Nursing stuff later this week. For now, *sigh*.

That Guy I'm Dating is now That Guy I Was Dating.

Because, after six weeks, he still hadn't figured out whether or not he liked me. I mean, really? All the signs were there, dude: You brought me an LED mod for my mini-Maglite, you wanted to hang out whenever, all that other stuff, and you weren't sure whether. . .you. . .liked. . .me?

Getting upset over this would be like getting upset because I can't communicate with somebody who speaks only Russian. Abilene Rob, being the sort of stand-up guy he is, and a very good friend besides, was exasperated on my behalf. I think he said something like, "He had your boobs right there and he didn't know what to do with them? What kind of idiot is he?"

Ah, Rob. Always there to pick up a girl's self-esteem.

Anyway, this has led to my re-reading the profiles of those poor fools deluded enough to check me out on A Famous Online Dating Site. From my perusal, I have determined the following:

1. Every man in Central Texas describes himself as laid-back. This explains the droves of horizontal men lining the streets.

2. Few men in Central Texas can spell, punctuate, or put together a sentence. There were at least half-a-dozen guys whose profiles left me all, "What? What?"

3. If a man is six-three and three hundred pounds with a bad goatee, he wants somebody at least ten years younger with a slim or athletic build.

4. I am too old for forty-one-year-old men. (Yes, one of them actually *told* me this after I'd emailed him, my rockin' profile notwithstanding.)

5. Every guy around here is looking for a mother for his children. Most also have few to no teeth, and one in six admits freely that his mother thinks he's gay and that he's looking to change that.

I could have the problems Stoya has, though: Within 24 hours of getting an account on A Famous Online Dating Site, she had over fourteen hundred "winks." That's one thousand four hundred, or a one followed by a four and two zeros. There is such a thing as having too many choices. Stoya is about to just pull the plug and spend the rest of her life in her apartment, cowering under the bed.

I, on the other hand, would like to dissect That Guy I Was Dating, and find out what he uses in place of a brain.

Please, nobody suggest I start dating musicians. This place is as full of musicians as a fleabag hotel is of fleas, and you know the old joke: What do you call a musician without a girlfriend?


See? I have a sense of humor! Call me!