You can find Part 1 here and Part 2 here.
I throw my keys on the counter, dump my purse next to them, and head straight to the fridge. I don’t normally drink alone, but after a date like that I think I deserve (and need) a glass of wine.
I grab the whole bottle and snag a glass from the cabinet, toting it all to my home office. Pouring a glass, I wait for my computer to start. I’m canceling that online dating membership right now. Immediately.
As my eyes scan the page for the Account Settings button, a new message lights up the mailbox at the top of the screen. I pause.
I shake my head, as if I can dislodge the thought. Nope, I’m not opening it. Now where is the stupid Account Settings button?
After answering questions about why I’m cancelling (No, I did not find someone; Yes, I can afford the membership; No, I will not continue for a discounted price), I hover on the Submit Cancellation button.
The little flag on the mailbox at the top of the screen beckons. Open me, it says. The man of your dreams might be inside.
It doesn’t hurt to look, right? So what if this is the second time I’ve let a stupid cartoon mailbox interrupt my cancellation.
I concede it’s probably the wine talking, but throwing caution (and good sense) to the wind, I open the mailbox.
Tad the television producer stares back at me, pearly whites and brown frat-boy hair. It’s that slightly shaggy, swept over one side of the forehead look that every frat boy in the South sports. Just a tad…I almost snort Chardonnay I giggle so hard. I bet he was the butt of a lot of jokes as a kid with a name like Tad.
I study the picture again. Oh yeah, his hair. Just a little (not a tad, giggling again) too long to be called clean cut, but not surfer long.
The next picture reveals a dog named Shea. As in Shea Stadium? Now we’re talking! Any guy who likes baseball can’t be all bad.
Shit, except a Mets fan. I’m deflated. Would I rather have a guy who hates baseball or is a Mets fan? I’m not going to lie, that’s a tough one.
The next picture is him on a boat, nice looking abs and bright green swim trunks that make him look ridiculously tan. Okay, maybe I can get past the Mets part. Perhaps Shea is really named for shea butter? I can pretend.
I hear a ding and see a new window flashing on the bottom of my screen. New Instant Message from Shea4576, it announces.
I look back at the profile. Somehow I missed the username when I got distracted by the yummy photographs.
I click on the instant message, bringing it to the middle of my screen.
Shea4576: Well hello, beautiful.
I smile and pour another glass of wine. Maybe online dating has saved itself from being pulled off life support yet again.
BaseballAnnie: Hi yourself
I wince. BaseballAnnie? I hadn’t even realized Aubrey’s horrific choice for my username. She must have heard the term somewhere and thought it was a cute way to point out my love of baseball to potential suitors. Wrong.
A “Baseball Annie” is a woman who’s a groupie of sorts when it comes to baseball players. It’s from the movie Bull Durham, whose main character, Annie, has been known to sleep with just about every player who has come through town.
Maybe he’s the only male in America who’s never seen the movie.
Shea4576: How are you this evening?
BaseballAnnie: Doing better now. How are you?
Shea4576: Flattered. The same.
BaseballAnnie: I was just reading your message and looking at your profile.
Shea4576: And? What did you think?
BaseballAnnie: So far, so good
Shea4576: You’re the first girl I’ve ever talked to on here.
Shea4576: Did you like the pictures?
I consider my reply. This guy sure seems to be fishing for compliments. Oh well, he’s hot. What the heck.
BaseballAnnie: They didn’t make me go blind or anything.
For some reason, I think you can convey flirting with a smily face emoticon. Not that I make a habit of flirting online.
Shea4576: You’re not so bad yourself. You have more pictures?
It occurs to me that my photos were all chosen by Aubrey and none are my favorites. I never planned on staying on the site, so I didn’t really care. Perhaps this is a good plan. Show mediocre pictures first so they’re pleasantly surprised when they meet me. Not that I’m going to meet anyone else.
BaseballAnnie: Sure, what’s your email?
I select a few of my favorites and send them on their way. Now it’s my turn for some compliments. I drain my glass of wine and wait for his response.
Shea4576: I like what I see. So, am I good enough for you?
What kind of question is that? Is he good enough for me? I don’t know, he’s a Mets fan and a little self-conscious, so maybe not. I decide to proceed with caution, note all the exit signs.
BaseballAnnie: You’re definitely cute.
Shea4576: As cute as the guys you normally date?
Okay, this guy is starting to get on my nerves. The dull ache in my head from trying to focus on the blurry words on the screen isn’t helping either.
BaseballAnnie: I don’t really have a type or anything. What’s your type?
Maybe I can still steer this ship back on course. He really is cute, after all.
Shea4576: You look like my type. Would you date someone who looks like me?
Frowning at the screen, the dull ache is starting to scream. That little voice in my head is getting louder too. Run far! Run fast! Get the hell away from this loser!
With a twinge of regret, I click the red X at the top of the window. Cute but crazy. And not in an endearing way either. Just plain bat shit crazy.
I punch the power button, turning the computer off in frustration before realizing I should have cancelled the stupid subscription. I consider turning it back on, but my big bed with the fluffy down comforter is calling my name. First thing tomorrow, I’m getting off that damn site.