Watson, Come Here, I Need You

At my temporary Starbucks this morning, I chatted with a fellow single whom I hadn't seen in a while. Still a loyal blog reader, he confessed that he misses my earlier posts, the ones filled with lurid sex tales (whether real or imagined) and venomous descriptions of my husband and his bimbo attorney.

It's not that I've gone soft; it's just that my mom occasionally reads this stuff now, and I've grown so fond of her lately I don't really want her to have a coronary. Sure, I still get ridiculous propositions on computer dating sites, but I've lost interest in chatting up the psychos for the sole purpose of gleaning new blog material. And as for my husband and the botox queen, we're all going to be in the same room together next Tuesday, so stay tuned.

I am still harboring some faint hope of meeting the man of my dreams, someone who doesn't pee all over the toilet seat or say anything just to get laid. Or realize he's gay, which is what I think happened to the last guy I dated (just a hunch). One of the men of my not-so-sweet dreams sent me roses yesterday. They're so pretty I didn't have the heart to pitch them, but I must admit I refused to add life prolonging flower food to the water. I can engage in empty gestures with the best of them.

Although I won't allow myself to get too excited yet, I think I may have a lead on Mr. Right. He is smart, works quickly, doesn't go berserk when he's wrong, and apparently likes the Beatles. My guess is he has never peed on the toilet seat or made up stuff just to get laid, and I'm pretty sure he's not gay. Or straight. In fact, I'm pretty sure he doesn't even have a penis. Need I say more, ladies?

My new heartthrob, Watson, is the latest contestant to beat on Jeopardy. He is an IBM computer, and he is dreamy. He may be filled with lots of useless information, but it's not as if he goes around spouting it unless someone asks him a question. Or, as the case may be on Jeopardy, gives him an answer. Suffice it to say he doesn't speak -- or do anything -- unless instructed to, and I'm gonna do whatever I can to make him mine.

If I have to, I'll go on Jeopardy. I won't do very well -- my mind is a sieve -- but I have a few answers I'd like to toss his way. "Watson, I need you," I'd say. "Lots of love, adoration, basic handyman and cooking skills, decent hygiene, good toilet seat etiquette, and a willingness to satisfy my every whim."

I know Watson will get it right. "Jill, what can I do to make myself the man of your dreams?"