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One weekend, Michelle and I decided to go to Taste of St. Louis (which, if you have never been, is an all-around good time.) The weather was hot and humid — not such a great climate for a festival featuring cuisine from many of St. Louis’ finest restaurants.

Obviously, hot and humid weather plus lots of good food leads to sticky hands and fingers. I do not like sticky hands and fingers. I think sticky hands and fingers are among the most disgusting things in the universe. Especially when they belong to someone else.

Michelle wanted to hold hands.

I said no.

“Baby, what’s wrong?” she asked.

“I don’t want to hold hands,” I said. “We’re all sticky.”

“You’re being a dick,” she said. “Hold my hand.”

“No,” I said. “Do you want ice cream?” I asked, trying to change the subject.

“Why won’t you hold my hand?” she asked.

“Seriously, our hands are disgusting,” I said.

“You can’t be serious,” she said.

“I am very serious,” I said, “and there is not an ounce of hand sanitizer anywhere in sight. Ice cream?”

“I don’t want ice cream,” said Michelle, “I want to know the real reason why you won’t hold my hand!”

“When a person eats lots of messy food,” I explained, “that person’s hands get covered in sauces, juices, crumbs, and if it was something really good, saliva.”

“You’ve been in contact with plenty of my saliva,” she said, “that’s a non-issue. Now tell me, what the fuck crawled up your ass today?”

“When the ambient temperature surrounding the person who has been eating lots of messy food rises to a certain level,” I continued, undeterred, “all of the stuff on that person’s hands turns into this viscous sludge that makes me feel sub-human. When two people who have been eating messy food in a warm climate decide they want to hold hands, they’re combining two unique types of viscous sludge into an alpha-sludge. Michelle, I don’t want either of us to have to deal with alpha-sludge. That’s just gross.”

She rolled her eyes and sighed.

“Michelle,” said a female voice from a few feet away, “Michelle, is that you?”

Michelle and I turned to see that the voice belonged to a woman, probably in her mid-30s, pushing a double stroller containing a toddler and an infant. Laboring away behind her was a man holding her purse along with an assortment of child-related baggage — two duffel bags full of diapers, assorted wipes, snacks, drinks, and probably even a change of clothes or three. His brow was sweaty, and his slouched posture spelled defeat.

“Laura!” said Michelle, hugging the woman, and in the process, transferring some of the viscous hand sludge from her hands to Laura’s back.

“Sam,” said Michelle, “this is Laura. She’s one of my very best friends from back home. Laura, this is my boyfriend, Sam.”

“Nice to meet you,” said Laura, shaking my hand and mixing her own viscous sludge with mine. This was especially unnerving, as her sludge probably also contained toddler sludge, and as such, was exponentially more toxic than my own. I would need a shower when I got home.

As Michelle and Laura yakked away, the man hobbled over to me.

“Hi,” he said, “I’m Dave.”

“I’m Sam,” I said.

“Nice day, huh Sam?”

“Yeah… A bit hot, which is unusual for this time of year,” I replied.

“So, you’re dating Michelle,” he said, reviewing the facts that had just been presented.

“Yeah,” I said.

“Mmm hmm,” he responded.

“Uhhh…”

“These two have known each other for years,” he said. “They’ll be gabbing for 20 minutes, easily.”

“Great,” I said.

“You met the kids yet?” he asked.

“Yours?” I asked. “There? In the stroller?”

“No,” he said, “Michelle’s kids — her niece and nephew.”

“Oh,” I said. “Not yet.”

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay?” I asked, hoping he’d shed some light on something — anything.

“So, my wife and I,” he said, changing the subject, “we just stood in line for 45 minutes so our kids could get their pictures taken with the electric company’s mascot.”

“Oh yeah?” I asked.

Just then, I heard Laura telling Michelle how awesome it was that the kids were able to have their picture taken with the electric company’s mascot, and how the line was much shorter than she expected.

“Forty-five minutes,” Dave repeated. “In the spring, we stood in line for two hours so they could get their pictures taken with the Easter Bunny.”

“Oh, like at the mall?” I asked.

“No,” he said, “at some sort of thing at a park. It wasn’t even a good Easter Bunny. His ears were sagging, his bow-tie was torn up, and he was naked.”

“Naked?”

“No vest,” he said. “Most Easter Bunny costumes have a vest. This one didn’t. But the kids don’t care. They just wanted to meet the Easter Bunny”

“Wow, so you do this a lot?” I asked.

“About a third of parenting is standing in a line to get your picture taken with a high school drop-out in a furry costume,” said Dave.

“And the other two-thirds?” I asked.

“It mostly involves bodily functions,” he said, “or at least that’s been my experience so far.”

“I see…”

“We should probably get going,” I overheard Laura say, “the kids want to get their picture taken with Big Bird!”

“It’s not Big Bird,” Dave said to me, quietly, “it doesn’t even look like Big Bird. The costume isn’t even yellow. It’s blue. It’s not Big Bird. But when you’re three, it doesn’t matter.”

“I’ll call you this week!” yelled Michelle.

“They seemed nice,” I said.

“Yeah, she’s great — we do a lot of stuff together with the kids,” said Michelle.

And at that moment, I had a terrifying vision — a vision of myself, carrying duffel bags full of child accessories and necessities, waiting for hours so Michelle’s kids could get their pictures taken with some guy in a generic furry costume that almost resembles one beloved children’s character and not quite resembles another.

I had to break up with her.

Everything was going well. Michelle and I were seeing each other nearly every day. It would usually start with a phone call, and within about half an hour, we would be together, enjoying the company of one another. One spur-of-the-moment phone calls on a Sunday afternoon totally took things to a new level, though.

“Hey Sam,” she said, “I had to go into work today — do you want to get some dinner?”

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll be ready in 20 minutes.”

“Can I come inside?” she asked. “I’m actually sitting in my car on your street. I just pulled up.”

“Sure thing,” I said.

This struck me as odd, since Michelle’s office was about 15 minutes from my place. She could have at least called when she was leaving. I hated to keep her waiting while I took a shower and dressed. Plus, frankly, it’s a little creepy to call someone just out of the blue from outside his or her own house.

Michelle came in my apartment, kissed me hello, and made herself comfortable on the couch while I got ready. A few minutes later, we were on our way to the restaurant.

As we were walking in, she said, “Oh, by the way, my friends Sandra and Tanisha are meeting us here.”

“Wait — what?” I said nervously.

“You know, Sandra and Tanisha — I talk about them all the time,” she said.

“I know who they are, but you could have at least warned me!”

Sandra and Tanisha were Michelle’s BFFs, and by combining what little I knew about Michelle’s relationship with these two and women in general, I knew that this was no ordinary dinner. This was a trial in the court of love, and Sandra and Tanisha were there for no other reason than to find some reason Michelle and I should not be dating.

“What’s wrong?” asked Michelle.

“I just feel sort of ambushed,” I said. “You haven’t met any of my friends yet, and if I was bringing you someplace to meet them, I’d at least tell you in advance,”

“Aww, sweetie,” she said, as we sat down in a booth, “they’ll love you!”

“That’s not the point,” I said. “The point is that I’m not ready for this.”

“It’s too late now,” she said, “because they just walked in the door.”

The next minute and a half was a cacophony of laughter, ohmygods, and high-pitched girl squeals, muffled only by the occasional hug.

“So this is Sam?” said the taller of the two friends as she eyed me up and down like a side of beef hanging in a meat locker.

“Sam,” said Michelle, “this is Sandra and Tanisha,” pointing to the taller one and shorter one, respectively. “They’re my best friends in the whole wide world.”

“I’ve heard so much about you,” I said, half-truthfully — I tended to zone out when Michelle would pass the four name mark in any given conversation. Sometimes she would mention as many as ten people. Trying to keep everyone straight in her stories was exhausting. “I’m so glad to meet you,” I lied.

“Oh, no, the pleasure is ALL ours,” said Tanisha, who was looking at me in the same way a hungry lion eyes its prey.

Sandra and Tanisha sat across from us in the booth, picked up menus, and when the waitress arrived, we all placed our orders. Then the interrogation began.

“So, what do you do for a living?” asked Sandra.

I had only retained one fact about Sandra and Tanisha — that they both shared Michelle’s extremely dark and dirty sense of humor. The evening would determine whether I was going to sink or swim. I decided to go blue.

“I’m a large animal proctologist,” I said. “I make shit happen.”

Michelle jabbed me in the ribs under the table.

“He’s not serious,” said Michelle, which triggered uproarious laughter from Sandra and Tanisha.

Two hours of pleasant conversation later, I had won them over.

“You did good,” said Michelle. “They adore you…  And so do I.”

People have been asking me about this, so I guess I’ll address it:

In case you’re wondering, yes, I am still single, and I still have active accounts at various dating sites. On one, I have gone through 234 matches in the last seven months. That’s right, I did the math. You’d think the law of averages would take effect at some point here. Or the thing about a million monkeys at a million typewriters eventually producing the works of Shakespeare. I mean, come on fate, throw me a bone here.

Although, when I think of a million monkeys in one room, typing away, all that comes to mind is how unbearable the smell must be.

Anyway, I’m still looking. When I find her, I promise you’ll be the first to know.

The morning after our second date was quite the accomplishment for me. While Michelle was not my first, nor was she my last, she marked the end of a drought. And anytime a drought-stricken land gets some rainfall — even if it’s just a sprinkle — the natives rejoice.

Naturally, this called for a celebratory phone call to my long-time friend and wing man, Tom.

“Hello?” said Tom as he picked up the phone.

“Guess what,” I said.

“You got laid?” he asked.

“Sure did,” I replied.

“Did Sam get laid?” I heard his wife, Tabitha, ask in the background.

“Sam totally got laid,” said Tom to his wife.

“When do we get to meet this one?” I heard Tabitha say as she took the phone from Tom.

“Uh… Hey Tabitha,” I said.

“Congratulations. What’s her name? When do we get to meet her? Details, dammit, I want details,” said Tabitha.

You see, Tom married the perfect woman when he married Tabitha. Not only was she smart, attractive, and witty — she also accepted Tom’s role as the number one fan of a team known as Sam Getting Laid. Okay, she didn’t just accept it, she became a huge fan of it as well.

“You’ll meet her…  Soon, I guess,” I said.

“Name?” asked Tabitha.

“Michelle. Her name is Michelle.”

“Okay. I approve,” said Tabitha.

“Good to know,” I said.

“I mean, jeez, she broke the drought, right? How could I not be a fan?”

You see, Tom and Tabitha went without cable or satellite TV for their entire courtship and the first few years of their marriage. That meant that their primary source of seedy entertainment, aside from Netflix, was my romantic life. Or lack thereof. Obviously, serving as a source of entertainment and intrigue — often on a weekly basis — left me with a mixed bag of emotions, with flattery, confusion, concern, and performance anxiety all staking out a claim.

The truth was that yes, Michelle did end my drought. And the next month was a torrential downpour of sorts.

The formula was the same each time. Michelle would call me as she was leaving work, offering to bring something over for dinner (or, sometimes, meet up someplace.) We would always end up back at my place with a tub of hummus, some pita chips, and a six pack. It would start out innocently enough, usually watching whatever crappy reality show was on TV or listening to music while talking about the events of the workday. However, things would always end up in bed. Or in the shower. Or right there on the couch. And once in the kitchen, but only once. That particular time was also how we both discovered that the area of the stove top right above the pilot light is hot all the time.

Things were good, for the time being…

TO BE CONTINUED…

From the coffee shop, Michelle followed me back to my place, where we quickly decided that humans were not meant to live on coffee alone. We were both famished.

“Why don’t we go to that sandwich shop just up the street?” she suggested. So we walked two blocks to the little sandwich shop on the corner and returned to my place 24 inches of sandwich richer. Like me, she ordered her sandwich with everything on it. Everything, including pepperoncinis. Any woman who orders pepperoncinis on her sandwich is alright with me.

After devouring our sandwiches, we headed back to my place once more.

“What movies do you have?” she said, as she started to browse through my DVD collection.

“Whatever you see there,” I said. “I’m more of a Netflix person, really.”

“Oooh, I haven’t seen this,” she said, producing my copy of Juno. “Let’s watch it!”

So we cuddled up on the couch and watched a movie about an unplanned teen pregnancy. I have no doubt that we were adorable.

As soon as the credits began to roll, she pounced. I actually had to slow her down so I could get up and close the curtains. After all, it would be rude of me to give my neighbors any sort of show.

Her kisses, steady and intense, told me that among other things, she was a woman on a mission, and that mission involved examining my tonsils with her tongue. Before long, the show moved to the bedroom.

While it would be rude to disclose precisely what happened in the bedroom, I can tell you that there are certain levels of acceptable bedroom noise. Those acceptable noise levels increase exponentially with the number of naked people present.

Michelle surpassed those acceptable noise levels. In fact, she created a whole new level I like to call the primal scream level.

Frankly, I’m amazed the police weren’t called.

Needless to say, by the time she walked out the door at 4 AM, she left me feeling much better about myself — not to mention life, the world, and everything else.

I also believe it is no coincidence that my neighbors began looking at me differently. That next morning, I walked outside to get my paper right as my neighbor Jake was passing by with his dog.

“Atta boy, Sam,” he said as he walked by. “You hang onto that one.”

After our very successful first date, Michelle and I spoke on a daily basis. Both of us were anxious for round two. We decided that following weekend, we would meet up for coffee, since going to a movie really doesn’t allow for much conversation.

I arrived at the coffee shop early. Very early. I’m usually an early person, but this was just ridiculous, really. I got there an hour before our date, ordered an iced latte, and sat at a table near the window.

What did I do for that hour? Aside from spending $20 on iced lattes, I read two newspapers and had begun perusing a dog-eared issue of Time from 2003.

Oh yeah, I also had to use the restroom a couple of times. All that iced coffee goodness has to go somewhere, you know.

Finally, Michelle arrived, and I bought the first (or, in my case, sixth) round.

We made small talk. Lots of small talk. And then there was some medium-sized talk. You know, the more pertinent stuff — family, friends, cherished childhood memories, etc. Then I asked a big question.

“So, why are your niece and nephew living with you?” I asked.

“Their mom,” she said, “my sister — she has made some bad choices,” she said.

“Drugs?” I asked.

“If only,” she said.

I must have given her some sort of an apprehensive glance, as she quickly said she’d rather not get into it.

“That’s fine,” I said. “Sorry for bringing up a sensitive issue.

“No, it’s okay,” she whispered across the table. “We’ll talk about it, I promise. Just not in a public place.”

“No problem,” I said.

“More coffee?” she asked. “Next round’s on me.”

It had gotten dark outside. I looked at my watch — the past hour had completely vanished.

“No, I had too many lattes before you got here,” I said. “I was a little nervous, I’ll admit.”

“Awww, that’s so cute!” she squealed as she got up to get another coffee. A couple minutes later, she returned with a to-go cup.

“What else do you have going on tonight?” she asked.

“I’ve got nothing,” I said.

“Do you want to go someplace else?” she asked.

“We could go back to my place and, uh, watch a movie,” I said, regressing to my 21 year-old self.

“Watch a movie, huh?” she said. “Sounds pretty sketchy to me…”

“Oh, we don’t have to,” I hastily countered.

“I’m kidding,” she said. “Let’s roll — I’ll follow you.”

TO BE CONTINUED…

Every relationship ends until one doesn’t.

At least that’s what Dan Savage says. I am a firm believer in this. As we are milling about through life, those of us who are lucky enough to pair off hope to do so for the long haul — to find that one relationship that lasts. If it weren’t for my personal experience with this search, I wouldn’t have started this website.

And, during this search, my attitude has been (and continues to be) that every relationship ends until one doesn’t.

That’s why, when a young woman named Michelle (who had found me on OkCupid) asked me what my relationship goals were, I told her that every relationship ends, until one doesn’t, and I’m hoping to find the one that doesn’t.

She was a graduate admissions counselor at a college in the area, where her duties included admitting and advising potential grad students, many of whom were, by her account, barely-housebroken morons.

“They don’t realize that I’m not going to do all the legwork for them,” she complained more than once. “They just don’t understand that I am not their mother.”

At the time, I found the griping about the students to be humorous. I remember when I was a student, after all, how clueless I was. And now that I’m an adult, I can appreciate the general disdain adults seem to have for clueless college kids. I get it. I got her. She got me. All was golden.

After much online flirtation, we decided to go out. Dinner and a movie. Nothing special — at least not on the surface.

The movie sucked, and the food wasn’t great, but the conversation was incredible. And her plate was clean before mine.

Let me digress for a moment here. I am a fast eater. I spent every summer from the time I was 15 until I graduated from college working at an amusement park, where lunch breaks were short and intense. In high school, I never had more than ten minutes to eat lunch. As a result of all those years of conditioning, I am a fast eater. Sometimes a little bit messy, too.

Michelle ate faster than me. And she ate everything on her plate. All while laughing and smiling. She was truly a woman after my heart.

“I hope I’m not jumping the gun here,” I told her over our crappy-but-edible meals, “but I’m really feeling a connection here.”

Her laugh tore through the restaurant like a bull. Not an angry bull, but rather, a strong, determined bull. The people all around us glared in our direction. I had made this lovely woman laugh. I was the alpha male.

When the tab came, she insisted on splitting it, not because she wasn’t having a great time, but because she was “fiercely independent.” This was yet another check in the positive column I was updating in my head.

We split the check and headed outside to our cars, hand in hand.

Things were going so well that I wasn’t even fazed when she told me that she was, at age 28, raising her niece and nephew, ages four and three.

Normally, that’s the sort of thing that scares me away, especially since she didn’t want to discuss the circumstances surrounding her custody of the children.

“I’ll tell you,” she said, “someday.”

“That’s okay,” I said. “We don’t have to get into that. You can tell me whenever you’re ready.”

As we stood between our cars, she looked into my eyes, smiled, and kissed me.

We ended our evening with plans for another date, very soon, and a promise to call one another the next day.

TO BE CONTINUED…

A couple months after things with Emily ended, I met Kelly.

Kelly was my age — an attorney who was working on a local political campaign. We met on OkCupid and had lots in common — birth order, political views, desired number of children, etc.

You see, these are the sorts of things that come up during the getting-to-know-you stage of online dating. I attribute it to the absence of in-person interaction. Because some people aren’t able to carry on the e-mail dialogue, some of these potential relationships fizzle very quickly. Kelly wasn’t like that. She was just as verbose as me, if not moreso.

We agreed to go on a date the following Sunday, which happened to be the Sunday after Thanksgiving. I wanted to go to a local art show and she wanted to take me to an Italian restaurant in Soulard she swore was an authentic east coast style pizza place. I agreed. This was Tuesday. Our plans were set.

Fast-forward to Thanksgiving. As I ate dinner with my family, I bit down on something that wasn’t exactly hard, but wasn’t entirely soft, either. My jaw immediately started to hurt. I excused myself from the table, went to the bathroom, and poked around a bit in my mouth. I found that the pain got worse when I put pressure on one of my molars. I should take a moment to point out that I come from a weak-toothed people. Both my parents and each of my siblings have had lots of dental issues. I’m pretty sure my family put our dentist’s kids through college, bought him a boat, remodeled his master bath, and paid for his timeshare in Tampa. We have bad teeth.

I knew this wasn’t good. It was Thanksgiving. My dentist was closed until Monday, and I couldn’t go to an emergency dentist because I could only get the proper dental insurance forms (required any time you see a new doctor) from the HR office, which would also be closed until Monday.

I asked Dr. Google what to do, and he said I should go get some Orajel and the extra-strength acetominophen in fast-dissolving caplet form. So, on my way home, I stopped at Walgreens to fill Dr. Google’s prescription. Within 15 minutes of arriving home and taking more than the recommended dosage of the medicine, I was out like a light.

A few hours later, the medicine wore off, and I was once again in pain. So I popped some more pills, put some more numbing gel on the cracked tooth (something which I actually think you’re not supposed to do, ever, but who cares?), and was knocked out again. Sleep a few hours, medicate. Sleep a few hours, medicate. This was the pattern of my weekend.

Somehow, it didn’t occur to me that I should cancel the date. Rather, I decided to be the weird guy who brought a sandwich bag of red and blue pills with him on the date.

The Orajel was in my coat pocket, natch.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” asked Kelly when I explained myself to her.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” I said. “I just need to stop every few hours and take some medicine.”

“Maybe you should drive,” I added.

“Yeah, maybe I should,” she said.

We got into her car — a sporty little Mercedes — and drove to the art show. Well, at least I’m assuming we drove there. I don’t remember much from that ride, as I think I may have passed out from the medication.

“Sam,” she said, nudging me gently “Wake up. I can’t do this.” I looked around and saw that we were once again in front of my house.”

“Oh,” I said, “Sorry — I must have dozed off.”

“Yeah,” she said. “You were out like a light, so I drove us around the neighborhood, hoping you’d wake up.”

“I’m so sorry,” I said, again. “I’m going to get this fixed tomorrow,” I said.

“It’s okay,” she said. “Just go inside and go to bed. You’re in no condition to be going anywhere today. Just go eat some soft foods and get some rest.”

“I feel terrible,” I said. “Can I make it up to you?”

She said I could, and we agreed to head off to that pizza place later in the week, after my tooth was fixed.

And that’s exactly what we did. Honestly, there wasn’t that much of a connection there. We wished one another luck in finding someone and went our separate ways.

It’s kind of disheartening to spend that much time e-mailing back and forth with someone only to discover after one date that you really don’t have that much in common. It raised a question — why was it that everything seemed so great in the strictly online stage, but failed to pan out once we met? Were our expectations for the in-person meeting too high? Were the right questions not asked during the e-mail stage?

Or maybe, just maybe, I was more interesting when I was passed out in her passenger seat on our first date than I was fully conscious on our second date…

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