program". A man was in charge, and he arranged our fairly large group at tables of four in something like a highway Holiday Inn banquet room. The full room got a little emptier as two by two, couples were paired off to go on their dates. Some people would come back and some wouldn't. I think because if the matching worked out, you wouldn't see them again, but if it didn't, they'd come back to their little chairs and wait on date #2. Sort of a round robin? Or musical chairs?

I watched this in fascination and apparently didn't care about the passing of time. Three hours went by. I had a sequined shirt on and everything, but still, no date for me. I'd been stood up by the dating program itself. Some guy named Steve asked me what the hell I was doing, which must have shook me out of something, because I asked the program dude, yea, what about me. He flipped through pages on his three clipboards, then looked at me pitifully. There was no record of me. All that paperwork! The forms about romantic fires and senses of humor and long walks on the beach. The liability release in case I got hooked up with a rapist or a serial killer. Poof. I don't know what upsets me more as I recount this - that I had no date, that I sat there for three hours, or that I'm just a really bad dreamer.

I also want PSM credit for a recent trip outside. I had a short list that included a new sports bra. The one I have is a purchase made around the time Jane Fonda came out with her first exercise videotape. I found one I liked until I got stuck in it in the JC Penney fitting room. For ten minutes, I contorted and struggled and practiced my explanation to the checkout lady but didn't see a way around my having to pull up my shirt and scan myself in public. I decided I'd just have to shoplift. Bells and buzzers might go off, but at least I could explain things in private.

I did finally escape, though, made my purchase and walked out the wrong door to the wrong parking lot. Stupid sports bra shook me up. I walked around the building and thought I saw something familiar. I made my way up and down a few rows while pressing the horn button on my car remote key thing-y but nothing. It was a busy week at the mall - the kind when cars line up like vultures waiting on you to find your spot. I had shrugged my shoulders and held up my arms in defeat to four or five drivers (who smiled, sympathetically) when a man pulled his car over a bit, got out and walked towards me.

Damn near laughing. "Lost your car?"

Smiled, against better judgment. "Yup."

Winked. "You know what it looks like, right?"

Laughed, begrudgingly. "YES, thank you very much. I'm not TOTALLY stupid."

"Give me your key and I'll go this way. You go that way and keep looking."

Suspicious that he might steal my Corolla. "Uh..."

"I have my own car, you know. It's right there."

I handed him my key and we set out on the search.

"Don't get lost now!"

Yea, good one, funny man.

After a few minutes, he waved from about five rows over. I made my way over, thanked him profusely and, for some reason, reached for my wallet.

"You're going to offer me money?"

We stared at each other for a minute and burst out laughing.

"I don't know what to do. I guess I'm just so freekin' grateful."

"But jeez, don't pay me."

Then, he handed me his business card and said to call him next time I got lost in a parking lot. What the hell that meant, I've no idea. So there, all you people who keep asking about my PSM dating life. I have been to a dream "program", and I've had an undate in a mall parking lot. In regards to further updates, I'll tell you what my Spawn tells me when I ask about his dating life: "Make it easy on yourself and just stop asking. When I think it's your business, I'll make it your business." (Where he gets the attitude is still a mystery.)

Flirting With Disaster

I haven’t dated a man in a lot of years. And it’s been even longer since I’ve come across a man that struck a..uh..nerve with me. You know, the fluttering thing. And I certainly wouldn’t know if a man liked me, even if he hit me over the head with a caveman club (that’s what they’re still doing these days, right?). To illustrate this point, just the other day, I could’ve sworn the Sears repairman dug me, because he asked a crazy amount of questions about my chess playing when he saw a set in my living room. But I was just the means to his end. As I signed the receipt, he had his hands all over my rooks. Turns out, he just wanted in my chess pants.

So, imagine my befuddlement when I moved into the condo (where I save money living now while paying for Spawn’s college) and ran across a cute boy that caused a slight double-take. There was waving at first, then polite greetings, then a little conversation, then joint walking of the dogs. I’m embarrassed to tell you what got me thinking in the dating direction. You experienced women will think it’s silly, but one morning, the dog and I came upon him and his dog. The dogs like each other, so I stopped to let them do their thing. Cute boy was on the phone, so I tried to be quick and quiet, so not to bother him. But do you know what he did? He got off the phone. A little politeness goes a long way for me, obviously.

Now, what does any respectable, middle-aged, born-again virgin do when she gets a crush? First, she awkwardly attempts to flirt. With the grace and dignity of a newborn colt trying to stand. And second, she googles.

Lots of information about this acceptably decent-looking, 48-year-old, dog-owning, polite man popped up. His hometown, his family, his education, a blurb about him in a 3-year-old church newsletter and oodles of news articles about the 1996 culmination of his three-year crime spree. Yes, crime spree.

Turns out he was in state prison for eight years. That’s like accidental murder years, isn’t it? Seems my man had been a fairly well-to-do prosecutor in another area of Indiana who just couldn’t keep his hands off of other people’s money. He’d settle cases with organizations like insurance companies and forget to tell the victims that their money had come through. The final tally was a little over a million dollars. That’s bad enough, right? Well, it seems that when the police were closing in on him, he parked his car in a field, doused it with gasoline and set himself on fire. He was rushed to the hospital but was released to police custody with no major damage. Too bad, I know, because here he is now, 15 years later, living five doors down from me and making me break my record of not foolishly diggin’ a man. THAT, my friends, is the true crime here.

Update: We still see each other outside (which I now affectionately refer to as "the yard") and have pleasant conversation. He still gets off the phone to talk to me. Our dogs still like each other. But, now, I’ve noticed, sometimes, he’s taken to running from me. The other day, for example, I was behind him for a few miles driving home. We pulled into our parking spaces, 5 spots away from each other, and, not only did he not wave, but he got out of his car and damn near power-walked into his house before I even had my door open. It was only a matter of time, I guess.

I try to find the lesson in things, but I haven’t pinpointed this one yet, Diary. Maybe it’s just proof that there IS a dormant woman deep down inside. And that, for now, it’s best that she get a little more rest.