This is totally not what I’d planned to write about today. I’d planned to write about something MUCH more important and serious that probably would’ve lost me followers. And then Dan decided to put together Joshua’s Cozy Coupe and we needed some mindless television. So we turned on The Millionaire Matchmaker.
Have you seen this show?
Basically, millionaires can’t meet people on their own. So they hire Patti, a third-generation matchmaker, to set them up with their ideal match.
I get that these millionaires are concerned with gold-diggers grubbing for their goods. (Hellooooo, alliteration!) I get that they may not be in circles where people are single and easily meet-able. I get that they may have spent a great portion of their lives building their fortune. I get that they have busy, busy lives because they work all the time to keep making millions.
People, I will tell you how to meet your ideal match for way less than Patti’s charging. And this might still lose me followers because bodily fluids are involved.
Here it is. The secret of the dating Universe.
Go to a bar with some friends. Have a drink or two. Have a conversation with someone. Marry that person. Live happily ever after. The End.
All of that might work. (And that’s the short story of how Dan and I met, wooed, and wed.)
The number one way to be happy for the rest of your life?
Make sure the person you marry is a dork.
(Yes, I just called my husband a dork. But it’s okay because I’m a dork, too. I read the classics for fun, y’all. Long live Hawthorne!)
Bam. It’s that simple.
A dork will always make you laugh.
And he can fix your computers and electronics. And he will know things about stuff when you don’t know those things.
And he probably won’t be full of himself like this douchebag I’m watching on television right now.
Will, the guy who was just on my TV, thinks he is The Ish. And he’s not. Shauna, the crazy woman whose episode I just started? Is certifiable. Both of them? Think they are entitled to something much better than that to which they are actually entitled (which, in both of their cases is a lump of coal and dead batteries).
My husband? Does not think he is The Ish. (And he totally is.) Also? He is not certifiable.
But seriously, we can be silly together. We randomly bust out into dance in the middle of the living room. Our idea of foreplay is laughter. We have our own made up words. We can (and do) say ridiculous things to each other. We talk about farting and poop and asparagus pee. I can skip make-up and he still wants to go out in public with me! He drools on my pillow sometimes and I don’t kick him out of the bed!
That is love, people.
That. Is. Love.
So, if you need some help finding someone special, just come to me. I’ll gladly accept your money in exchange for doling out the kind of sage advice you won’t find on television. People are way too self-conscious to show the real stuff on television.
And asparagus pee? That’s real stuff.