Oh no. Not this again.

Have I mentioned recently how very much I love the Internet? Because I really, really love the Internet. I am old enough to remember life without VCRs and other fancy television recording devices (I actually remember my older sister once using a cassette recorder to tape a PBS "Wonder Works" movie that I was disappointed I wouldn’t be home to see, supplementing the audio from my parents' giant wood cabinet TV with her own commentary describing what was happening on screen), and yet routinely I marvel at the horrifyingly difficult and cumbersome lives we must have led before the Internet was commonplace. I think I have actually blocked out all memory of those more arduous and complicated times as though it were an event warranting post-traumatic stress. The Internet has made me a spoiled, lazy girl. Poor Laura Ingalls Wilder had to get by without indoor plumbing or a microwave, and I can't imagine having to drive all the way to the library to request a hold on the next Twilight book. The horror.

Anyway, online library reservations, recipe sites, and driving directions aside, I now have the Internet to thank for the newly re-functioning air conditioner in my car as well. Specifically, I have Steve and Google Image Search to thank for the newly re-functioning air conditioner in my car, because Steve told me what easily obtainable $17 product would likely fix my problem, and this picture told me exactly where to insert that product. Yay! I am certain the Saturn service center goblins would have charged me far more than $17 plus tax for the same repair, and I wouldn't have nearly the same sense of satisfaction at the result. In fact, if you know me in real life, I apologize for this entire paragraph, as I know I have already bragged about this to everyone and anyone I've spoken to in the past three days. I am woman; hear me roar. (Or, rather, I am woman with helpful resources, whose commute is finally back to only the usual levels of annoyance and frustration, sans crankiness-inducing blast furnace blowing in my face. Either way, WHOO.)

Of course, now that I know how to add refrigerant to the low pressure port on my air conditioner, I am even less likely to ever have a boyfriend again. After all, if that book Liz read recently is to be believed, I am supposed to be a helpless and delicate flower, and I'm pretty sure delicate flower types don't even deign to pop the hood of their cars. If it helps at all, I could admit that pressing the button on that can of refrigerant down for ten solid minutes made my weak and girlie thumbs more sore the following day than they've been since my mom bought my sisters and me our first Super Mario Brothers cartridge back in 1989. But that's probably not something to be proud of either. Moving on.

Speaking of my boyfriendless self, Lord help me but I am actually contemplating giving the absurdity of online date-finding yet another try. Why would I do such a foolish and frustrating thing?? Have I not read my own archives?? Sigh.

I really am quite fine on my own, and I really would like to sit back and let fate run its course, trusting that someday (finally SOMEDAY) I will actually meet an interesting man in real life and in person, the old-fashioned traditional way, and hence, I can stop wasting time with this Internet matchmaking nonsense. Unfortunately, once every four months or so, I wake up on an otherwise average and uneventful Saturday or Sunday morning feeling out of sorts and out of pace with the world, and in a panic of melancholy decide that I MUST FIND SOMEONE TO LOVE ME AGAIN. It matters not if two days prior I was marveling at just how content in my independence I am, how very much I enjoy my space and my free time and my ability to do what I please when I please. It matters not if three weeks prior I was sitting on yet another very boring date with yet another perfectly nice but uninteresting man dreading writing yet another "It was lovely meeting you, but I just don't feel a connection" follow-up message. No, on those once-a-quarter out-of-sorts days, I forget all of that and I convince my weepy, inexplicably fragile self that maybe THIS time will be different. THIS time, it will be worth all the wasted evenings of inane small talk. THIS time, Mr. Right-for-Me will be out there.

That most recent once-a-quarter day of melancholy was yesterday. Hence, instead of going outside on a beautiful, sunny, late summer day to take a walk or a bike ride or finally finish preparing my garage for repainting, I ended up spending damn near the whole precious day filling out yet another series of psychology-related questions and summing myself up in yet another little white box in the hopes that THIS time, I will end up as one half of one of those maddening smiling couples on the login screen. Ha.

I haven't actually ponied up for membership at this latest venue. I'm still trying to decipher just how the unfamiliar system works and whether the crop of potential future boyfriends is any more promising and worth my hard earned dollars than the frightening trolls and perverts I could meet for free on Craig's List are. (Disclaimer: I know that some of you met the love of your life on Craig's List. I still feel like I need to take a shower every time I peruse those listings.)

As usual, however, what has happened is that I have received several matches that I immediately dismissed due to a visceral reaction (the usual groan followed by a shudder followed by an audible, "Gah. NO!"), and ONE match that made me gasp with optimism, eyes wide, crying "Him! Yes, him! THAT one I would like to meet!"

I know better by now, however. I know that when ONE perfect-seeming man prompts me to hand over my credit card number, that man will either ignore my request for communication or will flake out with lame apologies after a seemingly very good date or two. Hrmph. Hence, I am waiting... basically lurking around the site, saying, "What else ya got?? Huh?" If Mr. Arty-Looking IT Guy really is my soul mate, then surely it is worth $50 to meet him. On the more likely chance that he's not, however, I want to ensure the per-prospect cost is a bit more reasonable.

Of course, this could all be wholly unnecessary, as my friend Carrie and I have grand plans to infiltrate the crowds around the RNC next week and either bond over drinks with like-minded curious and possibly devious liberals or engage in some light-hearted sparring with buttoned-up, misguided Republican boys. That would be just my luck, wouldn't it. My soul mate could be a Republican. And not just any Republican, but a visiting one. From Texas. Or Florida. Gah. Nevertheless, the Republicans are coming (I keep saying that over and over in my head, Paul Revere style: "The Republicans are coming! The Republicans are coming! Aaaggghhh!"), so we might as well have fun with it, I say. Fear not; I will report back. Surely there'll be an interesting story or two to share.