Rogues Gallery

I text Priscilla.

I take a snap shot of the men I have been matched to and place a series of question marks under the six photos in the text.The smorgasbord is hilarious.

There is the anonymous blue head profile pic of Joseph who was not only too lazy to upload a single photo, he was also too lazy to put his city and state in the required fields. He put his zip code instead. I suppose I am just too lazy to look up a list of zip codes to see if Joseph becomes more appealing at all. The odds are stacked against him. I doubt the zip code is that of an exclusive neighborhood. It is probably one of those neighborhoods hoping for a Renaissance.

There is the Richardd. Yes, two Ds. Dumb and dumber. No thank you.

There is Steven who hails from Craig's neck of the woods. Like I need another long distance date and the possibility of running into my other away game player on said date.

There is Peter who is pictured in each of his 10 photos in a wife beater and black elastic waistband workout pants and sneakers. No explanation necessary.

There is Alex, smiling away on his boat, holding a halibut, his gold tooth and bald head glistening in the sun. The boat and the fish are the best parts of the photo.

And Mark, who looks like a rare book collector, posts his height at 5'7" (my height), looks like the sun hasn't warmed his skin in decades, claims to drink alcohol only on special occasions (isn't every day special?) and lists his mother as the biggest influence in his life. I don't even need to open the profile.

Priscilla responds with an OMG and and LOL. But tells me to hang in there. It is admittedly hit or miss, but if I keep honing my profile, the matches will get better. Let the matches roll in.

But I scroll down a little and there is someone interesting.

Jack. Jack who is pictured in front of an old time beer truck with a pint in his hand and wearing a cool shirt and baseball hat. He looks like he's fit. His eyes are pretty. He has a very cute smile. One that looks like it doesn't have to be forced to his face. Good start.

I rifle through the pictures. One in a tux at an event. One of him cooking in what seems to be a pretty decently appointed kitchen. One of him in a retro-looking chair holding a glass of red wine. One of him in Sonoma, and one in Paris. Another of him on a motorcycle and another still of him in his "place at the shore."

I decide to read the rest of the profile.

Jack and I both like to travel to the same kinds of places. He is not a couch potato. He is in the pharmaceutical industry. He has a Masters Degree.

Good, good, good and good.

He likes the same kinds of movies I do, and likes dogs (no mention of cats, but I like dogs, too). He can't live without coffee (I am amazed anyone can) and would rather be out doing something fun than sitting at home having a quiet dinner. He likes a woman who stays healthy and fit but is not going to be afraid to eat a bowl of ice cream once in a while.

I like his writing style. He sounds like he is sort of laughing when he's writing. The humor comes through. He sounds sincere without being serious and maudlin or sappy. He is not trying too hard.

I am not sure what I'm doing but I want to get to know him. I think. I don't know. I don't know anything.

There is a little icon at the bottom that looks like a smiley face. I press it with my thumb and it grays out.

I have no idea what I've just done but have to believe that a smiley icon would not lead me down the road to ruin.

I'll let Mick and Terry be the judges of that.