Alright already, Cupid

If you are a male and would like to get acquainted, do not pose holding a dead fish in the back of your boat with a can of Coors in the foreground unless you are hoping to snag someone who needs a green card.  Likewise backwards baseball caps, sunglasses, or No Apparent Shirt On.  Using the term "porno" in your name tag is disconcerting, as is "steaknsex", "lonewolf" "clawhammer" or, uh, "deepstrokes".  Jesus. There are places to get that sort of thing taken care of, and it won't be at the coffee shop where I'm at; in fact, it won't be within a 5 mile radius of where I'm at; in further fact, I am armed at all times with an IQ ten times higher than the amount you paid for that photo mosaic of the Enterprise made up of tiny pictures from Season 6.  That you are standing in front of.  I can't imagine.

I don't mean to sound naive or high-falutin', but there are signals that women watch out for; and yes, there are those who are trolling for encounters and frankly have their own site over at the browser whose last syllable rhymes with "zoo".  Ungulates, carnivores, and lampreys may be found as determined by personal criteria, and if you are both happy with that, bless your hearts and enjoy the conversation.  Over there.  Waaay over there.  At least you are being honest.  Am I judging?  I guess so.  Yes.

Because: I have been out on enough of these meetings to have learned to make sure someone at home knows where I am and with who, expects me to return by a certain hour, will call and check in to see how things are going.  The most harmless appearances can be camouflage, physical looks are less important than what you are doing with them when you take that selfie to post.  Staring at a focal point off camera with eyelids not touching your pupils.  Looking worried.  Looking up, as if you are watching the squirrels get their net ready.  Mouth open, but not in a smile.  Both eyebrows raised like I just pulled your toy poodle into the pit.  Cut it out.

There are those whose family has taken their photo, surrounded by relatives in a probably normal backyard or finished basement.  Please don't be kissing the dog, holding a baby, a stuffed toy, or a rifle.  You might like to foster trust, so sure, put personality in there, but keep some limits.  In the third row down is a picture of a nice looking fellow in glasses at a patio table, sitting behind a decorative terrarium jar.  The plants inside are slamming healthy and green; this man is working the floral vibe and caps that off with a piece of polished driftwood also on the table.  So, what's the problem, you ask; well for starters, look at his hand, the left one, the one with the pale emblem of a missing ring on his I'm Married finger.

My cousin found a lovely woman who is a professor, and I could name four other couples who successfully found each other online.  Last summer, I met someone who was a computer (plus) guy who edited (plus) the local cultural newspaper (plus) and had just written an article concerning union law (okay).  The waiters at the mom and pop restaurant became alarmed when Mr. For the People began yelling expletives and slapping his upper arm while raising a fist to agree with himself that corporations should get it up the bottom for effing with unions.  Effing bastards.  I HATE THOSE GODDAM EFFERS.

Whoa, thought I, since when do Sys Admin have discernible blood pressure?  What the hell was in this man's morning chai?  I smiled, had another sip of my Vernor's, and pretended I suddenly didn't speak English that well.  Do svidaniya.  Eto ne rabotayet. U menya yest' ovets, kak pravilo.  He later messaged me that he had a wonderful time; I messaged the dating service that to get my name the hell off their list would be enchanting, even though it gave opportunity to practice fake Russian.

Another candidate, Mr. Fencing Guy, had the patience of boa constrictor waiting for a bird to hop closer on a branch.  Not my usual type, but I thought maybe I was missing something through pickiness.  Too darn tall.  Blue eyes.  Wouldn't have considered him except for sort of an acquaintance, as I was taking fencing classes where he worked as well, and there he was, online.  Picnic in the park, Fourth of July?  Sure, good with me as my girlfriend has your license plate number and physical description and knows where you live.

Chatty and cordial, a small flag went up when I opened the car door myself and he nipped that HE gets the door for his date, what did I think he was, an uncaring slob?  Whut-oh.  He sulked, didn't talk; we got to the park and he relaxed a bit after downing a fried dough and the fireworks began.  Told me about the time his aunt took him to the circus as a small boy, and the Percherons, the immense, spotted grey horses known for staying calm amid clamor, circled the ring.  He continued to relate numerous observations, yapping away, and honest to god, I can't tell you.  Can't.  Won't.  But it ended the date on a very weird note, and I switched fencing clubs.  It was becoming tiring, this escaping.

So throughout college and raising Bri, I decided that even though I wanted an adult life, juggling paperwork and job work required attention and so the social life went on the backburner with a few here and theres, a couple of incidental relationships, and one older professor who was adorable but received a grant to go to Papua New Guinea.  He wrote about the tribe he was with, and was sick to death of roast cockatoo.

Buffalo is fast becoming a city of younger people, which is wonderful for its rejuvenation, but I recently and often have gotten invitations to move to the Boston, Massachusetts area by a very dear friend.  Oh, I would be near the ocean, and in other light, newer scenery, whether woods or subway-lined city blocks.  It's a thought, twiddling around in the brain, and plans and formal papers are being filled out to allow movement, perhaps even to Florida.

Lights on the tops of buildings have come on, the Saturday sun has set; tomorrow, a guest from out of town will be here for the night and preparations are to be made.  Wind your way home after the day's adventures, see what's in the fridge; the snows are here again, muffling the world with soft cotton blankets and lining the pine trees with sparkling white.  Write a story, you're good at it; make a note to remind you of something; draw up a list of ideas, of plans, groceries, of anything.  See what comes out, you may be writing to your own self of desires and wishes, the sort that bubble up through the waters of memory and realization.  Someone will be there, with a last light on, waiting to read.