Hungry for Love: "Sign a Waiver," with White Chocolate Macadamia Nut Cookies

Thanks to the All-Star Game this weekend, every street and freeway choked with traffic like it was the 405 at rush hour as LA turned into Hotlanta West. I swear, I haven't seen this much Fubu and Baby Phat since my Fruitvale years, if even then.

The big games meant lots of parties, so Friday night, Mel and I struck out for the "Purp and Yellow" shindig in Downtown.

You know that inane "Black and Yellow" song?--OH GOD! Why did I even mention it? Now it's stuck in my head. That is totally the Beetlejuice of rap songs. Say it three times and you can't get rid of it--

Anyway, "Purp and Yellow" was Snoop's rebuttal rap in honor of his beloved Lakers and the party was in a teammate's honor, which made the people-watching priceless as chickenheads and gold diggers pouring into their 99-cent hooker best in the blatant hopes of landing a baby daddy to call their very own.

Our favorite of the night was a quartet that looked like the ghetto, busted version of Danity Kane minus Aubrey (BTW, why am I so excited every time I see her on Oxygen weeping "I'm not 100 pounds anymore"?), led by angry black Sporty Spice who had a mohawk weave and was rocking a stained black bra, cropped pleather vest and leggings that were part vinyl, part fishnets.

Leggings are not pants. Stockings are not pants. Stockings made into leggings are CERTAINLY NOT PANTS! But we weren't going to tell her that; she was hardcore.

Also in the posse; an 80-pound Eastern European dame in a one-armed animal print shirt that she'd opted to call a dress, her 250-pound friend wearing a purple version of the same "dress," in the same size, which you could almost hear groaning with exhaustion as it battled to stay in one piece, and a girl whose name I feel I should know considering how well I got to know the thass part of her butt cheeks ("thass:" thigh/ass, the crescent moon of under buttocks that should only show in a bathing suit, aka: butt side boob) which were hanging out for the world to see.

Off. The. Charts.

But we weren't there for the ladies; Mel and I were hoping to find some nice gentlemen to make the night worthwhile. Scooping the scene, there were a few stand outs in the crowd, including one guy who looked like David Justice, and a funky white dude I eventually beelined for whose name was Brad.

In a black thermal with a thick brunette Beiber-ish mop, he had a little of the Jared Leto in him, minus any emo, and since the pickings were slim, I figured an introduction was in order. But within thirty seconds of chatting, I realized I'd have been better off making out with Black Scary Spice.

First of all, he told me he'd seen me standing by the bar earlier ordering a drink and was waiting for me to come over and say hi. Ummm, what's wrong with that picture? You see a girl at a bar ordering a drink, you walk over and offer to buy it for her, then strike up a conversation. Duh, Romeo.

Then, when I asked what he did, he said he was a musician.

"Oh! Cool. What instruments do you play?" I asked.

"None," he replied and then told me to guess what kind of music he made. Based on his look, I reached for Electric Country.

Nope. He's a rapper.

"Really?" I replied, my inner Oakland girl wanting to sneer. "Whose music does yours get compared to?"

"Tupac and LL Cool J," he told me.

"Whoa. Those are mighty hefty claims," I said.

"Look, I'll tell you this right now, there are three things I do where you've got to sign a waiver before it happens, because I can't be held responsible afterward: Listen to my rhymes, get a massage and get a kiss."

Yes, Brad really said that, among many other cocky, bragging claims, which is probably why I cut our conversation short with a good ol' "I have to work tomorrow" before slipping into the crowd.

But the next day I started thinking about it and realized, it's kind of a great concept! What do you do so well that someone needs to sign a waiver before it goes down? Brad's were lame and generic but when I told the story to one of my best friends the next day, we realized the genius and started thinking of things that would need a signed waiver.

-My dear friend Jemal is a tall, chiseled interracial Adonis who's kind, artistic, smart and converting to Judaism. Jewish girls are gonna need to sign a waiver before they see him read the Torah.

-Also Mahdi, Jemal's brother, breaks it OFF at Equinox. Girls need to sign a waiver before they see him in spinning class. (I'm not kidding, he has groupies in the class.)

-I call Rachel "Gumby." Men need to sign a waiver before they see how flexible she is.

And me...?

Well, not everyone knows this, but I'm an insanely dope jump roper, I was even in a jump rope workout DVD series with Eric Nies of MTV's The Grind fame. That might require a waiver. And, of course, there's the baking.

You better sign a waiver before you make these...

White Chocolate Foreplay Cookies
Makes about 2 dozen cookies, depending on size

3/4 cup salted butter (1 1/2 sticks)
1/2 cup granulated white sugar
1 cup light brown sugar (lightly packed)
1 teaspoon vanilla extract
2 large eggs
2 1/4 cups all-purpose flour
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/4 teaspoon salt
1 cup white chocolate chips or chunks
2 cups roasted, salted macadamia nuts, coarsely chopped

Preheat oven to 350 degrees.

In large bowl, with mixer at medium speed, cream together butter and both sugars until light and fluffy. Beat in eggs, one at a time, and vanilla until well combined.

Reduce speed to low and beat in flour, baking soda and salt. Mix just until blended.
With wooden spoon, fold in white chocolate and macadamia nuts.

Lightly coat cookie sheet with cooking spray and drop rounded tablespoons of dough a few inches apart.

Bake until barely golden around edges, 10 to 12 minutes. The cookies should look slightly underdone when removed from the oven. That way, they will cool to chewy perfection. If they’re golden brown and look fully baked, they’ll only be useful as hockey pucks or loofahs once cool.

With wide spatula, transfer cookies to wire racks or sheets of wax paper to cool completely.

Repeat with remaining dough.

Sign a waiver and serve warm.

Hungry for Love: Valentine's Day Can Suck It--Plus 8-Minute Microwave Mojito Cake

I like to think that my life is pretty cool. I get paid to see movies for free, interview incredibly talented people, make yummy food and occasionally pop up on the tube to see how much trouble my ginormous mouth can get me into.

Over the past couple of weeks, things have been sprinkled with even more fabulosity as I got to attend events like the Golden Globe and SAG Awards for NBC, started hitting the other side of the red carpet (above, Mel and I at the Ciroc OK! Magazine pre-Grammy party, below, an AP photo from the Remix Magazine launch party)...


...And even got some Twitter lovin' from Isaiah Mustafa, aka: The Old Spice Guy...


...After I semi-accosted him at both the Golden Globes and DGA Awards, drunkenly admitted I loved him "in a very deep way."

But tonight, with that usual Sunday agita sinking in, a lingering anxiety unshakable since childhood when Sunday meant the end of freedom and the imminent return to school, I feel lamer than usual. Why? Because tomorrow is Valentine's Day and I will be spending it alone.

Being 32, single and living in LA, where women past 25 are often viewed with the appeal of expired milk left out in the sun, not having a man is never a picnic, but no day makes it a buffet of misery and self-pity quite like February 14th.

I was raised by feminists, babysat by Naomi Wolf (no, really, I was), but am still well aware of the one constant women are beaten over the head with from the time we’re born; that if we don't find a man, get married and have babies, we’ve misspent our time on earth. Every pop song, sitcom, rom-com and storybook preaches it and even though I know can be happy and fulfilled without some dude to "complete me"--I'm pretty damn whole as is, thankyouverymuch--I'm always made to feel less-than if I find myself without an arrow through the heart from some diaper wearing perv with an overactive trigger finger.

But haven't we all been a little traumatized by Valentine's Day?

From grade school, a sense of V-Day doom is instilled the moment we first suffer the pressure of giving valentines to everyone in the class, even the kids you hate or the boy that puts worms in your hair. Then you get to junior high and have to pray that someone sends you one of those lame candy-grams that get announced in homeroom so you don't look like a flaming loser after everyone else's name is called and you're left sans red construction paper heart and chalky Rolaids-flavored "Be Mine" "Luv u" "U rock" hearts. Pretty soon you’re in high school and frantic for a date to the Valentine's Day dance to avoid the same shame. And, before you know it, you're old enough to be made to feel pathetic if you're dateless and having a wannabe Sex in the City girls night when Cupid's arrow should be striking.

I can't tell you how many Valentine's Days I suffered through single, feeling the panic rise as January ended, followed by depression and eventually terror, knowing the only love I'd get on February 14th would be from my mom and dad, until one year when I finally had a boyfriend to celebrate Valentine's Day with.

And you know what? It sucked!

I thought it would be all romantic and magical. Nope! Everywhere we went there were super long lines to eat and couples bickering as their blood sugar plummeted as they waited for tables and overpriced prix fixe meals, swarmed by tacky red balloons and wilting roses. It didn't feel special; it felt like enforced fun, which is the worst kind.

Now I know the best thing to do when it comes to Valentine's Day is chillax and try not to make a big deal out of it. It's just another day, one that has more marketing dollars behind it than most, but it doesn't mean I have to spend it guzzling cheap drugstore chocolate in a heart-shaped box to drown my single sorrows. Instead, I can make this quickie cake (complete with booze) if I need to eat my feelings, take a few deep breaths and know that February 15th is just around the corner.

8-Minute Microwave Mojito Cake
Serves 6-8

Now you can have you cake and drink it too! For those in need of a quickie—dessert that is—these cakes can be made in about ten minutes and come with the added bonus of a little buzz.

Mojito Cake:
2 cups cake flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/2 cup butter, softened
2 cups sugar
3 large eggs, room temperature
2 teaspoons vanilla
3/4 cup milk
1 tablespoon light rum
Zest of one lime
2 tablespoons chopped mint

Sift together flour, baking powder and salt. In a large bowl, cream together butter and sugar until light and fluffy. Add eggs, one at a time, followed by vanilla. Add dry ingredients, milk, rum, lime zest and mint.

Pour batter into a large, microwavable heat-and-serve container.

Place container in microwave and heat on high for eight minutes. If your microwave doesn’t have a turn table, rotate cake every 1 ½-2 minutes.

While cake is cooking, prepare first glaze.

First Glaze:
2 tablespoons chopped mint
Zest of one lime
Juice of two limes
2 tablespoons light rum
2 cups confectioners’ sugar

Whisk together all ingredients.

Remove cake from microwave and run a knife along the edge of the cake, loosening from sides of bowl.

Pour glaze over hot cake, allowing it to run down sides and underneath.

Allow to cool slightly while preparing second glaze.

Second Glaze:
2 cups confectioners’ sugar
4 tablespoons water

Once first glaze is slightly set, pour second glaze over cake. Slice and serve.

Hungry for Love: Hitting the Wall

Oh my God! Online dating is so awful!

Of course, I already knew that, but each new attempt is that much more harrowing.

Arbitrary, time sucking and totally fruitless, after four or five months on OKCupid, tonight I hit the wall. With only one lame date to show for my investment and the lingering sting of being told I was only "good looking," I found my finger hovering over the "Delete profile" button and reminiscing on my return to the cyber-dating wasteland.

A few months ago, I didn't think it could get any worse than the guy who listened to "rape," but damn was I wrong.

There have been a number of humdingers, but here are the greatest hits when it came to low points on (sigh) "Ohhh-kay Cupid".

May I present "Heretopleaseyou," the black guy who said his name was Chris but wouldn't give a last name and refused to send any photos because, as he looooved to tell me over and over and over and over again, he was so famous. I'd like to believe it was Chris Rock, but he was probably Chris Brown. He asked me to meet him for sex, no drinks, no dinner, no conversation. I said if he was as well known as he claimed, he could find that at any bar, grocery store or gas station in town. He's probably trolling Craigslist as I type. Another 50-plus-year-old man kept sending me IMs asking me if I'd like to go sailing and calling me "doll." He looked like Albert Finney and made me cringe. A lesbian started sending me messages every time I logged in, ignoring the clear indication that I was straight and only interested in men. Plus, she looked nothing like Mila Kunis is Black Swan and therefore got blocked quickly. More than one man sent me a message saying, "I'm going to be honest--I'm not interested in anything serious, but you seem like a lot of fun so let me know if you wanna chat." "Fun" has always been a dubious distinction in my mind. It implies a put-on carefree savoir faire that makes me think of Rizzo in Grease singing "There Are Worst Things I Could Do." I didn't write to any of them. Of the two attractive men who got in touch with me, one never responded beyond our second email and the other started talking about my nipples within two minutes of our first conversation. Is it any wonder these people are still single? They're totally heinous and dysfunctional.

Scrolling, page after page, hoping I'd stumble upon someone who could fulfill my hopes and dreams and prove that all those people who insist online dating is viable weren't ignoramuses, or, worse, uppity a-holes already in committed relationships (none of which started online), here's what I've discovered thus far:

1. Never fall for a guy wearing sunglasses in his profile picture. Everyone looks sexier in sunglasses. It's like posing with a cigarette; you're suddenly more alluring, worldly and seductive. See: James Dean, Rita Hayworth in Gilda.

2. Never trust a guy wearing a hat in his profile picture. Much like sunglasses, just about every man in the world looks better in a hat, especially a baseball cap (words my friend Jenny lives and dies by). Plus, dollars to donuts, that dude is bald or on his way and that's why he's covering up.

3. Subtract (at least) one-two inches from the height they claim. If a man says he's 5'9, he's 5'7. Maybe 5'6.

4. Sending an email will almost never illicit a response. Even in the warped online dating arena, men like the chase.

With nothing to show for my time and a general sense of misery every time I typed in my ID and password, why was I unable to make that final click, sending my profile into internet oblivion?

Because I'm sitting on my couch, eating out of styrofoam, watching Grey's Anatomy, on a serious losing streak of celibacy. I need a frickin' man in my life and since none have the balls to do anything beyond play a little grab ass when emboldened by liquor, I've been proverbially "putting myself out there." This way, when family friends or, worse yet, my mother, ask why I'm still single, I can honestly say I'm trying.

But then I got this poem from one man who was attempting to court me:

"Tubas to the face.
Spit valves emptied on your toes.
The night swayed and sweat dripped from the walls.
It was hard to tell performers from audience
as a cluster of bodies and brass pulsed in unison.
Every once in a while a form would appear from the wreckage to find their way to the bar. Missing a limb and ear drums draped to their knees.
Only music that can create this mess."

Ooookay.

I'm not really a poetry girl, but I reread the verses, trying to conjure a smoky, subterranean coffee house where everyone is in black turtlenecks and berets, a bongo player punctuating each line with a rapped beat. I could get into that. Maybe. Possibly. Probably not, but I was trying to tell myself that this guy couldn't be that bad, and just as I was on the verge of convincing myself to give the guy a chance over a cup of coffee, I got a follow up:

"Gum spots on concrete and the smell of hot dogs draped in bacon.
Fixed gear bikers intermingle with El Salvadorian line cooks.
Everyone displayed like an art piece under the fog-lights
On the ride home I think about jogging with coyotes and singing to deer.
Instead it was a sentimental cat that followed me on my walk home.
Now rainbow chard is a cute vegetable.
Especially when intermixed with garlic and ginger."

I wrote this response:

"Like smoky fires flickering
At burning man
The smell of patchouli wafts
Like smoke from your bong.
I read these words and wonder;
Are you reading a Karma Sutra
While practicing tai chi
And hugging a tree?
B.O. and compost piles
That is the smell of our love.
Snap snap snap snap
Clapping ain’t allowed.
I misread you terribly
You are not the man for me."

I erased it before I sent it, not wanting to hurt the poor guy's feelings. Instead, I moved my hovering finger a few inches to the right and clicked, "Disable Account."

Ok Cupid, I think we need some space. And I need a drink!

Blackberry Green Tea Mojito
Serves 4-6

These are my new obsession because they're delicous, refreshing and, one might argue, almost good for you thanks to plenty of antioxidants.

1 1/2 cups loosely packed mint leaves, chopped
Juice of 2 limes
Juice of 2 lemons
6 teaspoons superfine sugar
1/2 cup brewed green tea, chilled
1 cup blackberries, muddled (raspberries, blueberries or fresh chopped peach can be substituted)
1-1 1/2 cups light rum (use 1/4 cup per person)
Soda water

In a large pitcher, combine mint, lime and lemon juice and superfine sugar, stirring until sugar dissolves. Pour in green tea, muddled blackberries and rum.
Fill glasses with ice and add Mojito mix, filling glasses 3/4 of the way. Top with splash of soda water and serve.

Hungry for Love: "You Kissed a Pirate?" Edition, with Jalebi to Celebrate

This week, I kissed a guy wearing a choker. It wasn’t a long kiss or even a tongue kiss, but it was a kiss. And the choker was made of dark leather with a small ivory circle at the center. Yeah, not exactly, my proudest moment.

I started 2011 with the New Year’s resolution to kiss more cute boys and, up until Wednesday night, I’d failed miserably to uphold my pledge. While I still haven’t decided if this brief encounter fits the bill or not—like I said, homeboy was wearing a choker and the kiss was a milquetoast peck—at least it was some action and, considering my love life has been like a Haley’s Comet sighting recently, that’s a good thing.

With the exception of an old friend who got a little handsy at the after party for The People’s Choice Awards, the only male attention of note I’ve received dates all the way back to late-2010, when I ended up singing “Fat Bottomed Girls” and “November Rain” with a super tropical broad-shouldered, dirty blonde actor boy in a $2000 Hugo Boss suit, replete with cufflinks and tie clip, who was in town from New York to shoot an episode of CSI. We shared a PBR, a little over the shirt lovin’ and some tonsil hockey before going our separate ways, but not before I slipped him my number on the ever klassy damp paper bar napkin. I still think of him fondly whenever I hear Slash’s guitar solo.

Several months later, the time was nigh to make a new memory and what better way to ensure that'll happen than to find yourself in a bar on a weeknight where there’s a special on good beer?

In preparation for a photo shoot I have this week, I decided the best way to look good would be to eat as little as possible. That plan failed miserably. By 8:30pm on the first day, after twelve hours of trying to recreate Natalie Portman’s Black Swan diet of almonds, carrots and skim milk, I was ready to devour a hipster’s skinny jeans when I rolled into Bigfoot Lodge for their weekly trivia night. I’m a lightweight to begin with, but with nothing but ballerina shrapnel in my stomach to greet it, after one of their $4 Newcastles, guess who was buzzed like a 7th grader chugging Boones Strawberry Hill behind the gym? With no will power and a gurgling belly, what did I do? Sprint down the boulevard in my miniskirt and 5-inch platform granny-gone-tranny heels to India’s Sweets and Spices so I could buy a pound of Jalebi (to share with the group, I’m not that much of a heifer) in between trivia rounds.

If you’ve never have Jalebi, which is an Arabian sweet that’s served as a celebratory snack in India, think of it as Indian funnel cake. Swirled dough is fried and then soaked in rose water syrup, which makes them crispy, chewy and intensely sweet. A few of those, another pint of beer, and I was working a very nice sugar/barley high. I’m not tryin’ to say I was easy pickin’s…But, let’s be honest, I was easy pickin’s.

Perhaps that’s why, when one young feller, who happened to be sporting silver hoops in both ears (“Like a pirate?” a friend asked when I admitted my shame the next day), the aforementioned leather choker (which really isn’t okay unless you’re Jordan Catalano)...

...and a pair of very wide legged, light washed, possibly Carhartt-brand jeans (the kind on might wear to a Nickelback concert), asked for my number and went in for a kiss on the lips for a second time after I swerved and gave cheek on his first attempt, I acquiesced.

Sigh. I blame my extended drought, the cheap Newcastle and one too many Jalebi.

The next time I get a fever for the flavor, I think I’d better make them at home.

Jalebi Recipe

Batter:
1 1/2 cups all purpose flour
pinch saffron
1/4 cup plain yogurt
approximately 2 tablespoons-1/4 cup water
1/4 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon cardamom powder
a few drops orange food coloring

Syrup:
2 cups sugar
1 1/2 cups water
1 1/2 tablespoons rose water

Vegetable oil for frying

To make the batter, mix flour, saffron and yogurt into a paste. Cover and let mixture sit and ferment overnight on the counter.

The next day, add just enough water to make the batter resemble slightly loose pancake batter. Stir in baking soda, cardamom powder and food coloring. Let sit while you prepare the syrup.

In a heavy bottom pan, combine sugar, water and rose water. Heat to a boil over medium high heat, reduce to medium and continue cooking another 20 minutes, stirring as necessary, until you have a thick sugar syrup.

Heat oil in a small deep fryer or heat bottomed skillet over medium high heat until it reaches 375 degrees. Stir batter and pour it into a squeeze bottle (an old ketchup bottle works great), ziplock or pastry bag and cut a small 1/2 inch opening.

Swirl the batter into the hot oil in a circular motion until you have a 2 to 3 inch round. Repeat and cook each Jalebi until lightly golden brown on each side, about 90 seconds-two minutes per side. Remove Jalebi from the fryer and dip in warm syrup before placing on serving platter or cookie sheet lined with wax paper.

Enjoy warm or cold.

An Online Dating Update--I'm Only "Good-Looking"?

I honestly don't know how I feel about this.

Opening my inbox tonight, I found an email from OKCupid proclaiming me "good-looking." It explained that I'll now see better looking people in my searches and offered reassurance that this isn't a mass email, but, if I was unsure, to "go ask an ugly friend."

There's no need to get all feisty, OKCupid.

The new distinction brought on a sudden rush of guilt and annoyance. Guilt because lately Rachel and I have been playing "Hot or Not," casually stubbing out suitors' dreams with a one-star rating and laughing our asses off, not realizing it actually had some sort of impact, and annoyance because I was only deemed "good-looking." What a wane distinction. But it got worse. Reading the email more carefully, I realized it only qualified me in the upper 50%.

Excuse moi, OKCupid?

I graduated high school at 16 and college cum laude, I walked and talked by the time I was nine months old, I run an 8 minute mile, I was Miss San Francisco and I've made out with movie stars; 50% my ass! Give me the upper echelons or give me death!

All this in the midst of a serious crisis of conviction. Two weeks into my online dating experiment and I only have one date to show for it and zero prospects on the horizon. Might my new qualification up my ante? Perhaps, but I'm feeling a bit deflated and when I feel deflated I crave a burrito. But this is a big week for me and I need to try to keep it tight and right so I'm going to attempt to squelch those craving with the same Mexican flavors I love, but in a healthier vessel with...

Potato and Onion Tortilla with Spicy Pickled Carrots and Grapes
makes 8 servings

Tortilla:
1 tablespoon olive oil
4 potatoes, peeled and diced
2 onions, diced
7 eggs
1/4 cup milk
Salt and pepper to taste

Spicy Pickled Carrots and Grapes:
2 large carrots, peeled and sliced into 1/4 inch thick pieces
2 cloves garlic peeled and sliced
1/2 white onion, sliced
1 cup white vinegar
1/2 cup water
1 bay leaf
8 peppercorns
1 teaspoon salt
1/4 cup pickled jalapenos
2 cups seedless grapes, green and red

In a large saucepot over medium-high heat, bring vinegar and water to a boil. Add carrots, garlic, onion, peppercorns, salt and bay leaf. Reduce heat to medium and cook for 5 minutes.

Add jalapenos and grapes, reduce heat to low and simmer for another 5 minutes.

Remove from heat, cover and chill overnight in pickling liquid.

To cook tortilla, preheat oven to 350 degrees and heat oil in a cast iron skillet over medium-high heat.

Add potatoes and onions and cook, stirring occasionally, until golden brown. Whisk together eggs and milk, season to taste and pour over browned potatoes and onions.

Reduce heat to medium and cook until tortilla is set around edges, about 3 minutes.

Place skillet in oven and baked until tortilla is cooked through and firm to the touch, about 5 minutes.

Slice and serve with pickled grapes and carrots.

How Not to Sell Yourself on an Online Dating Site

After failed attempts on JDate, Match.com, EHarmony and Salon Personals, a few years ago I decided internet dating simply wasn’t for me. Yes, there are hundreds of thousands, perhaps millions, of people who have found the love of their lives online. But I don't think I'm going to be one of those lucky many.

The first of my issues was a little something I like to call "False advertising."

Seriously, what’s with so many people using photos taken a decade ago as their profile picture? Do these guys really think I’m not going to notice they’ve lost their hair and gained 20 pounds in the time it took them to leave the comfort of their computers and meet me for coffee? Don’t they realize, once the "New You" is revealed, it’s going to be a disappointment? If everyone were honest from the beginning, there could either be acceptance and preparation for whomever you’d meet face to face, or we could all cut our losses early and skipped the endless IM chatter. Like so many things in life, online dating is all about managing expectations. I automatically assume the photos shown online are 10-25% more attractive than the person will actually be, but you’re destined for a dumping if the photo you use is the best picture you’ve ever taken. If it’s too good, you’re never going to live up to the fantasies that one shot inspired.

Not that I’m guiltless. One gentleman I met for a gourmet hot dog and coke float at The Stand in Westwood looked downright crestfallen when he saw me in the flesh. No matter how attractive I tried to be while scarfing down my sauerkraut and spicy mustard-topped dog, his disappointed was palpable. I’ve never seen a man so hell-bent on averting his eyes from a woman inserting a phallic object into her mouth.

But let’s say the photo is a pretty accurate representation. You’re pleasantly surprised at first sight and you settle in for the Getting to Know You portion of the date when…Oh God. Do you smell that? It’s…(sniff)…(sniff)…pathetic, needy desperation. Charming. The faintest whiff of that is about as sexy as a pre-date bath in Drakkar Noir. An instant no-fly zone has just been created. Wait, is that stench coming from them or me? I could never really be sure. I’m not saying everyone online is desperate, but there is a certain panic I noticed on all the dates I went on with the men I met that way. The air was filled with "Eau d’Please God, Like Me or I Don’t Know What I’m Going to Do With Myself" by Designer Imposters Body Sprays. It sent me running for the hills every time.

Maybe it’s just that there’s something too contrived for me about meeting a man knowing their intention is to find a mate. Yeah, I want to meet someone too but the bluntness in that kind of hunt has the appeal of the banana you find at the bottom of your purse three days after forgetting you’d thrown it in there. There’s no tango, no flirty glances over the copy machine that lead to drinks, no underlying tension spent wondering “What’s this going to be?” “Does he like me?” Lacking the foreplay of dating cultivated in a more organic environment, I kept feeling like I was on a job interview rather than in the middle of a courtship. We both might as well have clipboards and number two pencils so we can tick off items on a list entitled “Does this person have the qualifications I’m seeking in order to fill my open position?”

As much as I’d love to be with a guy who has a wonderful, winning personality and makes me laugh, the truth is, in the beginning, I’m not laughing at your jokes unless I want to sleep with you. Some people say it takes a woman one hour to decide if she wants to go on a second date with a man. Others contend it takes 30 seconds to decide if there will ever be a physical relationship. I need about five seconds and some good lighting. After that, if the answer is no, we’re both wasting our time and the obligatory internet coffee date becomes an exercise in torture.

Sorry, buddy, before we sat down I knew if you were ever getting in my pants and all those reasons that we were perfect on paper don’t matter anymore because the animal attraction isn’t there. It’s just like two dogs sniffing butts. If you don’t dig what’s going on back there, then why prolong the inevitable? To be polite? Is it polite to lead someone on? If I’m not attracted to you, I don’t care how many siblings you have, where you went to junior high or about the life philosophy you developed after reading The Prophet, The Secret or The Alchemist. We’re done here. And, if I’m being totally honest, I don’t know if the kind of man I want to be with would ever allow himself to be found on an internet dating site. In my mind’s eye, he’s too sexy, confident, successful, driven and well-rounded to need any kind of cyber help.

Having said all that, this week I signed up for OK Cupid, or, as my friend Rachel likes to say despondently, "(sigh) Ohh-kay, Cupid."

So far I've only gone on one date, which was enjoyable, though firework-less, and been propositioned by a man whose profile offered this little gem when prompted to offer his favorite types of music:

Hmmmm...

I don't know if that's a typo or a warning, and I'm not willing to stick around to find out.

What's funny is, the moment I waded back into the treacherous waters of internet dating, the flood gates of men in real life opened, including a little drunken smooching with a super stud muffin TV actor in a $2000 Hugo Boss suit, including a tie clip and cufflinks (ZZ Top didn't lie; every girl is crazy 'bout a sharp dressed man), on Friday night. "November Rain" is now our song.

What the future holds, I can't be sure. All I know is, the idea of sorting through the online realm of single men who listen to rape (probably the last word anyone should ever use on a dating site), is intensely unappealing. But, then again, so is the idea of sitting home alone on a Saturday night.