By this time, I realized how superficial this online dating process was.  In fairness to Match.com , they didn’t hide the fact that they weren’t plumbing our emotional depths in search of matches.  “Like you,” a box next to one man’s photo would exclaim, “he’s not a smoker, he’s the middle child, and he digs dining out.”  Or “like you, he enjoys movies, likes to lift weights, and has a graduate degree.”

Then again, no matter how detailed and honest we try to be in describing ourselves, they’re just words. Some wag compared the self-portraits we provide on dating sites to the list of ingredients on a box of food: Reading the list won’t tell us how the food will taste.

At least this dating service was less controlling than eharmony in that I wasn’t expected to explain why I wasn’t interested in its choices for me. And if I were interested, I could  “wink” or go directly to email.

No way would I wink, regardless of the yellow smiley face and message from Match: “He just winked at you! Out of millions of members, he picked you! Flirt right back with a wink, or even better, an intriguing email!”

“Intriguing” sounded like code for coy and wasn’t my style either.  Instead I sent friendly opening gambits similar to ones I had received, in which the writer highlights a few things in the other person’s profile that struck a cord or that we have in common, followed by a suggestion that we meet or at least chat on the phone.

So how did I decide on whom to contact? What got my attention?

For starters, I immediately discounted men who didn’t include a photo and who had never been married. Not having kids made them suspect but still in the running, while being shorter than I automatically eliminated them. A profile full of tired buzz words like “easy going” and “laid back” and “what you see is what you get,” often accompanied by the faintly misogynistic dislike of “drama,” usually ended up in the slush pile.  A snappy opening could make me receptive to whatever else followed (a personal favorite: “ ‘I went to Stanford, and I want to get married.’ This line worked for me thirty years ago so I’m trying it out again now.“)

Of course it was unfair of me to judge someone on such shallow criteria as his height or creative writing skills. Which is the problem with this process. It reminded me of my Human Resources days and reading resumes. I had to whittle down the stack, so looked for reasons to reject rather than accept. It was a process of elimination, just like reading personal profiles, that resulted in perfectly nice strangers being designated as winners and losers.

“

Maybe even more than for some other newcomers, given how non-discriminatory I declared myself to be. Any race or nationality is fine by me, I had said. Height is unimportant, too, as are location, education level, and age.

That didn’t last long. I “closed” the match with a 5’7″ man of Arab descent the same day I received it. Ditto the 77 year old who reminded me of my Grandpa Ed and the retired salesman with no college. Facing one’s prejudices is humbling, especially for us mouthy political liberals. But not humbling enough to make me consider meeting these guys for a cup of coffee.

It cut both ways. Men my age often closed matches, too, before we’d even begun to communicate. I figured they were holding out for someone younger, per the opinion of my friend, Katie, a sixty-something veteran of online dating.

“Men can find partners who are ten, twenty years younger. We don’t get as much as a wink from a lot of guys our own age,” she said.

Not that any of us is honest about why we’re not interested in the matches appearing in our inbox each morning. From the list of possible rejections provided by eharmony, we pick innocuous ones like “I’m pursuing another relationship” or “I think the distance between us is too great.” Even from a total stranger, it stings to  receive “I’d rather not say” or “Other” as the reason for lack of pursuit.

The first man to follow up on a match was Larry, a 69-year old psychologist. Experienced on eharmony, he considered the next steps in the process  to be a waste of time (a series of questions  to both, e.g. “Your idea of a romantic get-away would be a week (a) in Paris, (b) in a cottage by the sea, (c) white water rafting, or (d) in the mountains.”). I agreed with him. So we went directly to open communication. And man, did he communicate. Weeks of torrential longing, heavy on what he wanted to do if he ever got his hands on me, and psychobabble so intense that it made me scoff before finally scaring me off.

My book scared off the next man after a month of emails(I wrote about him in a 7/24/2009 post). My house in Mexico gave another man pause, after we’d written back and forth for several weeks and met for dinner in San Francisco.

“I’m too embarrassed to invite you to my house after checking out the photos of yours,” he said. Turns out he lived in semi-finished rooms, was about to declare bankruptcy for the second time in his career as an architect, and had suffered a stroke not long before. “Nurse with a purse” flashed through my mind, and I put an end to us. With brutal speed, via email. I’m ashamed of myself for that cowardice.

I learned a valuable lesson from these first encounters: Don’t spend a lot of time with email banter, and do as my friend Priscilla advised.

“Show and tell sooner rather than later,” she said. “Show your  house in Mexico(www.quintaelena.com) and talk about your book. Let these men know who you are. See how they react. If they can’t deal with a house and a happy marriage, they shouldn’t be dealing with you.”

In November, after a handful of coffee and dinner dates, my subscription expired. I was undaunted, however. Trying my wings had been fun. But eharmony was too restrictive, I thought.

“You can shop for yourself on match.com,” said friend Katie. “Plus there are twice as many subscribers.”

Another one hundred fifty dollars and I was ready for round two.

“Match.com is for dating; eharmony.com is for marriage.” So said my senior pop culture advisor, daughter Jennifer. It was June 2009, and I was ready. Not ready for marriage—why would I ever give up my all-but-free military health insurance and two widow’s pensions (thanks again, Marsh). But definitely ready for a long-term relationship.  I chose eharmony, paid $150 for a six-month subscription, and went to work on my profile.

Stock questions came first: age, height, body type (e.g. slender, regular, stocky, heavy set) eye and hair color, education level, number of children, marital status, income, ethnicity, smoking/drinking habits.  I answered honestly. Why not? Everyone posts under assumed names.

I was naïve and therefore astounded to learn later that men routinely lie about their height and income, women lie about their age and body type, and, according to my nurse practitioner stepdaughter, all of us lie about our smoking and drinking.

“Whatever number of cigarettes and drinks you tell us you have every day, we multiply by three,” she said.

The heart of the profile is a series of incomplete statements. Eharmony offers help to the verbally challenged in the form of checklists to use when filling in some of the blanks. For example, “Ellen’s friends describe her as___________” can be completed with suggestions like creative, perceptive, genuine, thoughtful, intelligent, funny, romantic, and so on. Limit: four. Fair enough; more than that might strain credulity.

“Three of Ellen’s best life skills are ____________,” also includes prompts: “finding pleasure and contentment in simple things; making art and culture an ongoing part of her life; creating romance in a relationship; looking for adventures and unique experiences; achieving personal goals.” This is good news for the computer looking for matches, but bad news for bored profile readers wading through all the self-described culture-seeking,romantic, adventurous high achievers.

For other statements, I was on my own and therefore forced to be more inventive:

-       “The one thing Ellen is most passionate about is _____________”

-       “The three things Ellen is most thankful for are ______________”

-       ‘Other than her parents, the most influential person in Ellen’s life has been                       _____________”

-       “The most important thing Ellen is looking for in a person is _______________”

-       “Ellen typically spends her leisure time _____________”

-       “The things Ellen can’t live without are _____________”

-       “Other than appearance, the first thing you’ll probably notice about Ellen when you meet her is ___________”

-       “The last book Ellen read and enjoyed was _________”

I gave my answers careful thought. Best to choose earnest over clever, I figured; it’s so easy for humor to come up lame. My pop culture advisor agreed.

“Plus truly funny women are a threat,” she added. This from someone who once considered standup comedy as a career. “Men want women to be their audience, not their competition on stage.” She spoke from experience.

After the profile came the highly recommended photos. I put on my best jeans and we headed for the backyard. “Bring Lola,” said Jennifer. “Who can resist an old golden Lab?”

We picked a couple of photos of Lola and me to go with my book jacket “glam shot,” I clicked send, and my package was posted. Ready for perusal by someone I hoped would turn out to be The One. I felt excited, optimistic, and sure of myself. Back in the game, I thought. This will be great.

For starters, not the long-term relationship I seek. The longest relationship I managed so far lasted three months. It crashed and burned when, over the course of 72 hours, my DoD contractor friend moved from talk of his assets and what his kids should inherit to complaints that we “never laugh until we can’t stop.” This from an angst-ridden engineer with a long history of failed relationships and a face no less dour for the $20,000-worth of plastic surgery he had done. But, hey, I’m not bitter.

Another lasted two months; this time I pulled the plug. My financial analyst friend was the strong, silent type all right, but a non-reader as well. I did the heavy lifting conversationally and it wore me out. “The loneliness of monologues,” I’ve heard it described, and I now know how it feels.

Overall, however, I think I have fared quite well. Of the dozen or so men I dated more than once, all came across as considerate good guys. Which made it all the more poignant whenever I closed the door on them.  Mostly for reasons of attitude, I think. They seemed settled in their routines, not open to change or risk, their taste for adventure  much blander than mine. Silicon Valley/Santa Cruz guys for whom an evening in San Francisco was a big deal and best avoided altogether.

A few men quickly checked me off soon after meeting, too. My book scared at least one of them willing to admit it. “I don’t want and am not capable of that level of commitment,” he said. Two others, not as keen on me as I was on them, just disappeared. Both happened to be lawyers, for whatever that’s worth. Sample humor from one of them:

“As a registered Republican, New York Jew, living in San Francisco, I’m probably eligible for a federal protection program,” he said. Ergo the disappearance?

It’s easy to keep hope alive, however. Prospects continue to pop up almost daily. Recent dinners with articulate, thoughtful men have gone well.  Hikes and sails, even with a sworn bachelor obsessing about his sex life, have really been fun. Bottom line: I’ll renew my subscription and stay the course.

“I’m starting small,” he tells her. “Five, maybe six tables at the most, so I can guarantee good service.” He’s confident that nobody’s chiles rellenos can rival his, and they’re going to be his signature dish.

“I know how much gringos love rellenos. The tourists will come in droves.” Both of them laugh.

“You have the perfect personality for a restauranteur,” my friend tells him. And his fluent English is a huge plus, she adds.

He owes his fluency to a high school English teacher he had ten years ago, he says.

“Man, she was tough. Every week she forced us to partner up and write a minimum ten-sentence dialog, which we handed in and she corrected and gave back to us. Then we had to memorize it and perform it in front of the class.”

No excuses; do it or receive a failing grade for the week. The students hated it. Speaking in public was hard enough, but in English? Their accents embarrassed them. Classmates sometimes laughed at their mistakes. They had no choice, however. Week after week, for two years, they performed.

“And learned to speak with confidence,” Miguel said. “Now, looking back, I think I owe my new restaurant, at least in part, to that teacher. Her name was Mrs. Greene.”

The Trader Joe’s pepper is in the refrigerated section. It’s coated with a tasty tomato and herb blend. If you want some more carbs with that, add a side of TJ’s frozen brown rice, nuke it all for a few minutes, and pat yourself on the back for being so nutritionally virtuous.

The same goes for  my new favorite  chile relleno. With this new recipe, you can cut the calorie count by more than half and take in three major food groups with one simple dish. First roast, peel, and seed the poblano as usual. Stuff it with a mix of low-fat cheddar and cream cheeses, then roll it in whole wheat flour, followed by beaten egg white and panko bread crumbs. Finally, spray the chile with canola oil, sprinkle with salt and pepper, and bake  for 20 min. at 450 degrees. Top  with a favorite salsa, and it’s delicious enough for company.

Enough with the virtuous. Over on the dark side are two new junk foods I can’t seem to resist. Evil geniuses at the Peter Paul/Hershey Company have come up with Almond Joy Pieces, m&m-shaped candies that taste like the chocolate, coconut, and almond flavored candy bar I love.  And, as a potato chip gourmand, I am so taken with a new chip I just discovered that someone had to pry a bag of Hawaiian Sweet Maui Onion Chips from my hands in order to make me share. Slathered with French onion dip, they were worth the fight.

1.  Beto Palomera is a prince. He gives honest quotes on masonry jobs, completes work as scheduled with no cost overruns, and has an artist’s eye. My new wall and walkways look fabulous, thanks to his design ideas.

2.  Fish tacos can be improved. Thanks to Baja Takueria, the newest and, in my opinion, best taqueria in town, many of the other street stands have ramped up in order to compete.

3.  Downpours during high season might be bad for tourism and cause locals to complain, but they green up the jungle and do wonders for my garden.

4.  I really don’t mind taking cold-water Navy showers.

5.  My favorite dinner partner in Mexico is son Michael. His banter with waiters makes them and me chuckle. Plus, God bless him, he always picks up the tab.

6.  The hour-and-a-half, early morning hill walk with my buddies never gets old. The exercise is good, the conversation even better.

7.  I sweat the small stuff, no matter how many times I remind myself not to.  I spend too much time worrying about upkeep of my property and too little time savoring its many charms.

8.  It pays to traverse neighboring towns and browse in their small shops. This trip I scored funky, colorful sandals, made from oilcloth, ten bucks a pair.

9.  Cooking dinner for friends does not have to be an all day, labor-intensive extravaganza.  If I make the main course and they bring the side dishes, everyone is happy.

10. I am not ready to walk away from Quinta Elena. The pride of place I feel after having designed and built it is too strong, the memories held within its walls too poignant.

“Don’t’ be surprised if it drives me to a face lift, or at least an eyelid job,” I tell my daughter. She’s heard this before and waves me off.

It unnerves me as well that I don’t remember how to kiss. My well-intentioned friends get all misty-eyed and say, “It’s like riding a bike; it’ll come back to you.” Not so far—I lurch forward and knock noses, pull back too soon as if to signal “time’s up,” startle when I feel a strange tongue in my mouth and think,  I used to like this, right?

And I’ve been out of the game for so long, I clutch at the thought of me naked in bed with some poor unsuspecting guy. What’ll I do then, other than cry? Which I can almost guarantee.

My instincts are shot, and I can keep myself up at night agonizing over what I said or he did. It’s kind of cute, I suppose—a 63-year old, unsure of herself, waiting with a knot in her stomach for a “boyfriend” to call. Note to self: File these feelings for future reference. They might make me  hip and helpful in a few years when my granddaughters start to date. I can liven up the sleepovers by comparing notes with them as we pop corn, bake cookies, and bitch about boys.

Arriving at the spa, I looked around at the crowd of other clients, most of them less than half my age, and thought, What the hell are they doing here, with their line-less faces and freckle-free hands? Looking at me, they probably thought,  Note to self: Don’t forget the sunscreen.

First up for me that afternoon, the Anti-Aging Rejuvenation Facial. It was divine, especially the neck and scalp massage that came first. Then on to a green papaya slough to strip away dead skin cells and soften the face.

“You know, I mash papaya and coat tough cuts of beef with it,” I said. “It’s a terrific meat tenderizer.”

“Same,” said the aesthetician, pointing to the goo she rubbed on my face. “You feel cheeks now. They tender like baby bottom.”

Properly softened, my face was ready for her energetic removal of impurities. As she pinched her way across my “T-zone” of forehead, nose, and chin, she described in detail the contents of the pores she unclogged.  I vowed to cleanse more vigorously.

The best was saved for last: eyebrow tinting. I’d given mine up for gone. But no, there they were, just waiting to be resurrected with some vegetable dye. It was a shock to see them again after so many years. I held up a hand mirror and stared at them.

“Do I look like Grouch Marx, though?” I asked.

“No,” she said, then added, “Who  is Groucho Marx?”

My spa experience ended with a simultaneous manicure and pedicure. Regulars might take this drill for granted but for me it was tactile heaven: hands and feet left to soak in warm cucumber water until gently lifted out, one at a time, for brown sugar scrubs, massage, velvety creams. I was so taken with the feel of my new smooth girly feet and hands, I barely cared which color  polish was slapped on their nails.

The pampering felt fabulous but still, I doubt I’ll do it again any time soon. I can’t rationalize spending that much money on myself. An eyebrow tint every other month, however, is definitely in the cards.

But we were wrong. A new idea transformed our holiday into something bigger this year and, I think, something better than a mere mound of gifts left under our tree.  The girls’ Uncle Michael gets the credit for introducing gratitude.

The day after he arrived from Mexico to spend Christmas with us in California, Michael handed each of his nieces a crisp hundred dollar bill.

“Have you ever touched a ‘Benjamin’ before?” he kidded. Wide-eyed, they shook their heads.

“Well, here’s what I’d like you to do with the money,” he said. “A lot of people are hurting financially this year. I’d like you to think of ways to spend your one hundred dollars on someone else. To spread the love around and make someone’s Christmas a little more merry. What do you say?”

They liked the idea and started to brainstorm. On TV they’d heard  about a food bank trying to fill holiday baskets. Another place took care of families and said they always needed baby diapers. At the mall they’d seen a Christmas tree blanketed with tags from kids asking for simple gifts like tee shirts and soccer balls. Or they could give some money to the local children’s hospital. Or stuff some in the Salvation Army bucket outside of Target. They were excited about all the options they had.

The following day we headed for Costco, where Lily  selected cans, jars, and cartons of foodstuffs for a local food bank, her cart loaded to overflowing. At the register, she grinned from ear to ear when the clerk told her, “Your total comes to $100.78.”

Anna’s turn came next. At the mall, she chose a handful of gift requests from the tag-covered tree, then rode the escalator up to her favorite stores to pick presents for little girls who asked for a hoodie, a Dora doll, a backpack, and a toy microscope. Back at the tree, a man took the packages from her outstretched arms and thanked her for her generosity.

“That made me feel really good,” said Anna later, from the backseat of our car. “We should do this every year.”

So Lily and Anna didn’t lose Santa after all; they  replaced him, playing Santa themselves with their own acts of generosity. Acts that befitted the true spirit of the season and, I hope, will become a new family tradition. Well played, Uncle Michael.