Answer the following.

On-line dating is:

a) Pathetic. Girls who have to troll around on the Web looking for dates should just stick to what they know: girdles and Jane Austen. My new boyfriend, M. and I were just talking the other day about how sad it is that some women turn to the internet because they're so desperate and lonely. I wish I knew where those poor, desperate women lived so I could bring them a basket of warm muffins. I don't eat carbs, but I'm sure they do. ANYway, thank goodness I've never had to on-line date. But, then again, why would I? I mean, my thighs don't touch and I have such shiny, shiny hair.

b) Really fun. I have met a ton of nice, laid-back guys who live life to its fullest and love to cook and travel. These great guys take care of themselves mentally and physically. It's so fun to have someone to explore the city with. I've never known so many people who share my interests, which include, but are not limited to: rock-climbing, snowboarding, and appreciating the small things. Like...um...those cute tiny poodles. Oh, and that one actor who's really small. Oh. You know. Oh...um. Oh! *bounces up and down* Elijah Wood.

c) Invented and maintained by the same great minds that brought us Pepsi Blue, a fusion of berries with a splash of cola. Making it actually blue was the real genius move there, Guys. Way to leave your mark.

So, that was a fun little quiz, Yes?

To those of you who chose "Answer A": M will cheat on you like he cheated on me, Bitch. Skinny whore. Your muffins suck.

To everyone else, Nice work. You "Answer B" Gals will get what's coming to you any day now, and you "Answer C" Folk are well on your way to ending up bitter and alone. So. Great! Let's move on.

What on-line dating did for me was lower my expectations.

A date is now considered a success if the man does not bring along pictures of a car accident victim who he's about to perform surgery on . It's that simple. No dead or mutilated bodies = LOVE. If only I had started on-line dating in middle school I would've figured this out, found true love, gotten married, gotten divorced, moved to the French countryside, grown long hair that I would wear only in chignons, and learned to ride horses...by now.

Too bad.

Back to the present.

So, I joined an on-line dating site as the result of a cruel urban myth.

Having attended an all-women's college and studied voice at a conservatory, I have two basic friend groups. Women. Gay men. All the women I know only know other women, so our lives are just one big festival of heading to the ladies room together at restaurants and endlessly buying shoes, shoes, shoes. Really my girlfriends and I do neither of these things, but a gal's got to keep a few things private now, doesn't she? ***

All the gay men I know just want to talk about the other gay men they know, and who's a Top and who's a Bottom.

Thus, when I dumped M (Bottom) and began scraping my heart off the pavement after The M Fiasco, I realized the following Great Truth : I needed a way to meet men who would want to touch my boobs. And I needed it fast.

The Answer?

Well, here's the urban myth part. Everyone has a friend or a neighbor whose piano teacher's cat-sitter met a guy on "Connect.com" who she fell in love with and married. Even my mother was OK with me dating strange men I met online because a doctor who works with her at the hospital had a friend whose mother-in-law's cleaning-lady cleaned the apartment of a woman who met a guy on "Connect.com" who she (say it with me) fell in love with and married. Uh-huh.

So,*clapping vigorously* it must work.

Right.

Well, I'm afraid I have some bad news. All of those couples who met and fell in love while online dating are dead now. Most of the guys ate Pop-Rocks and then drank soda, accidentally causing their stomachs to explode. The women--who were grieving and lost without their men--stopped washing their hair, which gave spiders time to nest in their beehives, chew through their skulls (spider teeth are a bitch) and eat their brains. We grieve for their loss.

We members of the on-line dating community who still remain--we who, with each new failed attempt at finding love on-line, rediscover the acrid taste of loneliness--will now share with you a more realistic account of what an on-line date is like:

THIS REALLY HAPPENED. Mostly.

Me: "Hey, T. It's so nice to meet you."

T: "Likewise. I'm glad you found the restaurant alright."

Me (who, when I got to this restaurant blanched and almost fainted because it's actually located in the building where M works. The irony is, like, tangible here, yes?): "Yep. Found it."

T, who is a plastic surgeon, orders a drink and looks at me knowingly, reaching into his coat pocket.

It should be noted that he has now known me for around forty-seven seconds.

T: "I've got a really tough surgery coming up in the morning."

He casually throws six or seven photos down on the bar.

Me (innocently picking up the photos, touched that T brought along pictures of his family and pets so early in our acquaintance): "Nice. What are th--"

In my hands I hold not one, but seven pictures of a woman
whose
brain
I
can
see.

She is what the French might call, Nose-less.

(Dear Lord, thank you for my nose. I love it. I love its small bump. I love its nostrils. I love that it tells me when I'm about to have a yummy treat. Noses are a mighty blessing, and we are all truly thankful.)

First I'm speechless. That passes quickly. Obviously.

Then I'm suddenly really pleased with myself. Ohhhh. Right. I know what's happening here, I think slyly. I'm being Punked right? Ashton, you nut. Get out here.

Ashton doesn't show.

As I continue to stare dumbly at the photos this man has brought--to our date--of a newly disfigured woman whose life changed horribly two days prior when she was hit by a car, I get more and more...well. Sad. My vision begins to blur.

At that moment T, studying my nose intently, offers, "You know, I gave my last girlfriend a great discount on a rhinoplasty."

That's IT

My anger is so fierce that my body temperature begins to rise at an abnormally high rate, which in turn causes a freakish reaction to occur between the chemicals in my Mario Badescu Seaweed Body Lotion and my OPI Nailpolish (Blushingham Palace, a shade from The British Collection. It's a sweet, dusty pink that's royally pretty)

I begin to grow and grow and grow. Luckily my outfit grows with me, so I'm not just a really, really big naked girl standing in the middle of a restaurant. No way. I am a really, really big girl in a really, really big, awesome outfit standing in the middle of a restaurant. Obviously, I'm still totally gorgeous, just on a larger scale.

And I am fucking pissed.

"Listen," I bellow, staring down at my now-puny companion, "You're an asshole. You bring in these pictures of a patient who's just undergone a horrible tragedy--a patient who trusts you--so that you can show off? Perhaps you're hoping to highlight the fact that you're a plastic surgeon and you know a lot about anatomy, and you're well educated and powerful, blah, blah, blah. Well I know a lot about anatomy too, Cocksucker, because it was my favorite class in high school. And you make me feel sick right in my duodenum. You make me and my metatarsals and my phalanges and, hell, even my hyoid bone, absolutely fucking sick. So, since I just happened to grow really really really big right now at the absolute perfect time, I'm gonna do the world a favor."

And I squish him.

Then I lumber away to find M and his new girlfriend and squish them too.

Later, as I am galumphing (sexily) down the street in my huge, awesome shoes, thoroughly satisfied by a full day of squishing, I am momentarily stricken by the following thought:

I am now so big that there is no one in the world big enough to date me.

For a brief moment, I get really sad.

But then, far below me I hear this girl talking to her friend about the new, wonderful man she met on Connect.com. (Since her thighs touch, I don't squish her). I bend down to listen to this girl talk about Mr. Wonderful On-Line Dating Man, and...as I do...I notice a spider silently burrowing his way into her beehive.

The eight-legged little guy flashes me a toothy grin just before he disappears into her hair.

Yes,I chuckle to myself, Being single is awesome.



***Coming soon: The gym apparatus that makes me come.