Dont Mince Words

I’m an optimist, right? I have to be given I’ve been internet dating for 20 years. But if something is too good to be true, it probably is. Right?

Ralph was a good match according to OKCupid. And he was my type of guy – cut to the chase and don’t waste time. We exchanged a few messages, talked on the phone, and three days later we had a date. A good date. It had been a long time since I’ve met for a drink and four hours later I actually wanted to still talk to someone.

During the next few weeks, I learned more about Ralph. He was 44 and didn’t want kids so he had a vasectomy. Never married. He went to one of those private west end schools and grew up on an estate on the river. He was attentive and communicative and eager to book dates. My girlfriends were cautiously optimistic for me. “The mask will come off. There has to be something wrong with him,” I explained.

You learn a lot about a man by the company he keeps and by the way he lives. I jumped at the opportunity to come over to Ralph’s house for dinner. When I drove up , I hummed the theme from Dallas as I passed the front gate houses then rounded the corner to see Southfork. It was a large house, but not what you’d expect a single guy to choose to live in, monied or not.

When I went in, I was shuffled to the sun room where his friend was. Ralph went back to the kitchen to finish the food. I surveyed the scene and in seconds figured out I was in the House of Mom. Gardening books. Bird feeders. Stacks of catalogs. Stamps. Envelopes. The other shoe had dropped.

I learned he lived in the basement; his best friend was in the chef quarters. His mom is a smart woman. If I were in my 70s, I’d love to have two men around to help me. But not my son. The boy needs to go learn to fly on his own. Be his own man.

I gave Ralph the soft let down by phone and casually mentioned living with his mother was going to hurt his long term relationship prospects.  “I know,” he mumbled.

This is funny because my OKCupid profile has a line that states, “You should contact me if you are an emotionally evolved male who doesn’t live with his mother.” I added this when I lived in Los Angeles. The recession forced a lot of people to move home. Ralph didn’t get to the bottom of my profile. He’s also dyslexic.

I haven’t spoken to my mother in more than three years. Yes, I’m a Hater. Women who have joined my no-mother cult have experienced similar exhilaration and relief after radio silence. However, we all have our sound bites to dodge the mainstream how’s-your-family questions.

Several days ago, I connected with a match.com guy who seemed delightful; tall, geeky, and from New York. During our first date, I decided I really, really liked him when he told me his dad was dead and he no longer talked to his mother.

I squealed with delight. I didn’t have to give my blanket “I don’t get home much” response. Instead, I smiled and said. “My dad is dead too and I haven’t spoken to my mother in three years.”

“I’m at seven years. I’m an only child, so I call/hang up every once in a while to see if she answers the phone to know she’s dead or not,” he said.

“Oh, I just call my brother and ask ‘Is mom dead yet?'” I said. (My brother doesn’t have the Krazy Barbara Kryptonite like I do.)

We laughed and decided we’d have to meet again soon. And I imagine, if things go well, we’ll be crank calling our mothers. That’s when I’ll know we’re serious.