Jennifer Johnson Is Sick of Being Single Read Online Free Page A

sing out Ted! ”
    â€œI’m aware of the lyric structure.”
    â€œWho’s your favorite guy?” he sings.
    â€œTed,” I say grimly.
    â€œWho’s the funniest one you know?”
    â€œTed,” I sigh.
    â€œWho’s the most handsome man who also does extra work on weekends just to make your life a little easier on Monday mornings?”
    â€œTed. Ted who needs to get out of my cubicle.”
    He bows, pivots on his foot, and leaves, but keeps singing. I can hear him bellowing the Ted song as he lopes down the hallway. I gotta admit it, he’s pretty funny. If only he didn’t look like a woodland elf. The idea of having sex with him seems like it would require a small green condom.
    I return to the computer and open my daily e-mail from my mother, who likes to send cleaning tips, smug aphorisms, dating advice, prayer requests, and cute photographs of poodles wearing top hats and/or pictures of her only grandniece, Abbygael, who is ten months old and acts like she might have autism, even though everyone swears she doesn’t.
    â€œISN’T SHE AM AZING?” my mother writes.
    I stare at Abbygael’s bulbous forehead. There is something definitely wrong with that kid. I think my cousins are beginning to suspect a problem, too, because they’re starting to dress her in a lot of sunhats, bonnets, and single lace ribbons, which bisect her cranium and look more like a surgeon’s cutting line than hip baby fashion.
    I e-mail Mom back.
    She’s so cute! I wonder if that tremendous head growth means she’s going to be a superstar in math! Wouldn’t it be awesome to have a state champion mathlete in the family? Like a girl-scientist who discovers a new way to animate life or something?
    Mother is not amused.
    â€œYour cousin is a child of God,” she fires back, “not a Frankenbaby.” Then she says I should come to church more often and learn a little humility, which is a good point. If there is in fact a single male deity in charge of this barn dance, and a confirmed bachelor at that, then we really ought to try and get on his good side, especially if we’re going to hatch female family members who need to wear safety helmets to butter toast.
    I check my online dating account. I’m signed up on ExplodingHearts.com, which is supposed to match you with people better than you could match yourself, because youfill out a quiz that asks if you prefer walks on the beach or cozy candlelit dinners and whether or not you kiss on the first date. When I filled out my profile I briefly considered just saying everything I know guys want to hear, that I’m a size zero and I like to barbecue steaks in a thong and sometimes I have secret lipstick-lesbian fantasies where I get into a pillow fight with my supermodel girlfriend and then we decide to have sex. But instead I opted to tell the truth, just to minimize the disappointment factor, if nothing else. I listed my real age, my real weight, and my real hobbies, which include watching Golden Girls reruns while eating Taco Bell. Might as well cop to it now.
    Today I have eight new e-mails, indicated by eight little red hearts that sprout wings and vibrate. Once you’ve opened an e-mail, the wings disappear. I read through these messages and my enthusiasm turns from curiosity to something resembling that feeling you get when you turn on a light and a creature with a billion legs scurries up the wall.
    The first message is from a soy farmer in Ohio. I don’t know what soy is.
    Hey Good Lookin!
    Whatcha been cookin? No seriously, I’ve gotten real used to cooking for myself. I don’t expect a gal to cook for me or clean or even come home every night! Ha ha ha! That’s a joke I used to tell my wife. She’s gone. Write me back!
    â€”Harry
    The second message is from a Russian man who lives in Chicago and wants an “efficient woman” to help him run his security business. Plus