“Hey, we’re out of these ‘New Love’ cookies.”
“Well, open up the ‘Stick With Your Wife’ barrel.”
– The Simpsons

It took me 20 minutes to figure out how I was going to open this column. Sure, I was distracted by “The Truman Show” (a terrific movie), but it’s always hard figuring out how to say unpleasant things or face up to unpleasant realities. I now know how John Kerry voters felt on Nov. 3. (I thinkthis sums up how I felt on Nov. 3).

But, as Deadly Dan Rather used to say, “Courage.” Sometimes, the simplest way is the best way. Here goes.

My love life stinks.
It’s horrible.
Terrible.
Awful.

How bad? Well, the Bills do better in Super Bowl than I do with the ladies. Screech got more girls in high school than I. Paris Hilton sees more girls naked picking up her mail than I see in a year. The president has declared my bedroom a federal disaster area.

How bad? In late September my younger brother came down to the D.C. region to help me move into a new place. Later that night we headed off to a party and we each met a girl.

Now keep in mind of my brother, the two girls and I, my brother is the one who lives 400 miles away in western New York. He was adamant that I get this girl’s phone number for him from the girl I met. I was incredulous. There’s no way a long distance relationship would work with a girl you just met.

Meanwhile, my chick and I lived 35 minutes away from each other by subway. We’re both graduate students at George Washington University. I’m tall and she has boobs. It seemed like a good fit.

She dumped me after one month. I was a nice guy, but she wasn’t going to fall in love with me, she said.

Meanwhile, my brother and his lady friend fly back and forth to meet each at least once a month.

Yeah, I hate him. He’s getting a kidney punch for his birthday.

During the day’s quieter moments – brushing my teeth, waiting for the subway, peering through my Venetian blinds watching my neighbor take out her garbage – I try and draw a mental map of just how I got to this point. As I ponder and ponder, I arrive at one inescapable conclusion:

I have no idea.

Please join me as I travel down the broken and shattered path that is my love life. (For the sake of candor, some of the follow names will be changed to protect the innocent. Nor will all incidents be revealed. A man, even a Zubazpants writer, has his privacy and dignity.)

Stinky Judgment

My first job was working on the grounds crew at Martin’s Fantasy Island. We’d walk around, sweep up garbage, empty garbage cans and generally clean up the place. If you want to pick up the soiled diapers of Canadian babies in a parking lot at 8 a.m., this is the job for you. It was generally unpleasant, but nobody could expect otherwise when you’re handed a broom your first five minutes on the job.

During my rounds through Wild West Town the girl who ran the cash register at the gift shop, Michelle, started talking to me. It’s obvious now that she was bored out of her mind and was making conversation with a fellow human being passing her way. But to a stupid 17 year old, it was a sign of interest.

The majority of my working day was spent walking around exposed to the sun. Then, towards the end of the shift, I’d walk around emptying garbage cans in the park. The smell wasn’t quite like the cologne inserts one finds in “GQ”. Eau de barbequed chicken and stale beer is more accurate.

After shucking my uniform (floral shirt and navy pants), I ambled to the General Store and asked her … something the details of which I cannot remember, but I’m sure I mumbled something involving a date-like activity. Michelle said she had a boyfriend and I slinked away. Did she really have a boyfriend? Who knows? She certainly seemed shocked I asked her. I avoided seeing her after that, and for all I know she’s now a gun mule for al Qaeda or screen talent for Ultradonkeymovies.com.

Every Breath You Take, I’ll Be Watching You

During the first two years of my undergraduate career I lived at home on Grand Island and commuted to UB (University at Buffalo for our worldwide audience). I wanted to get involved on campus, so I joined The Spectrum (This is how I eventually met fellow Zubazkeeters Jim Byrne and Mike Scott). As an editor, I met “Amanda,” an attractive young woman with similar interests (i.e. the Simpsons). We got along well and some of her behavior seemed to indicate an interest beyond friendly.

Of course I immediately jumped to the exact wrong conclusion. Since she was more sexually experienced than I, I started reading the better sex technique books at the Erie County library. She invited me to her room to watch some movies. I was actually considering bringing flowers to watch movies. I started leaving IM messages for her each morning. Eventually I wrote her a letter overflowing with my “emotions.”

Creepy? Obsessive? Waaaaay over the top? Oh, hell yes. I cringe as I read my actions in print. Obviously, I hadn’t developed a sense of perspective. I was like a Chargers fan who thought his team could beat the 49ers in Super Bowl XXIX. Thankfully, Amanda was far more understanding than I was logical. We’re still friends, though we haven’t seen each other in awhile because of distance.

Clueless in Buffalo

After I graduated from UB, I moved back home and worked various jobs to save money and figure out where I was going next in life. I was invited to a friend’s birthday party at her Hadley Village apartment. During the course of the evening I met her roommate “Melissa” and we hit it off chatting about this, that and anything in particular. It was a little strange when she started telling me extremely personal details, but it didn’t bother me. I was happy to scrawl her phone number on my hand.

What did I do next? Bomb her answering machine with awkward messages? Send her a dozen roses everyday for a week? Hire a biplane to write her name in the sky? No, I’d learned my lesson by then, but did the wrong thing in the exact opposite direction.

I did nothing. I didn’t contact her at all. I suppose I didn’t want to seem too desperate, so I decided to wait a week or two. For some reason, I didn’t think she’d assume I was blowing her off. Smooth like broken glass, I know.

Thankfully, Melissa decided to get my screen name from our mutual friend. After I apologized for being dumb as a slug, Melissa invited me over to her apartment for a home-cooked meal. It seemed like the perfect opportunity – for me to blow another chance to score.

The roommates vanished to points unknown. She obviously spent quite awhile preparing the meal and it was very good. We retired to the couch to watch movies on UB’s campus cable channels. And we watched movies. And watched more movies. At some point, probably around 1 a.m. or 2 a.m., I left to go home.

I didn’t have class the next morning – I graduated that May. I did have work – my shift started at 3 p.m. She even asked me not to go. Why did I leave? I don’t know! Because I have rocks in my head! Because somebody replaced my testosterone with canola oil! Because any time a girl touches my penis a baby angel dies! If I had the answer, I probably wouldn’t be writing this column.

Melissa quickly found a guy who didn’t act like a clueless 14-year old kid. Just like Amanda, Melissa and I are friends. She doesn’t hold anything against me. She pities me, I think.

There are other tales of woe, but they are embarrassments of a lesser magnitude. Despite all of this, I remain an optimist. I’ve met a number of women in my day who are fantastic – smart, attractive, funny, not repulsed by me. Though I’m certainly disappointed I never managed a relationship with these women, the fact they exist at all gives me hope I’ll find somebody with the same qualities.

With so many millions of ladies in the world, the sheer numbers seem overwhelming. But the truth is you don’t need millions – you just one. The right one. Questions? Comments? Are you the right one? E-mail me at mlucinski@yahoo.com

Michael Lucinski works for a non-profit organization in Washington, D.C. He received a B.A. in Political Science from the University at Buffalo, where he was also an editor and columnist for the student newspaper, The Spectrum. He also writes reviews for Silver Bullet Comic Books. Sure, I’d love to get together for coffee.