Tall, leggy redhead new to Chicago seeks men of wit, wisdom and warmth.  Former academic bored with paradigm shifts, interested in passionate gifts.  I hate mimes, I am devoted to the SaturdayTimes puzzle, and (just between you and I) react strongly to poor grammar. I’m very particular about thread count, and I’m drawn to hopeful men who remind me of my favorite martini—straight up, with a twist and a little dirty.

 I carefully crafted the ad to weed out the goofy romantics who wanted a companion for a long walk in front a fireplace, the overgrown fratboys who believe that showing off the air bladder in their Mercedes will get them laid, and MIMES.

I had the ad hooked to my fishin’ pole, but where to cast it?  I wasn’t interested in quantity; I wanted quality goods: a lover who was more maestro than mechanic. Specifically, I was looking for a grown up who understood and adored women and who could bring his best game to post-coital conversation. 

Sex with me is not a refresher course for taking the SAT—two or three word directives, one-word expletives, any compliment that ends in -est, and a minimum of chatter is what I’m looking for.  BUT after a brief nap, I want someone smart enough to whisper sweet somethings in my ear.  I understand that when you’re playing tennis with a mystery date you don’t get to quibble too much about line calls, but I am and always have been a sucker for men who have a way with words.

I decided that my best chance for finding such a man was the New York Review of Books.  It was expensive, but I wasn’t interested in “dating Darwinism” so I wrote the check and crossed my fingers. 

After ten days, the responses became to arrive. (NOTE: all information that follows is true.)

Exhibit One:

A sweet, but elderly fellow who attached part of his resume to his letter.  From this I discovered that he had won an Eagle Scout award 45 years prior, and that his main interests were 18th century tailoring and heavy timber construction. Now it might surprise you to learn that both arts can be practiced simultaneously, but, bear in mind; this was not your average Boy Scout.

Exhibit Two:

This next envelope contained only a photograph of a wispy-haired fellow, cute in an Opie Taylor “if you like these freckles, I’ve got hundreds more” kind of way.” He was dressed in Renaissance garb complete with the most enormous Kelly green codpiece I had ever seen.  You may ask, "How many had I seen?", but after working in the theatre for a number of years, let me assure you that I know my mackerels from my minnows. Inevitably, the message carefully printed on the back began, My Faire Maiden.  Next

Exhibit Three:

A self-described vagrant sent me his definition of a hopeful man.  “Always take his pulse before taking his hand.” Jeffrey Dahmer, Milwaukee County Jail. He was also kind enough to include a very helpful P.S. Don’t use PASSWORD as your password.

 Fast Forward

I received an intimacy test to see if I passed inspection from a fellow with “impossible teeth and the occasional flare-up of eczema,” and a haiku dedicated to one man’s penis. (It wouldn’t pass muster on Open Salon; just suffice it to say that his hanger necessitated the extra width of a handicapped stall.) There was a pro-lifer who used the opportunity to inundate me with inflammatory brochures. (As if I’d never heard the ‘fetus in the parking lot” gambit a hundred times!) By the time I finished reading the missive from Dr. M. who dismissed Dostoevsky as too pop culture for his taste, I was sliding Prozac between my cheek and gum on the hour. 

 Yes, there were more promising responses, and I went on numerous dates. Unsurprisingly most face-to-face meetings turned into full-fledged disasters, ranging from wacky to weird to WTF? Recounting this misery requires its own post, but I’ll give you one tiny sample. 

On our first date, “Bill (not his real name) reached across the table, took my hand and dropped his voice to a whisper. “I have something very important to tell you,” he said, drawing me in.“When we make love, there is something extremely important that you need toknow.”  (WHAT! I was still trying to avoid staring at the Phi Beta Kappa Key he wore attached to his belt buckle like some damn divining rod.) He went on: “At the point of my orgasm, you must be absolutely still. I was born with 6 fingers and 6 toes on my hands and feet.  Of course, my parents had them amputated, but when I come, I experience excruciating pain in my phantom digits.”  To my credit, I walked out when he started to remove his shoe to prove his point. And therein lies the nub.

I sent my letter off the next day, canceling my ad. However the world works in mysterious ways. When I returned from the post office, there was a voicemail message from the NYRB.  “Congratulations, Athena, you have just won second place in our annual ‘Most Erudite Personal Ad contest.’  You’ll be receiving a free subscription, and we will run your personal ad next month for free.”

Next time, I’ll be posting on Craig’s List.  It will begin, “Woman seeking man with job who doesn’t know the difference between the O.E.D. and a G.E.D.”