The ‘X-factor’ easy to spot in online dating

In the months since I’ve been “re-singled” I’ve learned a lot about dating, romance, and the bizarre dichotomy that rules the online singles scene – that gulf between reality and perception. People, especially newly-single people, rarely see themselves or their dates in a clear, unadulterated light. Everything either hums and glows with promise or pales behind the gray curtain of recent sad experience.

Navigation within the world of online profiles requires more translating skill than could be provided by the Rosetta Stone, Urim and Thummim, and the Berlitz people combined. It’s a labyrinthine landscape of half-truths, misperceptions and outright lies.

There are areas, however, that can be easily understood, even by fools like me. The most notable of these is the section – included at most dating sites – where the member lists the traits he or she would like to see in a potential suitor. It is here that the B-factor (“B” being “bitterness”) floats to the surface for all to see.

The B-factor can tell you everything you’d ever want to know – and lots you would not – about an individual’s former relationship.

For instance, a high B-factor woman’s profile might read as follows:

Loving, caring woman with a great sense of humor seeks man who knows how to do something – anything – besides sit on his fat butt all day watching ESPN. I need a man who won’t forget our anniversary and will bring me flowers even when he hasn’t spent the whole night out at some two-bit dive with “the boys.” If your mother is dead, that’s a big plus!

A high B-factor man’s profile might look like this:

Look, I got a job, a car and most of my teeth – what’s a guy got to do to hook up around here? Looking for a woman who enjoys fishing, hunting and thinks a fun Saturday afternoon consists of helping me detail my 1964 Mustang. I want a woman who enjoys quiet nights at home, cooking and cleaning; someone who hates to spend money on stupid things like shoes when she already has a closet full of ‘em, for crying out loud! If your mother is dead or living in another country (preferably one that will never grant her an exit visa) that’s a big plus!

You read enough of these profiles and it gets real easy to spot the B-factor folks. Then there are the H-factor singles; those who have been (H)urt big time by their former mates. Their self-esteem and confidence is at an all time low.

They sound like this: There must be someone out there for me somewhere, right? Looking for someone with a kind heart, sweet disposition and great morals that would never, ever, ever break my heart. Must be able to provide three references from previous lovers stating that you didn’t break their hearts, either.

The X-factor (“X” being the last letter of the word “seX”) folks have a hard time hiding their true intentions, though they do try.

Their profiles read like this: Great-looking guy seeks beautiful, thin, well-proportioned woman for long walks on the beach, maybe that stretch of beach near my house – you know, the one down there by the motel? Yeah, the beach is especially beautiful there on a moonlit night. Ability to commit to long-term relationship not particularly important.

I don’t mean to denigrate the online dating scene here, folks, really. Despite everything, it’s worked out pretty well for me so far. Why? Because there are a handful of SPWNEDI-factor people out there. Those Single People With No Especially Debilitating Issues.

They’re rare, but they are out there. And they make it worth the effort of sorting through the X’s, H’s, and B’s.

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

Spotting ‘types’ at the public library isn’t too tough

I spend a lot of time at the library down the street. It’s a nice facility, completed this past spring.

They let me work there all day, no questions asked. I used to work from home, back when I had a dog, cat and occasional person to look after. These days I’m on my own, and the house seems big and empty.

I’m not feeling sorry for myself here, really. I’ve gotten used to having the place to myself; it’s not so bad. But it does get a bit boring having nobody to talk with but the finch. Finches are notoriously dull conversationalists.

So I hang at the library.

Being there so much, I’ve started to develop a skill generally seen only in librarians: I can tell what sort of book a person is going to pick out just by looking at them. It’s true!

There are a few “types” anyone could figure out. The fat guy wearing a Batman T-shirt, Bermuda shorts and flip-flops; you just know he’ll head straight for the science fiction section. Likewise, the mousy, middle-aged woman dressed like a Mennonite will covertly browse the Harlequin romances for a while before picking out something featuring a bare-chested Fabio type on the jacket.

Like I said, those types are easy. Not all are. Teenage girls, for example, fall into several sub-types. There are the athletic girls, who check out biographies of other athletic girls. Teen hotties beeline for the magazine room, where they peruse recent issues of “Cosmo” or “Sassy,” depending on age. And Goth teens (there are still some of ‘em out there!) skulk up and down the stacks looking for anything from Anne Rice or whichever author has penned the latest popular vampire tome.

Teenage boys fall into similar sub-types.

Little old ladies are fond of mysteries, especially serials featuring a female protagonist. They regularly ask the librarian to suggest a book and are therefore favored by the women who work behind the counter. Librarians are just like the rest of us – they’re dying to share their opinions with someone willing to listen.

Little old men go in for historical epics. Wars, from Civil to Desert Storm, are popular fare with guys 65 and up. Biographies of Winston Churchill and Roosevelt are always on the library’s waiting list.

Guys wearing ties get books on either business or religion. Men in Carharts frequent the “how to” aisle. Ladies with reading glasses hanging around their necks on little gold chains go in for true-life stories about women who have overcome a) drug addiction, b) alcoholism, c) abusive parents, d) depression, or e) missed episodes of “Oprah.”

Young kids are the only “type” impossible to predict. They’re happy with pretty much anything. Every book is a wonder to them and they’re years away from falling into anything resembling a reading rut.

It’s hard not to envy them as they tear through the shelves, poring over novels, poetry, biographies, comics. Children are the only truly omnivorous readers.

But maybe it’s not too late for the rest of us to step outside our habits and read something we usually would not. I’ll start the ball rolling.

Let’s see, what’s Oprah recommending this week?

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

It’s never easy leaving the place we love most

I keep trying to tell myself I don’t mind losing my house. Like a lot of Americans in these troubled times, I will soon join the unfortunates who – for whatever reason – are leaving behind the one earthly possession they most treasure.

In my case, the loss of my beloved domicile is the logical extension of The Former Lovely Mrs. Taylor’s departure earlier this year. When she left, she took with her the second income that made continued ownership of our little country estate possible.

In short, I just can’t afford it on my own.

My mother would have heart palpitations if she knew I was discussing (gasp) financial matters in a public forum. But folks, I’m pretty sure I’m not the only one in this predicament.

Whether due to spousal departure, job loss, health issues, or just this rotten economy in general, thousands of people across the country lose their homes every week.

Not that I’m actually “losing” mine, at least not yet. But I am putting it up for sale. The odds of it selling before I’m forced to strike some sort of unhappy bargain with the bank are not good, however.

The bank, I should point out, has been great to work with on this, and no, that comment’s not intended as irony or cynicism. They don’t want to see me lose my home any more than I want to lose it. But they are in the business of making home loans, not “home gifts.”

Anyway, I’m calling the Realtor tomorrow and listing the place. It’s going to be tough, in large part because it’s the only home I’ve ever lived in for more than a few years in a row.

As a kid, my family moved so often it would have made more sense for us to reside in a covered wagon with cabalistic symbols painted on the sides. My dad could have sold snake oil while mom played the tambourine. We were like a military family without the military.

The practice of regular relocations followed me into adulthood. I’m not sure why. I think by then I was simply used to the idea of moving every couple years.

When The Former Mrs. T and I moved to our little house in the country, I reveled in the fact it was the last move I would ever have to make. For the first time in my life, I would put down roots and really be part of a community.

But life, apparently, has other plans for me.

The house – once upon a time “our” house – and all the dreams that went with it, will soon belong to someone else. I’m trying to not whimper like a wet kitten here, but it ain’t easy.

I wonder; will the home’s new owner know how many times I had to cut the molding in the upstairs bathroom before it matched up properly? Will he or she like the colors The Former Mrs. T chose for the living and dining rooms before she lit out for parts unknown? Will the home’s new occupant appreciate the dozens of trips we made to nearby farmers’ fields to “pick rocks” with which to landscape the back yard?

The answer, of course, is no.

All these things will be no more than memories. Eventually, even the memories will fade.

Life, we’re told, is defined by change. In every important way, life is change.

Just this once, I wish it wasn’t.

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

Is there anything but socks that a modern cell phone can’t do?

I broke down and picked out a new cell phone the other day. My contract was up and in order to keep me locked in like a 1950s housewife, the phone company offered to give me a way cool phone at a low, low price (after mail-in rebate, of course).

The phone is one of those touch-screen jobs, with only a couple “real” buttons on it. Lacking the usual bevy of buttons, the phone looks deceptively simple to operate. I like simple.

The girls at the phone store, Kimmi and Monique, both use the same model and raved about it at length.

“It can do anything,” Monique enthused.

“You can go on the Internet, get your email, and even watch TV!” Kimmi said.

“It will do everything but wash your socks!” Monique added.

“Do you have one that will wash my socks?” I asked. Since the departure of the Former Lovely Mrs. Taylor I’ve discovered that laundry is not as much fun as it at first appears. A phone that would wash my socks would be a welcome addition to my collection of consumer electronics.

They do not, it turns out, make a sock-washing phone.

But considering all the other stuff the SUHX-500* can do, I was willing to continue doing my own laundry, at least until I can find a new Mrs. Taylor.

“I’ll take it,” I said.

Monique proceeded to go online to set the phone up with my existing service. Because the SUHX-500 can do so many wonderful things, setting it up took a loooooooong time. I perused other cell phone models, accessories and the dozen or so informational pamphlets lying around the store. My beard grew longer. The sun passed across the sky a few times. Summer turned to autumn, autumn to winter. (In other words, time passed.)

Finally Monique returned with my new phone, all charged up and ready to make my first call, which I tried to do as soon as I got to the truck. Turns out that – because the SUHX-500 can do so many things – I now have to navigate through a series of menus just to get to the on-screen, virtual “dialer,” then I punch in the appropriate ten digits, then press “send,” then press “yes” when my SUHX-500 asks me if I’m sure I want to make a call. I went through the menus. I opened the dialer. I punched in the appropriate ten digit number. I hit send. So, yes you stupid phone, I am sure I want to make the call.

Sorry, I’m ranting.

I grew up in an era when the family phone (there was only one) was leased from Ma Bell (look it up in the history books, junior) and it did one thing – make phone calls. It was heavy, built like a tank, and almost as attractive.

You couldn’t use it to watch TV, surf the Web (which Al Gore had yet to “invent”), or listen to digital music files.

But it never, ever asked if I was sure I wanted to make a call.

Our gizmos and gadgets get smarter every day, while we poor humans remain about the same. I saw those “Terminator” movies; I have a feeling this is all going to end badly.

* Not the phone’s real model number. If they want free advertising here, they can pay me up front and I’ll give them a rebate form good for 10 percent back.

Unrealistic expectations just a natural part of dating scene

Got a letter from a reader the other day who – after reading my last “dating” column – decided to go online and give it a try herself. She was not happy with the results.

In her letter she said, “All the men want beautiful, young girls half their age. An average gal just doesn’t stand a chance.”

She went on to tell me a little more about herself and some of her experiences with online dating. She sounds very nice, and I’m sure she’ll find Mr. Right eventually, even if she does look no further than the grocery store, as she said she intends to do from now on.

In truth, I can’t blame her for giving the online thing a miss. I’ve been investigating the phenomena for a while now and can say she’s absolutely right; men in general have unrealistic expectations, especially those who are newly single after years of married life.

I’m no psychologist or sociologist, but I have a theory as to why frumpy, middle-aged men (not me) think they “deserve” a beautiful, young woman.

The problem, see, is that we men do not, in our own eyes, age. Ever. Every man thinks he’s still the same buff stud-muffin he was on the day of his wedding, even if that wedding was 30 years earlier and he wasn’t all that studly then, either. Moreover, the last time the newly-singled guy dated, “pretty young thangs” in their 20s were still on the menu.

In the newly-singled man’s mind, cute young girls remain his goal, because he honestly doesn’t realize he has changed.

This is frustrating not only for the “average” women out there, but also for the guy. He can’t understand why the 20-something cutie who lists skateboarding and body piercing as among her hobbies won’t answer his emails. She can’t understand why a guy two years older than her father is telling her how much he likes long walks on the beach.

Meanwhile, the perfectly nice 40-something woman looks on and wonders why men are fools. (This is something women have wondered for years, by the way, and is in no way exclusive to the dating scene. The Former Lovely Mrs. Taylor wondered the same thing about me hundreds of times during our years together. Probably still does.)

Fortunately, there is some good news; most guys eventually wise up and discover their true target audience. It’s not that the newly-singled man is “settling,” rather he’s coming to terms with his own, true self; the slightly-pudgy, slightly-balding, slightly-frumpy guy who looks back at him from the mirror each morning. And he’s realizing that, to a slightly more “seasoned” woman, he still looks pretty good.

Um, if it seems I’m writing about myself here, I’m not. Unlike those other guys, I actually do look exactly the same as I did 30 years ago; maybe better. I do, right? Right?

Now if I could only figure out why none of those 20-somethings are responding to my emails.

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

We’re off to see the wizard, and this time I plan to get photos

Had a tornado watch in my county a couple weeks back. As usual, I did the exact opposite of what the keyed up TV weather man was telling me to do – I grabbed my camera and headed out into the open countryside, hoping to grab at least one good “twister” shot. But as has been the case the last hundred or so times I’ve done this, no twister materialized and I came home empty-handed.

I’ve been trying to get a decent photo of a tornado for the past 35 years, but so far, nothin’. I’ve never even seen one, much less caught one on film.

I’ve mentioned here before that I’m a fan of “big weather,” and weather doesn’t get much bigger than a “Wizard of Oz”-sized twister. Over the years, I’ve developed what can only be called an obsession with them. Tornadoes are the white whale to my Captain Ahab.

To make matters worse, tornadoes have repeatedly taunted me with “near misses.”

The first I was too young to remember. I was only an infant and was cowering in the root cellar with my mother and grandmother when a tornado whisked away the house above us. Not a board was left, to hear my grandma tell it.

The next hit nine years later, on a Palm Sunday I’m sure a lot of West Michigan folks still remember. Tornadoes were touching down all around us, but I was a kid and my folks – who remembered all too well the root cellar incident – wouldn’t allow me to leave the basement.

But my most memorable close encounter of the windy kind occurred nearly ten years later, while I was hitch-hiking from Detroit to Missouri. I had been on the road a couple days and had made it only as far as Illinois.

My last ride had dropped me off in a tiny, rural town; a one-stoplight burg boasting a bar, two churches, a mom & pop diner, and three-dozen indifferently maintained homes perched along a two-lane blacktop. It was getting on toward dusk and the odds of finding a quick lift out of Mayberry were not good.

The sky was overcast, and rather than hitch after dark, I opted to make camp in a fallow field just south of town. I hiked back from the road and erected my little “bug” tent near some abandoned railroad tracks.

Snuggled into my sleeping bag, I nodded off two minutes after zipping in for the night. Some time later, I woke to the sound of heavy rain blatting against the tent’s Nylon exterior. There’s nothing cozier than sleeping through a thunderstorm in a good tent that doesn’t leak; I was asleep again in minutes.

Still later I was awakened by the sound of a train passing, a big one, from the sound of it. The tracks weren’t abandoned after all, it seemed. The walls of my tent bellowed violently in and out. The train passed and I again dozed.

Sunlight dappled the roof of my tent the next morning. I crawled loose of my sleeping bag and unzipped the tent. There, not three feet from the entrance, was a cow. A dead cow; on its back, with all four hooves pointing toward the flawless, blue sky.

It took a moment to process the scene. Extricating myself from the tent, I saw the field was littered with debris – branches, auto parts, torn and dirty clothing. The ground itself looked as if it had been ripped up in places, one of those places not ten feet from my tent.

Back in town, over a coffee at the mom & pop diner, I learned a tornado had swept through the night before. No one killed; thank Heaven, but lots of property damage.

A twister had missed me by ten feet, a flying cow by three. The next time that happens, I’m getting a picture.

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

I’m looking forward to being the next Doctor Ruth

I think I’ve missed my calling. Being a writer is great, don’t get me wrong, but the big money is in being a phony “expert.” At least I’m hoping that’s where the big money is, since I seem to be headed in that direction, vocationally.

It all started a couple months ago, when I wrote my first column detailing my recent marital breakup with the Former Lovely Mrs. Taylor, and my subsequent adventures as a newly-single guy.

The first reader letters were consolatory; folks who wanted to share their regret over the split. These I deeply appreciated. It took a couple weeks for the requests for advice to start coming in.

Some readers wanted to know what online dating service I was using. Others inquired after the name of my divorce attorney and wondered if he was any good. Still others were curious as to what sort of girls I had found online and if any were “keepers.”

But in the past couple weeks, the letters have turned increasingly personal and – in at least one case – bizarre.

In recent weeks, readers have written asking how long it took me to get completely over the split. Answer: I’ll let you know when it happens.

One letter writer was curious as to what sort of woman a newly-singled guy is interested in. Answer: One that will say “yes” when I ask her out.

Just yesterday I received an email from a guy who wanted “Bernice’s” phone number. Bernice, you may recall from a couple weeks back, was one of my first “dates.” She was also an amalgam, made up of three unhappy dates I went on a while back, by which I mean she was “based on a true story.” In short: there is no Bernice. And buddy, why you would want to go out with her if there was is beyond me.

The point is I’ve been getting all kinds of requests for advice on love and the single life. I’m not sure why, since most of the people asking for it have been single a lot longer than me and should therefore know more about it.

But since they’re asking, the least I can do is answer to the best of my ability and pray nobody sues me for malpractice. I don’t want to be a real therapist, of course; that takes schooling, wisdom, dedication, and a bunch of other stuff I have in only the most limited of supplies. Then there’s that pesky degree, which I also don’t have.

But I think I could be a television therapist, or maybe radio; anything where people call in with their problems and some quack gives them bad advice about how to conduct their lives. I’ve been thinking hard about this, and I think I’d be at least as good at it as Doctor Ruth (who, I’ve heard, isn’t a real doctor, either). In fact, if I have to, I could probably hobble together a fairly convincing German accent.

I’d don a pair of reading glasses, dress in a big, friendly sweater and dispense wisdom as if I actually knew what I was talking about. My book, “Doctor Mike’s Guide to Sex” would be a best seller, because it has the word “sex” in it.

I would be rich, and since girls dig rich guys, I would soon have my own romantic problems solved. It’s a win-win situation. Well, except for the people who buy my book. They would have more problems than ever.

Sorry folks, no plan is perfect.

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