The Wonderous Dating Game Read online

  The Wonderous Dating Game

  By J M Mason

  Copyright @ 2019 Julia May Mason

  Book Cover Design by Charles W. Jones

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Printing, 2019

  ISBN: 9781652824503

  Dedication

  I dedicate this to all those I’ve dated through the years, and all those folks I saw making dates for others their business, even when they had no business. The road to love has been paved with mishaps, giggles, tears, and wonder, wondering why I ever thought that dating was a good idea. The dating was sometimes worse than a breakup.

  Chapter One

  Watching several seasons of The Dating Game on television with much laughter and wonder when I was younger, didn’t make me an expert on dating by any stretch of my imagination or the meaning of the word. I found myself wondering why all those gorgeous people had to resort to humiliating themselves on TV to find a date while making fools of themselves. I found myself wondering what they gained from this pastime. I don’t believe they were paid. However, was the date the sponsor paid for worth the humiliation?

  In my mind, the beautiful people had what it took to find someone without the extreme, desperate time they spent publicly trying to find someone to date. Being just new to the dating game at my age, I knew I needed more information, yet my time to get on the hunt for a mate would be a disaster, and the fact I was carrying around a lot of baggage didn’t help. I would come to feel shame for my judgmental thoughts about those seeking love on TV, and I learned the true meaning of desperation and humiliation along the way.

  It’s possible that I should’ve taken notes when watching the shows to make sure I knew what questions to ask a date now and know the answers for the issues posed to me as I sought my soul mate. Alas, I didn’t, so the journey was different and challenging, to say the least.

  Because the contestants were humiliating themselves and making fools of themselves, made for fun entertainment for those of us who were watching, but it didn’t make any of them look wise in their choices from the panel of potential mates, they often chose the nutty one, over the one that gave reasonable answers. Or they chose the one who told them they were a sex god or goddess.

  If the truth were known, they weren’t any of the above. They were just ordinary people who were wanting someone for which to share their time, thus feeling the need to put the best foot forward, even if the foot was full of blisters.

  When I viewed the show, when Dad was home to watch with me, he would groan and call the women picking the least likely man as their date, a Bimbo. I wonder what he called the men who chose the one who had the squeaky voice, high pitched giggle, and was dumber than a sack of rocks, as Mom would say. I don’t recall that he ever said anything derogatory about the men. Maybe he sided with the choices of the men if the woman had a curvaceous body.

  Big boobs are marketable. This is the reason for plastic surgeons.

  It can’t be that hard to find someone, so I thought, even on this day, in the year 2000, with so many avenues to find the perfect mate. Because my thinking was in error, I’ll have to hire someone to do my thinking for me in the future about the modern dating game.

  Finding a soul mate was a chore and an adventure that went on and on, etc. You get the picture if you have walked an inch in my shoes when you were trying to find the one who would fit into your dream of the perfect person to compliment your personality. The one you imagined would be sitting in a rocking chair on the porch gumming her/his food as she/he kept yelling, ‘What did you say? You mumble when you talk, Pooky.’

  Sharing my story is something I need to do to get closure from the trauma I experienced on my journey to find my soul mate, from my very first date to the present. Someone somewhere must know exactly how I felt while I tried my utmost best to find Mr. Hunk of my dreams.

  It’s possible that they’ll be filled with empathy and discover they weren’t as silly as I when they were seeking the soul mate of their wildest dreams and finding something for which to be thankful. To know when to step back and when to pursue is something to be learned along the way to the goal.

  My name is Stella Bradford. I’m in my early forties and single again, with two grown sons. I live in Junction City, Colorado, a city of fifty thousand souls, give or take several hundred, many of which are out looking for Mr. and Ms. Right, which doesn’t make my quest for the perfect man any easier. There’s too much competition for someone who never enjoyed playing games of any kind ever.

  The number of persons seeking a mate doesn’t consider those souls who are out there cheating on their spouses. This fact makes those of us who are genuinely seeking someone to spend the rest of our life with so much harder.

  Doesn’t it make you want to smack them silly with a foam paddle? I know some of you thought brick, but that is naughty, and someone would have to clean up the bloody mess, which would delay the quest for a mate.

  I would bitch slap someone as soon as I find out what it means to bitch slap someone. What I imagine would make me laugh if I threatened to do this to someone. Think about it from my position. I think I was born in the woods under a mat of green grass that has learned to peruse the gutter on occasion.

  There is someone out there that didn’t picture what I did in my mind, so I’ll explain. A bitch is a female dog. Now, do you get the picture? I refuse to apologize for the workings of my mind. It just isn’t like everyone else’s mind. Be thankful.

  Just because there are those, who love to cheat when it would be better for the world if they accepted the fact the person, they chose to be their life mate is the one and only and let the rest of us have a chance. I’ve wondered why anyone would want to cheat, why marry in the first place if you like the greener pastures? Just graze on the greener pastures to save time and effort.

  At least I’m fortunate enough to live in one of the nine states that have a ratio of one male for every female. Now to find my one and only among the choices around Junction City. I just pictured beating the bushes saying, ‘Come out, come out wherever you are.’ in a high-pitched sing-song voice.

  If I could write an ad to find the one male for me, I would ask that person to please wear a pretty red rose in his lapel. Then I wake and know that many men don’t have a lapel in which to hang anything. Hanging the rose anywhere else on the body is pleasant to visualize, however, would get the man arrested for indecent exposure and me the title of pervert. Now that’s a thought for a rainy day, me a pervert.

  Because there is one man out there wandering around the dating world looking for me, things must be better. That makes two people with the same goal, so the quest is made easier for both of us.

  The odds are against me in most of the states, however, to get better probabilities, I’d have to move to the District of Columbia where men outnumber women. Fifty-two-point eight percent of District of Columbians are men, while only forty-seven-point two percent are women. This gives every woman at least one man and a fraction of a second for themselves. I would want all the good parts of the fraction allotted to me.

  When I think about those who prefer someone of the same gender, those who are cheating, and the grumpy old man or old maid who wants to be left alone, my chances are reduced to maybe one-half of one percent chance of finding my man who wants to be my mate. To be positive, at least I have a chance, meaning that the hunt is on for a person for whom I have no idea what he looks like, where to find him, and whether he wants me as I am. What could possibly
go wrong and how hard can it be?

  I pondered this information, wondering if I would be required to share one man? Of course, this would be a catastrophe for me and the woman I would need to share a man because I don’t always share my property well.

  When I was a child, I would pull someone’s hair and scratch at any part of their body to keep them from taking my toys away from me, even if I wasn’t playing with the toy they wanted from my stash. They were gifts from Mom, Dad, and all the people who loved me, so they were mine, all mine.

  If the one who was trying to take my toy persisted, I bit the thief hard and pulled the toy away from the criminal, then hit the offender with it. I saw Grandpa hit a dog with the chicken he had killed to stop the killer dog from ever wanting to kill another chicken, so I assumed it dissuaded the dog from killing chickens, it would work for me.

  If one of the mothers gave one of my toys to the person who coveted it, when the moms weren’t looking at me, I snuck up behind the kid playing with my toys and snatched it from them with a threatening look on my face. I took my toy back to the corner and sat back down, all innocent looking, with wide-open eyes that I would lower at half-mast wanting those who looked my way think I was considering my selfish ways. They were to believe I was contrite.

  So, sharing a man wasn’t part of my thoughts. I doubt I’ll be moving soon to find a place with more guys. I’ll just have to find my one and only in my backyard where he’s hiding in plain sight. My problem isn’t where to find him, but how do I find him?

  Finding my man is worse than playing hide and seek. At least when I was a child and played the game, I knew for whom I was looking. Now, I must find the allusive single male among men, who rarely wear a wedding band, to be my lifelong companion. I’m going to need all the help I can get from everywhere.

  Working as a receptionist in the local OB/GYN office, with an all-woman staff, isn’t conducive to finding that particular person. So, I’ll have to rely on those who love me, and those who want to see me fail to help me find someone.

  The ones wishing me to fail are on my naughty list; however, it doesn’t mean that my one and only isn’t the one they pick for me. It’s possible to fall in love to spite the person who wishes failure.

  Chapter Two

  As I indicated before, my two sons are grown and making a living on their own, so I’m at loose ends since I’m alone. Being this is the second time I’ve found myself on the auction block of the dating world—I call it an auction block because a person must sell all the best parts of themselves to get the best parts of a mate—I must beat out the Miss Barbie types and those who are younger than me. God help me if they are both rolled into one firm body.

  Frankly, being alone isn’t what I had in mind when I married and vowed, ‘For richer, for poorer, in sickness and health for better, for worse, until death we do part, blah, blah, blah.’

  To my recollection, the Marriage License didn’t have a line that gave my husband the option of trading me, his ancient wife, in for two twenty-year-old girls the minute I turned forty. Yet, this is what happened. Well, he traded me in for one girl younger than his sons. I’m confident that made up for the two twenties, I guess he didn’t feel cheated for having to settle for only one that way.

  Finding myself lost in thought about my future aloneness, my mind wandered to thoughts of other women. Would I be like so many women who become grumpy and growls every time someone draws near me? Maybe, finding a younger man would be something for me to consider. If I wait for him to turn eighteen, there’s still time to train him to suit myself.

  The loneliness became so overwhelming, I felt like screaming and throwing myself in the arms of any man that happened to have the misfortune of walking in front of me. I missed the warmth of a man’s arms around me. Holding me to his chest so that I smelled his scent, and the cologne he wore caused my nose to run buckets of slimy, clear nasal fluids, and the feel of his chest hairs tickled my nose until I sneezed the clear, slimy juice all over his wiry chest hairs.

  I vetoed that thought immediately. I’m not that hopeless to throw my arms anywhere yet; it would be my luck the first man I saw would be bent over a walker shuffling along. There is hope out there for me for now.

  After much thought about seeking a younger man, I determined I wasn’t a cougar, yet, I felt sickened about the prospect of finding my one and only who was in my age bracket, let alone one who was young and had a hard body that would sink into my body because I’ve lost most of my muscle tone; even with a workout or two, my skin feels spongy. It happens, OK?

  Before my divorce, I was sure that either my husband or I would die before the marriage would be a bust. Cheating most definitely is a deal-breaker in any marriage. However, when someone dies during any marriage, it makes it a legitimate deal-breaker, making being single right, and finding a new mate a healthy and appropriate thing to do.

  Instead, I found myself divorced. Being split up made me marginally marketable. My excitement for the load of baggage I had accumulated through the years wasn’t a bargain in the opinion of all my family and friends, anyway. More than likely, my luggage wouldn’t match any of his, strife and tribulation would result, creating disharmony in my new relationship.

  Is there a book named Dating for Dummies available? I knew the rules for dating had to have changed since I was fourteen years old, in 1959, thus making it necessary to have such a book to guide my choices, helping me not make a complete fool of myself or cause harm to the ones who come into my sight, knowing it isn’t a good thing to grab the first man that just happens to be walking down the street or shopping for food. I remember hearing the words ‘restraint’ and ’boundaries’ that made me understand that grabbing still is a bad thing that would get me in the corner for a time out with an orange jumpsuit. Orange isn’t anyone’s color.

  Chapter Three

  Matchmakers have been around for many centuries. In Asia, the government has used the census to match couples for marriage. Please don’t tell the elected ones about this means of using the census, we already have enough problems with the current population count, so we don’t need the government using the ideas and mess up what they’ve already done.

  The government determining who’ll mate with me is something that I’m not in favor of. It means to me that the government wants breeders to increase the population or make the perfect race, by putting us with the right person like dog breeders do to create a new breed of dog.

  I know this may seem silly to some, but I genuinely feel that personal issues are to remain private, and my bed is full enough without having the feds in my bed with me. Of course, if the government man is healthy and the offspring would be better, maybe I’m wrong and should reconsider. It’s my opinion the government has weightier matters in which to contend.

  Often the females of the families, like Moms, grandmothers, aunts, and the strange woman who lived down the lane, would look at the single boy and girl and determine that they would be an excellent match for the single person they know. Who knows a child better than the nosy neighbor?

  When our country was just a baby, and the pioneers decided to clear the land for farms, there weren’t enough people to help with the chores, so the couple would have a truckload of kids to help work the farm, from sun up to sundown, it made it nearly impossible to find a mate for the children. Maybe, this is where the phrase ‘kissin’ cousins’ came from.

  During the pioneer days, social events were a way to meet the man or woman of their dreams, thus the good old-fashioned Hoedown. Square Dancing was a big event that literally threw people into the arms of the opposite sex and wore them out, so they didn’t have the stamina to procreate without the benefit of marriage. No ring, no nooky was the rule of the year.

  If dancing wasn’t your forte, then you could go to the local church for an ice cream social. The young folks were recruited to churn the frozen dessert, and the boys hoped they could accidentally cop a feel of the breasts of the lady, who was struggling with t
he handle on the churn.

  The biggest problem with this means of meeting the opposite sex, there were too many chaperones. These events were family affairs. Making whoopee is challenging to do when Mom is sitting between a young couple.

  I favored the idea of a barn and house raising. Just think of the bulging, sweaty muscles gleaming in the sunlight as they pounded nails in the boards and pulled lumber up on the roof. At least barn and house raising allowed the woman to view the merchandise before she agreed to date the young man. The man was able to see what a great cook she was and slobber all over her for a chance to date her like Pavlov’s dogs.

  Humans are humans, no matter what the generation, making the dating game an old, tried, and true concept, but nonetheless cruel. It beats Dads arranging marriages for their daughters to make their riches increase or being judged by the community by the number of cows or the coins on a veil that determined her worth.

  The girls were often paired up with the stinking older man down on the farm that just wanted someone to own, making the girl no better than the boar her daddy borrowed to impregnate his female pigs — frightening the girl out of her mind, because the sows were screaming for a long time when the boar mounted them. I’m sure the girl never wanted that man to touch her like the boar did the sow.

  Settlers of the United States ordered brides, calling them mail-order brides, so I reasoned that a book had to have been written to help those of us who had to begin from the beginning again. People who have no intentions to repopulate the world, related to the age of the couple, need all the help they can get.

  Someone told me that family and friends often help find partners for those they like. It’s lovely to have friends and family who enjoy helping by telling me every chance they had, ‘It’s time for you to get back out there.’