Yesterday, I placed an online personal ad. And I can hear you right now all “oh suuuure, act like you don’t care whether you get married, ‘oh, I don’t care, I don’t need a man, wedding schmedding,’ and then turn twenty-eight and run whimpering into the bosom of deluded desperation with your talk of men and fish and bicycles, why don’t you, Little Miss ‘Learn To Masturbate’? YOU DISGUST ME!” but I assure you, it’s not like that. I mean, sure, I have my moments of longing for arranged marriage like everyone else, like, first of all, my idea of a great date is sitting around a dive bar drinking beer and talking about baseball, followed by cheese sandwiches and smooching in front of the late rerun of Unsolved Mysteries, and I get the sinking feeling sometimes that nobody’s going to go for that, especially not with the two cats thrown in, except a guy whose parents already bought me and lost the receipt, and second of all, I don’t think I have the energy that dating in the city of New York requires — “Oh, really? Uh huh. And where…do you work, again? Ohhh. Uh huh. I run two websites? Well, you know, in this market…uh huh. I work at home. Yeah. So that’s — sorry? Oh. Sorry, I didn’t know smoking bothered you. No, it’s no problem. No, it’s fine. No. It’s fine. American Pie 2? No, I didn’t…see that. But I heard that it didn’t totally su…what? Uh huh. Hilarious.” I mean, lint-roll my outfit and wear The Ouchy Sexy Shoes and actually care about eye-shadow? For that? When I can’t even burp? No, thank you. Too exhausting. Just box up my dowry and send it to the Duke of Anjou fourteenth-century-style, and my retinue and I will see you at the top of the aisle.

No, I placed the ad for scientific purposes. The personal ad as a societal phenomenon mystifies me, because it exists as a means to an emotional relationship, with all the levels of trust and compromise that that implies — and yet it relies on unrealistic expectations and out-and-out lying to achieve that end, most of it coded in coy doublespeak. When a man describes himself as “loving,” it means he’s tired of paying for hookers and not getting to kiss them, and when he says he wants an “athletic, fun-loving” woman, what he really wants is a skinny blonde with big tits who gives good and uncomplaining head. And the ads from the women — oy. How many different ways can a woman come up with to telegraph “fat” without actually saying it? There’s “buxom,” “voluptuous,” “healthy,” “well-proportioned” — even “average” can mean “fat.” (Yeah, it sounds harsh, but it’s the truth. The un-fat women include what they weigh in the ads. Don’t see a number? She’s overweight — or lying about her age.) And she always wants the same thing — a man who makes her laugh. That’s not a bad or wrong thing to want, but that’s not what she actually wants. They actually want a man who won’t care that she’s fat. “Loves to laugh” means “don’t laugh at me.” It’s heartbreaking, really.

So I wrote up my own ad as an experiment, to see if telling the truth about my personality and appearance would win anyone over. The headline reads “moody flabby misanthrope seeks same,” and the rest of the ad goes on in that vein, listing in detail my likes (beer, junk food, ordering others about in an imperious tone of voice) and dislikes (Vietnamese food, musical theater, guys who have reached the age of thirty without getting the difference between “kissing” and “chapping the lower half of my face with indiscriminate spin-cycle slobber” straight) and informing all would-be suitors point-blank that I won’t tolerate anti-smokers, bigots, dwarves, too much gel, ignorance/dislike of baseball, making sport of the state of New Jersey, not reading anything, ever, except ESPN.com, or any use of the word “lady” in reference to me, even in jest. I gave my real weight. I posted a picture, too, which the Biscuit took mere minutes after I’d fallen drunk into Lake Champlain. After eighteen hours, I haven’t gotten the favor of a single response.

But, in all fairness, I haven’t responded to any of the candidates that the site’s “matchmaker” has come up with for me, either. See, the site allows me to fill out an elaborate form about your sense of humor, drinking/smoking/drug habits, tattoos and piercings, blah blah blah, which ostensibly winnows out the guys I’d hate on sight and pairs me up with potential dates who share my interests and sensibilities. Well, it seems that the potential dates who share my interests and sensibilities all suck my left one.

The first guy, rated a 99-percent match, has “hello” as his headline. He has left most of the matchmaker form blank, except to let me know that he’s Catholic. I mean, I’d date a Catholic, but if he won’t tell me anything except his height and his religion — the hell? About himself, he says, “Looking for a nice woman to have fun with.” How does that vague non-statement constitute a match with me? I’m a woman. That’s literally the only thing I’ve got going for me with Guy #1. Not nice. Don’t want to have fun with a (short) Catholic. Next.

Guy #2, a 34-year-old self-described “Hot Guy,” sums himself up thusly:

I live in New York and work as a Lawyer. I love NEw York but travel often to England to visit my sister. I am talk dark and hansome and looking for a good looking girlfriend who is caring and fun

Ooh, “talk dark and hansome.” Just what my profile lists as my dream man! He’s so hot that he hasn’t posted a picture! So he’s not hot! He’s hairy and balding! Plus, his spelling rots, and he thinks he’s speaking German! Next.

Guy #3 would like us to know that “You Got To Make It Happen.” Oh, dear. He’s nice and tall, and he smokes and drinks, but then he starts babbling on about opportunities and experiences and walks on the beach and he loses me completely. There’s nothing he doesn’t like, which sends up a red flag in the tower, because a guy like that will haul me to Chelsea Piers on theme dates — like, hi. See the skirt? You want to work on your swing, say so up front, and I’ll just stay home. Guy #3 wants “someone who will challenge me intellectually, emotionally, and creatively but can also relax and just spend time together.” Well, okay. Not bad things to want, and yet so generic and safe. And…”creatively”? He’s in sales. Do I have to read his shitty novel when I don’t even know what he looks like? Pass. Next.

Guy #4 shows some promise — good with the tall, good with the drinks and cigs, has a Ph.D, and describes himself as, among other things, “self-cleaning.” Hee. Okay, points for that. He likes going out with his friends and “wreaking havoc,” says he grew up as a club kid and all-around brat, loves music, and isn’t looking to get married or have kids at the moment. And finally, a guy who posts a picture. He’s reasonably cute in his weird, blurry picture. Also, he has cats! There’s hope. Alas, he also likes camping. Well, nobody’s perfect. There’s hope for Guy #4. Next.

“DONTREADTHIS,” Guy #5 tells me, adding an annoying emoticon to make sure I don’t. But I repeat the word “science” to myself a few times and click on the link anyway. Guy #5 hasn’t posted a photo. He’s 35, and “a man of few words…in search of a refined and attractive woman, preferably under the age of 30.” Attractive, okay, I can get him there. Refined? Not by choice. He’s also obsessed with the idea that the women he dates not dress “tacky,” act “tacky,” or have any whiff of tackiness about them. Ohhh-kay. He doesn’t watch television, at all, and lists piercings and tattoos in his turn-offs. Buh-bye, Guy #5. Next.

The headline for Guy #6, “Could be a movie star,” doesn’t bode well. Sure enough, he comes off all Royale With Cheese, blithering about piano bars and watching me smoke and my friends hating me for the clothes I can “get away with.” There’s no picture here either, but he stipulates that I be “gorgeous.” Shut up, Guy #6. I mean, I’ve got your gorgeous right here and everything, but — damn. Try posting a photo of your own movie-star self and then make demands, mmmkay? Or by “movie star,” do you mean “Danny DeVito”? He adds that he doesn’t want anything serious because he just got out of a two-year “live-in thang.” That’s fine, but…”thang”? Shut up, Guy #6. Also, although he doesn’t say as much, he obviously lives in Jersey, and while that’s fine, I don’t need a commute right now — at least, not for a guy who read somewhere that men are supposed to like it when women know their Scotch. Meh. Next.

Guy #7 wants a “partner in crime.” How original and attention-getting! Well, if you really mean “banal and yawn-inducing.” After the customary abuse of the terms “upbeat,” “silly,” and “caring and sharing” (and no, I am not kidding), Guy #7 makes sure to mention “relaxing on [his] boat” so that I know he’s rich. And a tool. A tool who will expect me to coo admiringly at the brass fittings. How do I know he’s a tool? Because two kinds of people in this life describe themselves as “always on the go” — grandmothers, and tools. He’s not a grandmother. And if he’s going to bring the word “playful” into it, could he at least know how to spell it? He doesn’t like tattoos either. Next.

It appears that our trip to Home Depot continues with Guy #8, who’s “LOOKING FOR THE UNIQUE.” No need to shout, Original McDistinctive. Also, I think we can safely assume without your saying so that you aren’t looking for the quotidian or the nothing-special. Why do all these guys have to write such feeble headlines? “Looking for the unique”? That’s lamer than Tiny Tim, buddy! Mix it up a little! Get crazy! Tell me what you really want — write “Got nipple clamps?” in the box, and then post a photo of yourself with an alligator clip attached to your upper lip! That’s unique. God. Anyway. Guy #8 provides a reading list, but most of it is second-tier Kerouac; he listens to Ani DiFranco. Blurg. He wants me to know that he’s had a few long-term relationships in the past, but he’s “relishing [his] freedom” right now because “to be in a too committed relationship at this point would likely retart some of my personal growth.” Well, I don’t want to “retart” anyone’s personal growth, so relish away, Guy #8. Next.

A screen name that implies you’re a “Williamsburg yuppie,” isn’t terribly promising, Guy #9, but he seems to share my thoughts on drinking and smoking. He wants a casual fling for the summer. Hmm. Summer’s half over, dude. The picture? Scary (think Matt Damon with gout). The writing? Bad. The sentiments? Dumb. The verdict? Next.

Guy #10 is “just looking for fun.” He likes to party, he loves the nightlife. He told me that, and I believe him. I also believe that I might throw up. But he’s a smoker and a drinker who has cats. No picture, but no kids either. Alas, he wants someone bubbly and spontaneous, and I’m neither.

So that’s the top ten. I guess one out of ten isn’t bad, but it’s not the league average, if you know what I mean. And as I go down the list further and further, the matches get worse and worse. “NYC guy 4U!!!” Um. No. “The need…to be needed.” Ew. “How could anyones kill themself?” I think I understand. And then there’s “A Princess Needs Only Reply.” I’d like to send this guy an email just to tell him that he’s a jerk-ass, because he hasn’t filled out any of his profile items except his race, his height, and how much money he makes (and why do all the guys fill that out? Whose business is that?), and then he has the gall to describe himself thusly:

Very GQ looking, 6 feet, 30, and a very successful professional. Tend to date woman in early twenties. Extreme good looks is an unfortunate prerequisite, but necessary.

“An unfortunate prerequisite”? You are kidding me, right? Are you fucking kidding me? You call yourself “GQ looking” but you don’t post a picture, and then — “unfortunate prerequisite”? And then there’s his description of his ideal match:

A striking woman who is romantic and wants to travel the world. A woman who is cool and seductive. Very confident and even-tempered. She must like only good-looking men without being too superficial.

You know, it occurs to me that a very successful professional who looks like a GQ model wouldn’t need to advertise, but what do I know?

See, that’s the problem with these ads. When I fall for a man, I don’t fall for his habits, or his likes and dislikes; I don’t fall for the sum of the parts. I fall for the whole. Matching people up by percentages misses the point, I think — sure, I’d rather have a smoker so he won’t get on my back about my smoking, and I don’t want to “see a show,” ever, and if he’s a guy who tries too hard, I can’t concentrate and I won’t like him. But when I have a boy on my mind, it’s not the things he likes to do or the movies he saw recently that matter. It’s not whether he’s got kids, or dogs, or a shitty job forty miles away from the city. It’s something both larger and smaller than that — something in the laugh, around the eyes, how he acts in crowds or when it starts to rain, what he sees in me that I long ago stopped noticing in myself, something in my laugh, around the eyes. I suppose the ads can work — I suppose I could meet someone, almost by mistake, through an ad and fall for him — but certain things about the self you can’t put into words at all, and most of these guys can’t put much into words effectively in the first place. “Looking for a special lady who loves to have fun” just isn’t going to get it done.

“Lady.” Shudder.

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