It was not a good time to be in Canada. With airspace and borders shut down, no bus seats or rental cars left, there was not much to do, but search for kindred spirits to huddle with. Early on, I’d spotted a cute guy in the crowd who was looking my way, but our paths never crossed. When I wasn’t on hold with the airlines, I obsessed about meeting him, but didn’t feel bold enough to say hello. Four days later, I was finally able to book my flight home, and as I dragged my suitcase through the hotel lobby, THERE HE WAS, just 3 feet away. The taxi was waiting. I was out of time. So I marched right up to him, smiled, and said, “We could’ve had end of the world sex,” and waltzed out the front door.

If only, Cheek’d, SKOUT, or FlipMe, had been invented, I might have had a different story to tell. These are the next generation of dating sites, that combine mobile and online strategies to help singles connect. Skout uses GPS, to locate other eager daters in the immediate vicinity. Cheek’d and FlipMe provide users with pre-printed cards to hand out when they run into attractive strangers, and can’t break the ice on their own. Six months after 9/11, at a film festival in Holland, I did run into my attractive stranger again. And this time, no card was needed.

He worked at a local TV station, and our meet and greet date was at a cheery park near my office. What I noticed first was the moustache, which looked dated, but okay, he was enthusiastic, and I liked that. We agreed on dinner the next night, and the night after that, I phoned him at 10 PM, with sultry confidence, and asked for directions to his house.

His neighborhood was unfamiliar, on the outskirts of town, and as I was navigating my way, I suddenly realized the risk. (So kids, don’t try this one at home.) Here I was driving to an unlit suburb across the bridge, to a virtual stranger’s house, for a booty call. I didn’t tell any of my friends where I was going in advance, for fear of being talked out of it. But that meant no search party could find me, if I didn’t show up for work the next morning. After a few missed turns, I found his house, and walked up the uneven path.

He had an 8-year old daughter, who was with his ex that night, but her toys were strewn everywhere. His place was a wreck, with dust balls the size of oranges, clinging to the baseboards underneath the couch. (It’s not that I was snooping, but we ended up splayed out on the carpet, which gave me a birds-eye view of the mess.) I was in a sex fog, so though the shabbiness of the surroundings slightly registered in my psyche, I didn’t let it settle. I didn’t want anything to take away from the giddiness of the moment. He was a superb lover (whose high rank has stood the test of time), and I was willing to dismiss a little dirt. We could always hire a housecleaner.

After a few go-rounds on the rug, the couch and finally the bed, we took a break for some chow. It was too late for take-out, so we were stuck with leftovers. That’s when it started to come apart.

His refrigerator was barren, except for the requisite condiments, and a half-filled box of Round Table Pizza, which we heated up in the microwave. There was no booze around (he was 7 years sober) so we cracked open a bottle of soda. Not Coke exactly, or Pepsi, or R.C. Cola, but a jumbo plastic container of Safeway generic brand. Now I could try to be a sport about the moustache, the blown-dry hair, his uncool clothes. I could handle his tiny residence in a tacky suburb, 45 minutes from civilization. I was willing to look the other way, when it came to scratchy sheets and a level of squalor in the bathroom that I don’t care to relive. But bad chain-restaurant pizza and generic soda, was more than I could bear.

Image: 64 Crayons Made in the USA, 2009, by Yu-Cheng Chou

Please see The Kids Are All Right, and tell me if I’m nit-picking, when I whine about Paul, played by actor Mark Ruffalo, whom I generally drool over, and would rather sleep with, than say, Brad Pitt, given the luxury of the choice. But this Paul, could he possibly exist in real life? Adorable, earthy, super laid back, not overtly ambitious, and yet driven and talented enough to own a busy, upscale restaurant in L.A., and a cool house in Silverlake. There’s also the co-op garden, from which he personally harvests luscious fruits and vegetables to use at work, and with all that, he’s still finds time to cook at home where he grills the perfect steak (blood rare) and bakes pies. His vinyl collection is hip, yet sensitive, and he’s turned on by slightly older, gay women. If he does exist, do you think he’s on Match.com?

Image: Woman Reading, 1970, Will Barnet

No marriage, no family, can survive three rainy days in a camper – John Steinback

Through the years, I’ve slept in the wilderness in a tent. On two separate occasions, I survived three days in a camper (no rain). Last fall, during a romance with an outdoor adventure writer, he suggested we backpack for a weekend in the middle of nowhere, and I would have done that for him, but we split up. On the whole, though, I am much happier in a cushy hotel room, with a big bathtub. Occasionally I’ll get inquiries from men on dating sites whose profiles boast of camping, hiking, kayaking and other robust outdoor activities, but I’m afraid I’ll disappoint them with my urban ways, so I’m honest, and don’t usually hear back. How do you feel about the “C” word?

Image: The Forest, by Blair Mclean

About six months ago, a family member set me up on a blind date. We decided on lunch at a popular restaurant where we ended up talking for hours. I admired him, and he was definitely interested in me. I wasn’t attracted physically, but I agreed to a second date (because, they don’t happen that often and he seemed like a nice guy), which I went on dutifully, but couldn’t wait to be over. After that, we never saw each other again. Today, I wondered, have my tastes become too narrow? Is he the one (small “o”) who got away?

Image: palette of Georges Seurat (according to a blog in the Telegraph, U.K.)

Spoken by a sobbing Shirley MacLaine in Billy Wilder’s fantastic movie, The Apartment:

“When you’re in love with a married man, you shouldn’t wear mascara.”

A friend of a friend contacted me about setting me up with a guy she and her fiancé know from AA. She said he’s “Jewish, cute, funny in a sarcastic way and 6 years sober.” The sober thing could have been a red flag, but I wanted to be open-minded and non-judgmental.    

I arrive at the coffee place, and I guess he’s decent looking (though not my taste) but he had a fit build. I immediately knew I didn’t like him. We sat down outside, where he proceeds to make fun of a “NO on Prop 8” bumper sticker. At first, I thought he was kidding, but then realized he, in fact, was NOT. He went on to compare gays to crack addicts and bank robbers that only look for sex…. And when I got really heated and started to raise my voice, I was told “God all you Jewish girls are just so liberal.” Apparently he simply considers himself a Conservative Republican with traditional values…so I had the pleasure of clearing that up by telling him he is a BIGOT (he also seemed like a woman hater) And that as a minority himself (a Jew) he should be much more understanding of people who are different. Needless to say the date was over in 30 minutes. My blood was boiling…I got to my car (yes I was PMS) but just lost it crying that the world is filled with such TRASH. I went to my neighbors’ apartment, where they proceeded to feed me lots of wine and make me laugh. There is even more detail to the story of stuff he said, but why even put his ugly words into the universe.

OK. Just had to tell you. I’ve had some bad dates, but this takes the CAKE! Where or where is my person already!!!

Image: Crying Girl, 1964, by Roy Lichtenstein

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Image: Nick Dewar

What do I have to show for six months on Match.com? Bubkes. Even still, I’m so busy -

1. getting through all ten Best Picture nominations before the Oscars on March 7. (If you haven’t seen The Hurt Locker and Avatar, try to catch them on the big screen.)
2. watching videos from the TED conference.
3. preparing 2009 taxes. (Actually, I haven’t gotten to this one yet.)
4. reading short stories by J.D. Salinger, because his writing is as brilliant and accessible as the tributes suggest.
5. making chicken and beef stock from scratch, having been humbled by Mark Bittman who writes The Minimalist, a down-to-earth column for the Times, in which he urges home cooks to clean their kitchen shelves of boullion cubes and canned stock.

(bubkes: Yiddish for nada, zilch, nothing.)