ur writer is in the middle of a move-related crisis: She’s decided to heed her daughter’s wishes and stay put in their current house, losing thousands of dollars in the process. Despite all that drama, she’s still finding time to look for love online. Here’s her story…

Friday, 10:05 p.m.
Here I go again, writing to a stranger, hoping to charm him with my words. But what do I say? My soon-to-be-former-best-friend Sherry would tell me that it doesn’t matter what I write, any man will respond to any woman with a pulse and at least one orifice (Sherry doesn’t mince words).

I continue writing. Hey there. My name is Sara and I just read your profile. It sounds

	Here I go again, writing to a stranger, hoping to charm him with my words.

have a lot in common. A love of New York Pizza, fresh oatmeal cookies… and Golden Retriever puppies. Is that your dog? What a little doll!

I re-read what I’ve just written and decide that I sound like my grandmother. I delete the whole thing and start again.

Friday, 10:15 p.m.
Hey there. My name is Sara and I just read your profile. New York Pizza, fresh oatmeal cookies, minor league baseball? Me too! And I love Golden Retrievers. What I don’t love so much is writing to strangers because for all I know you’re a maniac and besides, you don’t care if I can write. I’ve got a pulse and at least one orifice and that’s all that matters, right?

I delete this too. Obviously.

Hmmm… I’ve got an idea. Time to do a little research. Surely someone else in the online dating universe has figured out the perfect way to introduce yourself to an attractive prospect. I type in the search term: “how to respond to someone’s online dating profile.” Tons of advice but no magic tricks, just a lot of common sense. Be yourself. Don’t fib. Say what you’re looking for. Be conversational. Be friendly.

Hey there. My name is Sara. I think I’m too fat for you. Also, I sometimes buy Doritos from the vending machine in my office, which you probably never do because you like to eat healthy and all. I like to eat healthy too, but I’m definitely not above the occasional Kit Kat bar. So I wonder if that might eventually pose a problem for us. Because let’s say we’re out to dinner and you order the

The bearded, outdoorsy, oatmeal cookie-loving guy will have to wait.

grilled salmon but I really want a cheeseburger but I’m too self-conscious to order one. So I order the grilled chicken but I don’t really enjoy it. Is that any way to start a relationship?

Delete.

It occurs to me that maybe I’m not in the right frame of mind to do this tonight. My inner Sherry is telling me to forget about dating for a while and focus on my daughter who needs an attentive mom, not a distracted, gallivanting divorcée. I hate that word, by the way. Divorcée. It always makes me think of some desperate, gin-swigging bleached-blonde predator. That’s not me. At least not the gin-swigging part.

That’s it. I’m going to make myself a cup of diet hot cocoa and go to bed. The bearded, outdoorsy, oatmeal cookie-loving guy will have to wait.

Saturday, 11 a.m.
I’m at Target, looking for candles. My therapist is always telling me to be good to myself. I’ve decided that what I really need is to turn my bedroom into a sanctuary, a place of warmth and serenity, a personal retreat. I wonder if I can find an aromatherapy candle made of Xanax.

Saturday, 11:40 a.m.
What started as a hunt for the perfect candle has ended with laundry detergent, dryer sheets, dog food, cat litter, light bulbs and socks for my daughter. I scan the checkout lanes in search of a man. (In honing my checkout skills to a science I have conclusively determined that a single man rarely has more than a single item to buy — usually shaving cream — while a woman with a toddler in tow has the greatest number of items and, hence, produces the longest wait.)

The man I’m standing behind is tall and has absolutely no tush but nice arms and a great haircut. I catch a glimpse of his face and realize it’s the guy I call Everywhere Bob. I seem to see this person everywhere I go. Kroger. Doctor’s office. YMCA. Four-way stops. I never see him with a woman, however. But I don’t think he’s gay. I wonder if Everywhere Bob and I are on some kind of collision course, determined to meet… eventually.

Sara Susannah Katz is a writer in the Midwest.

Read Single In The Suburbs, Part 53