I saw this last night as I was reading Philadelphia Magazine and it got me to gigglin' and has thus generated a small creative writing exercise:
Classic 1946 Model, looks newer, sporty, stylish, exceptionally maintained, high-performance engine. Requires premium fuel, minimal fine-tuning. Mint luxury throughout. Lost previous ownder (widower).
I laughed a lot at this gentleman's ingenuity, and then I laughed even more at the fact that I was reading these want ads aloud to my mother like so:
"Very attractive, witty, warm SJM..."
"JM? What'n the world is a JM? You gotta watch these men in these things. Mess around and get someone who'll try to tie you up."
Pause. Picture me confused.
"Mama. JM is Jewish Male," I said as the look on her face revealed a Law & Order: SVU-induced fear. "Not J-blank Masochist."
I have no idea what else she would've thought the "J" stood for, and neither did she, unless there's some j-word that's synonymous with kinky and then that would've definitely fit.
(I also love that she advised me to watch out for men in "these things" like I was actually looking.)
Anyway, this is all extra chuckle-worthy to me because of late a wonderful friend of mine - we'll call her Gene - has been heckling me about signing up for eHarmony.
You know, for the fun of it.
Not because I'm desperate to be married and to get crackin' on cuttin' into the obscene lead that Mama Duggar has on my uterus or anything like that.
I just want to say that this thought has NEVER occurred to me. I know people who've tried good ol' "eHarm" (which makes me pine for chicken parm) and other Internet dating sites and it's worked out well, splendidly even. Cohabitation has ensued and loves and marriages ... but I just didn't think about it applying to me. Ever.
"But Danita. You're 30!"
Some people are so damn funny.
As much as I love a good laugh and could undoubtedly benefit from having a strong, lovin' to cook, snow-shovelin' ... I mean, a warm, intelligent, adventurous long-term companion in my life, I've decided to forego the free-trial period that would of course be followed by the monthly fees that would then rival the existence of my Netflix account. Mama didn't raise no fool, kids; the age-old cliche is real: Money can't buy happiness.
Instead I've decided to begin drafting my very own want ad. Inspired by Mr. Model T from above, here's what I have so far:
1980 Oversize Sedan, very low mileage, tiptronic transmission, needs a little body work, sporty, high-powered engine. Finely tuned with all-season wheels apt for cruisin' long distances or for short spins around the block. Honk if you're interested.
I whittled it down some. Had a good bit in there about spark plugs, timing belts and power steering, but I figure maybe I'll save those things for the first test drive. Thoughts?