The Dead Zone (CMT Part Two)

Here I am, I've hit rock bottom in the dating game. I am filling out a profile for an internet dating website.

"Question #5: What is your favorite color?"

If I answer wrong will I be thrown off a bridge? Too bad I'm not watching Monty Python. It might be a better use of my time. Speaking of, I wonder if John Cleese is available. He's British. He's funny. And I'm just going to pretend he isn't old enough to be my grandfather. I bet we'd have a fantastic time together. I bet John Cleese doesn't need internet dating.

John, my favorite color is lilac, I love short walks on the beach, and I yearn for you tragically. Take me now.

There. Case closed. Me and John Cleese live happily ever after. For the entire two years left of his life.

Okay, okay. I am just finding this very difficult to take seriously knowing it's going to fail. I've heard stories. Bad ones. Then again, I've heard bad regular dating stories too. I need to remind myself why I'm doing this in the first place, to get myself in a positive mindset for creating a profile.

May I present exhibit number one. Derek.

I met Derek at a party. Or rather, Derek met me. I wasn't my vibrant and witty self that night and ended up standing in a corner alone, sipping my fourth vodka with a splash of orange juice, when Derek saved me from my heated debate with the empty Doritos bowl. He talked and talked. And I laughed, occasionally said something incoherent, and laughed some more. Next thing I know, he's picking me up for dinner. Sober, with no Doritos as distraction, I realized all the guy did was talk. And talk. And TALK. Not only could I not get but a word in here and there, Derek was under the impression I was interested in dairy cows.

Something you should know about me is that I'm a kidder. Why ruin a good story with the truth, eh? But when I say Derek spent thirty minutes describing the inner workings of life on a dairy farm, I am not joking. I humored him for about ten of those precious wasted minutes. I got bored around fifteen and started breaking knots I'd tied in my straw wrapper and imagined all the people I'd rather have thinking of me than my present company. After seventeen I had acquiesced to the idea that he would never stop and decided to see just. How. Long. HE'D. GO.... It was as if he had left the farm for the first time in his life and I was the first encountered life form that could not be milked.

Maybe I should have another go at those questions.

"Question #47: What is more important to you in a mate? Good hygiene, financial stability, sense of humor, or spontaneity?"

I have to choose? But I want all of those. Especially teeth. I suppose it'll be sense of humor. If he can't make me laugh, I don't care how pearly his whites are.

Exhibit number two. Pete.

Pete was Janet's new roommate. Her third roommate since her divorce - she kept having to relocate to hide from Evan, who had taken up a serious career in stalking. Pete on the other hand seemed to be a nice enough guy. I had met him a few times before Janet informed me he had been asking about me. It was in that moment that Janet had the brilliant idea of setting us up.

One night, Janet cooked dinner for the three of us. We were all sitting indian-style about the coffee table, when I started telling a joke, in hopes of steering the evening away from the inappropriate topic of the failure of Janet's marriage....

"So a whale swims into an underwater bar, right, and the bartender asks, 'What'll it be, guy?' and the whale says 'OOOOOOOooooooooooAAAAAAAAAA
uuuuuuUUUUUUUUUUUUUiiiiiiiiiiIIIIIIIII'..."

Just after I paused for an exaggerated breath before resuming my whale moaning, Janet busted up laughing, thus launching a substantial bite of chicken panang she had been chewing in a projectile path at Pete's face. Not only was Pete not amused by my hilarious whale joke, he was so repulsed by Janet's masticated food hanging from his face, he stormed away from the table in a huff, muttering under his breath as he picked rice grains off his face. He went straight into his room, slammed the door, and was not seen for the rest of the evening. Clearly, Pete and I were not reading the same funny pages.

"Question #206: Describe, in 200 words or less, your perfect mate."

How about three: Not this guy.

Exhibit number three. Shawn.

Shawn was a friend of a friend of a friend whom I honestly thought could be the mythical 'one'. For three months we had a fantastic time hanging out. He had the same personality, same sense of humor, same taste in music as me. Then it dawned on me as I was finally about to lean in to kiss him after one particularly entertaining dinner date, perhaps we also had the same taste in men. Because no matter how many obvious signals I tossed his way, he was utterly impervious. He would however make random Golden Girls references. I had polled the last of my friends, all unanimously agreeing Shawn was gay, when I got a call from him. "Hey, I was wondering if you wanted to go to a concert this Friday... with me and my girlfriend." I told him I had plans. For the next two years. John Cleese wasn't getting any younger.

Man, I do need help. Here am I, Cassandra Maxine Twitty, admitting that I need help. Okay, Online Dating, I'm taking a chance on you. I am whole-heartedly surrendering to your whoring potentials. Do me good. I'm pressing the "submit profile" button now....

"Meet-a-Mate found no matches within the 100-mile area you specified."

WHAT?!? After spending three hours answering questions about nearly everything short of when I was potty trained and how often I pick my nose, I get nothing?! Oh cruel, cruel world, how you mock me!