If Rod Serling were to choreograph my dates, they might go like this

In recent weeks I’ve learned more about online dating than anyone should have to know. Most of that I’ve covered in previous columns.

This week, I want you to join me in another dimension, a dimension not only of sight and sound, but of mind; a journey into a wondrous land whose boundaries are that of imagination. There’s a signpost up ahead; your next stop – the Dating Zone…

The phone rings at 5:30 p.m. I glance up from my laptop; extract my phone from my jeans pocket. Caller ID doesn’t recognize the number. I push the answer button anyway.

“Hello?” I say.

“Hi, it’s me!” says a female voice, one I do not recognize.

“Oh, hey!” I say, pretending that I do recognize the voice and hoping the woman on the other end of the line will say something to tip me off as to her identity.

“What are you up to?” asks the voice.

“Um, just working,” I say.

“Oh, am I interrupting?” she says.

“No,” I lie. “I needed a break anyway. So what’s up?”

“I was just sitting around thinking,” she says, “that it’s about time we finally met in person.”

“Oh,” I say. I have been emailing back and forth with a half-dozen girls from the online dating site for the past couple weeks. The voice on the other end is one of these. But which?

“Are you free for dinner?” she asks.

“Um, sure,” I say, still without any idea who I’m talking to. “I’d love to.”

She recommends a restaurant I’ve never heard of, more than an hour’s drive from my house. I tell her that sounds fine. I keep her on the phone for a few more minutes and eventually, she says something that reveals her identity. She is Bernice.*

In her online profile, Bernice describes herself as “willowy” and “athletic.” Her photo is that of a cute, blue-eyed blonde with a winning smile. I am anxious to meet her.

The woman who stalks into the very ritzy Chez Pierre’s** 90 minutes later stands six-feet-two, weighs in at about 240 pounds, and bears a strong resemblance to Ernest Borgnine. Being a gentleman, I decide to make the best of it. Maybe we’ll at least be able to have a nice conversation.

The waiter takes our order. I ask for soup; Bernice orders lobster, scallops and steak. No, I am not kidding.

“So, tell me a little about yourself,” I say.

“Well, I’ve been divorced for about six months now,” Bernice begins. She then goes on to tell me about her ex-husband’s flaws. She continues to enumerate these flaws, around mouthfuls of very expensive food, for the next two hours. I’ve heard similar stories before, from a previous date.

I repeatedly catch myself looking around for a sharp knife, but having been raised Catholic, I fear negative repercussions in the afterlife should I commit suicide now.

The waiter stops by with the bill. I am so anxious to make my escape that I pay the $135 tab (no, I am again not kidding!) without complaint. I have just spent my entire month’s grocery budget on a bowl of soup.

Bernice wants to go to a movie. I claim an early meeting and say I have to get home. Bernice seems suspicious, but at this point I no longer care.

I drive away poorer, but wiser. Well, maybe not wiser, but definitely poorer.

* Not her real name.

* Not the restaurant’s real name.

Sign up now for Sgt. Taylor’s Lonely Hearts Club Online Band

Judging by the volume of mail I’ve been seeing lately, I have hit a nerve with my recent columns on online dating. For those of you playing catch-up, the (former) Lovely Mrs. Taylor moved out a while back, leaving me single for the first time in nearly 15 years.

Since then, I’ve gone through the “five steps” typical of someone in my situation: 1) disbelief, 2) hurt, 3) anger, 4) acceptance, and 5) dating. (Just for the record, I don’t know if those five steps are typical or not; they’re the steps I went through.)

For a long time, I thought step number two was the toughest. I mean, nobody wants to feel pain, right? Step one wasn’t so bad, because early on it just didn’t seem real, so it was hard to feel anything. Step three was OK, because being angry felt so much better than feeling hurt. And step four, acceptance, sort of fell into place by itself. I woke one morning and there it was. To be honest, I welcomed acceptance; I realized it was good to simply have the whole thing behind me.

That left step five – dating.

At first I resisted dating. Despite having completed the first four steps of my five-step program, the idea of going out with another woman still felt like cheating, like I was going out on my wife, who by this time had moved to another city, leased an apartment, and changed her name to Naomi Slimchacha, for all I know.

It was my daughter who finally pushed me into it. While I was visiting her in Detroit, she signed me up for a free online dating service.*

I didn’t really expect much to come of it, but apparently – owing to the fact that I have a job, all my teeth, and bathe regularly – I’m considered a “catch.” Who knew?

It wasn’t long until I was emailing back in forth with several single, divorced, and widowed women from across West Michigan. Most of them seemed very nice and several were – according to their online photos and brief bios – quite attractive. I was in single guy heaven. This was the dating equivalent of an all you can eat buffet!

Having had my ego recently crushed into a lifeless, shapeless, quivering blob of semi-digested protoplasm by the former Mrs. T, this was exactly the sort of thing I needed.

If I had left things as they were, with all my little romances existing solely in the digital realm, everything would have been fine. But no; these girls wanted to meet in person. They wanted to go out on real dates to real places; places that cost real money!

Now, since Mrs. T’s departure, I have been living on a diet of Ramen noodles and acorns from the tree out back in an effort to make ends meet. Four-star cuisine at a fancy restaurant was not in my budget.

But I’m a man. And a man will do some really stupid things for love, or even the promise of love. A man will date.

In the past few weeks, I’ve been out on at least a dozen dates, some fun, some that make Stephen King’s scariest novel seem like a Dr. Seuss bedtime story. I’ll tell you all about it next week.

* Dear Readers; I have received dozens of letters and emails asking for the name of the dating service I’ve been using, so I’m guessing I’m not the only cowboy (or cowgirl) riding in this here rodeo. The one I’m using is free, easy to navigate, and the largest of its kind anywhere (or so their Website claims). Feel free to email me for the Web address at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

Welcome to the dark side of online dating

Before I get started with this week’s column, let me first say thank you to all the wonderful readers who sent letters and emails of support regarding my recent split with the Former Lovely Mrs. Taylor. Her leaving was the toughest thing I’ve had to face in this life, and your words of encouragement have been a much-needed blessing in a most difficult time. Thank you all so much.

Also, as much as I appreciate the Xanax, I’m pretty sure it was illegal to send me prescription drugs through the mail and I’m nervous about taking stuff like that even when my doctor recommends it. But I do appreciate the thought.

And finally, to “Ms. R.,” I have taken your marriage proposal under advisement and will be getting back to you once the results of the criminal background check are in. (I’m not saying the answer is no, either way, I just want to know what I’m letting myself in for.)

That said, all your comments truly have been a huge comfort to me. Advance readers rule!

At any rate, I told you last week I had begun dating again, or trying to, via an online dating service. I also promised I would share the results of my first few dates.

This is proving easier said than done, in large part because I was expecting most of the aforementioned dates to be unmitigated disasters, and this just hasn’t been the case. The worst thing I can say about any of them is that – with one notable exception – the girls looked absolutely nothing like the photos posted with their profiles.

For you happily married folks with no idea what a “profile” is, it’s the description you give yourself on an online dating site, the narrative that’s supposed to accurately reflect your hopes, dreams, desires and innermost personality. Of course, none of them do, as becomes all too obvious when you actually meet your date in person.

The girl who told me she had recently been through an “amicable divorce” spent the entire two hours it took us to get through dinner telling me what a louse her ex was. In detail. Excruciating detail. By the time I made my escape, I felt I would be justified in sending my date a bill for psychiatric services. I mean, all I did was nod and say “Uh-huh,” and “Really?” for 120 minutes, but that’s all most shrinks do, right? And they get big money for that.

All I got for my counseling services was a $67 tab for dinner and drinks.

Which brings me to another downside of dating; it costs money and lots of it. I don’t have lots of money. I can’t afford to impress girls with my financial wonderfulness. If I keep this up much longer, my future dates had better look young enough to order from the kiddy menu at a drive-through. (Which they all do, in their profile photos, at least. Real life is another matter. You can’t Photoshop reality.)

But I’m only giving you the downside here, folks, and in truth, a couple of the ladies I’ve gone out with in the past few weeks have been very nice, though nothing has really “clicked” for me. Dating, I’m discovering, can be fun, exhilarating, depressing, frustrating and out-and-out maddening.

Just like marriage.

Maybe I’ll give that Xanax a try after all.

 

Missed a week? More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

Little white lies abound in online dating scene

And so now I’m dating, or trying to. Those of you saying, “What about the Lovely Mrs. Taylor?” should check out last week’s column, available online at the usual places. It explains everything.

Anyway, I’m back on the circuit after nearly 20 years of married life. The weeks since I posted my first “profile” on a singles Website have been a learning experience, to say the least.

Since this column is nothing if not a public service platform, I’m going to share some of what I’ve learned with other recently-singled folks who may be reading this.

First off, don’t believe anything you read in a personals ad. Everyone is lying through their teeth and the sooner you come to grips with this, the better.

It’s not that people are willfully dishonest; they just see themselves through different eyes than does the rest of the world. For instance, my profile says I look about 35 (an obvious lie), that I have an “athletic” build (lie number two), that I love long walks on the beach (I hate sand in my sneakers), quiet nights at home (I like noisy nights in a fun club), and am looking for an intelligent, independent woman who knows her own mind (I want somebody cute, period – any other virtues she may possess are just gravy).

Don’t get me wrong, I value intelligence, independence, talent, wisdom, wit and a strong moral compass. But all that’s got to come wrapped in a reasonably attractive package in order to engage my amorous intentions. There are people who will no doubt condemn me for this admission, which, when stated so boldly, does seem shallow.

But that’s the nature of the human species; it’s hardwired into our collective psyche. Every he wants a pretty she. Even if that beauty is strictly in the eye of the beholder.

At any rate, there are other things I’ve learned about interpreting profiles. For instance, when discussing body types, “BBW”, “a few extra pounds”, “average”, and “voluptuous” all mean exactly the same thing. Likewise, “thin” means average, “anorexic” means thin and “emaciated and near death from malnutrition” means reasonably well put together.

The men, of course, lie just as prodigiously as do the women (see my “athletic build” comment, above).

But wait! you say. What about photos? Don’t most of those singles sites have photos?

 You bet. My own photo looks almost exactly like Tom Cruise. I had my daughter shoot my profile photo with a strong, telephoto lens from about a half-mile away. Then using Photoshop, I faded out all the wrinkles and bags, removed the grey from my beard, and pasted Tom Cruise’s head over the whole thing. I look great! Nothing like me, but great!

According to my profile, I’m a famous neurosurgeon, possess a black belt in Tai Kwan Do, and have just moved back to the area from a six-year sabbatical in Paris. In reality, I’ve watched a few episodes of “House,” seen some Jackie Chan movies, and own a postcard that an old girlfriend from high school sent me years ago from the Louvre. So my profile isn’t a total lie, just an, um, entertaining extrapolation of the truth.

 Since posting my mostly hypothetical profile, I have been out on a few dates. How’d they go? Tune in next week for episode two of “Adventures in Middle Aged Dating.”

Missed a week? More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

And this, then, is why you haven’t seen a ‘Reality Check’ lately

I’ve been putting this off for a while now, but eventually I’m going to have to bite the bullet and get it over with. So here goes.

Some of you have written asking why my column hasn’t appeared recently in either the print or online editions. The answer is actually pretty personal, but you, dear reader, have stuck with me through the years and I’d be remiss if I didn’t address the issue.

A while back, The Lovely Mrs. Taylor, while remaining lovely, decided – just short of our 15th anniversary – that she no longer wished to be Mrs. Taylor. The details aren’t important; the point is she moved out with the dog, cat, her teacup collection and half the photo albums.

I know, I know; I was surprised as well.

It has taken me some time to come to grips with the situation and I don’t know if I’ll ever be completely “over it.” But I have made up my mind to move on. As any of you who have been through this personally already know, this is easier said than done.

At first there were all the little things I had to get used to. For instance, all household chores now fall to me. Everything from the laundry to the dishes to vacuuming up the spilled seed from beneath the bird cage … if I don’t do it, it don’t get done. The Laundry Fairy has left the building.
Then there’s the empty house; I’m still not used to that. The silence. The way the hours seem to stretch on into forever some days. The list goes on, but it all pretty much reads like a bad country and western song and I have nothing new to add to that gloomy litany.

But the hardest part has come only recently, since I’ve begun “dating” again. Now, I haven’t dated in nearly three decades and I stunk at it even back then. It would be a gross understatement to say that – when it comes to romancing a stranger – I am out of practice.

Since I work in large part from home, I meet very few eligible ladies. Those I do meet are work-related encounters – interviews, photo shoots, and so on. Not exactly a quiet, candlelit dinner with a nice Bordeaux and intimate conversation punctuated by soft violin music.

So I decided to move my search for female companionship into the 21st Century by going online. Yeah, I know there’s a certain stigma about online dating services, but it beats sitting around waiting for Princess Charming to find me.

In the weeks since posting my profile, I’ve met a few nice girls and talked with them via email and over the phone. I’ve even met a couple face to face. So far nothing’s “clicked,” but at least I’m out there giving it a shot.

I’ve got to admit, it still feels weird to me. Real weird. But it’s something to do, and right now, that’s a good thing.

More importantly, it’s given me something to write about. In the weeks ahead, I plan to address the whole middle-aged dating thing in more detail. The topic worked for Carrie Bradshaw in “Sex in the City,” yeah?

So who knows? This could be the start of something wonderful.

As always, I remain hopeful.


Missed a week? More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

Please stop me if you’ve heard this one before

Before my grandfather died I used to love spending Sunday afternoons at the country home he had for 40 years or more shared with my grandma. It was a big old sun-filled place with lots of rooms, odd angles and even a root cellar (which, it was discovered after my grandpa’s passing, was filled with Mason jars stuffed with money! He had been secreting them away down there for decades.)

The reason I visited wasn’t the house, though, or even my grandmother’s Sunday dinners, which were the stuff of legends.

I went for the stories.

As I’ve mentioned in this column before, my grandfather could spin a yarn to make Twain (Mark, not Shania) jealous. It was in his living room that I learned my appreciation for the storyteller’s art.

But even when I was a fairly young man, grandfather was getting old. Like most old men, he tended to forget what stories he had related before, and my visits often involved three or four “re-runs” before he would happen on a new tale, one I’d not heard before.

I didn’t mind; his stories were as good the second, third, or even fourth time around. They held up. My grandmother might have disagreed with this assessment, but that’s just the nature of married life.

When I was young, I never really understood how he could forget that he had just the week before told me all about “The Day the Still Exploded,” or “The Day I Shot an ‘Alligator.’” (He never titled his stories, but in the years since, I have.)

I couldn’t figure out why he couldn’t keep track of what he had said and not said.

I can now.

I’ve been writing this column for nigh on (“nigh on” is what we geezers say when we mean “nearly”) 20 years. That adds up to well over 1,000 columns – as many words as one of Stephen King’s “short” books.

That’s over 1,000 stories, most gleaned from my own life or the lives of those around me.

When I sat down this morning to write this column, I had a topic in mind; a story about the time my son (then 15) swiped the family car to go joy riding in the middle of the night. But as I started hammering out the words, they all seemed somehow too familiar. Had I written this column before? Years ago, maybe?

I just couldn’t remember. I looked through all my old paper files, but couldn’t find it there. Considering the state of my files, that proves nothing. I checked my backup drive, found nothing there either.

It’s a good story, and funny, I think. I’d like to share it with you. Maybe next week. If I remember. Or maybe I’ll tell it to my grandson.


Missed a week? More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.

The world is full of criminals, at least among folks who read this column

A couple weeks ago I wrote about my early attempts to enter into a life of crime. I confessed to several misdemeanors, most committed while I was still a child and had yet to hear about what happens to guys like me in prison.

I was worried some readers might pen angry letters condemning me for my youthful malfeasance; I was instead inundated with confessions, some of which make my own crimes seem fairly petty.

I’d like to share some of those letters with you now. Since I’m a little fuzzy on that whole statute of limitations thing and can’t afford to lose any readers to the penal system, I’ll be using pseudonyms rather than the letter-writers’ real names. Don’t worry folks, I won’t rat you out to the coppers.

One of my favorite stories came from online reader “Francine,” who, as a 15-year-old girl swiped an unmentionable (I tried to get her to mention it, but she wouldn’t) undergarment while her friend and accomplice purchased an identical item. The next day, Francine returned the stolen frou-frou for cash, using her friend’s receipt.

Unfortunately, her accomplice’s mother discovered the purchased undergarment and demanded the girl take it back. (I don’t know what this undergarment was, but it must have been racy indeed to get all these moms in such an uproar.)

Having no receipt, the accomplice was forced to implicate Francine. A brief phone conversation between mothers landed Francine and her ill-gotten booty (by which I mean “cash” – just because we’re talking underwear here doesn’t mean this column is suddenly rated R) back at the lingerie store.

The store couldn’t accept the money, however, because the stolen item had been returned with a valid receipt. It would, they said, mess up their inventory.

Francine didn’t say whether her mother let her keep the loot, but my guess would be no.

Then there’s “Waldo,” who sent me a letter in which he confessed to stealing his father’s car in the middle of the night on his 15th birthday, crashing it into a tree, then walking home and climbing back into bed, bruised but otherwise unharmed.

Waldo’s old man died two years ago at the age of 87 having never heard his son’s confession. According to Waldo – now in his 60’s – his letter to me was the first time he’d mentioned the incident to anyone. The guilt had been haunting him for decades. If I were a priest I’d grant absolution.

Several readers confessed to swiping CDs – older readers swiped LPs or cassettes. Nowadays, music swiping is handled mostly online, I think, but apparently, the practice has been popular since Edison invented the phonograph.

Finally, one reader called me out on one of my own crimes – the comic book I confessed to stealing from Reagan’s Pharmacy on Michigan Street when I was in fourth grade.

Tommy (I’m using his real name, since unlike the rest of us, he’s not a crook) married one of Mr. Reagan’s granddaughters. Tommy pointed out that the revenue lost from that stolen comic book, along with regularly compounded interest, was money lost from his wife’s inheritance. The amount I now owe him will put his daughter through college, he says.

I’m not sure what collection methods Tommy plans to use, but I’ve started locking my doors at night.

It’s true folks, crime doesn’t pay.


Missed a week? More “Reality Check” online at http://mtrealitycheck.blogspot.com or www.milive.com. E-mail Mike Taylor at mtaylor325@gmail.com.