Move over Honey, I need a single man

Okay, I confess. I’ve been thinking about other men.
I’ve had my mind on the single men in the area, and I’m hoping my curiosity about the way they think—and what they want out of life—will spark a few phone calls or e-mails my way.
My infatuation with this mysterious crowd of gentlemen raised a couple of eyebrows at home, but if you’ve read the classifieds lately, you’ll know why my eyes are on the guys.
I have a passion for great human interest stories and my sights are set on the “yet-to-be married,” “once-married-might-be-again,” “once-married-never-again!” and “looking-but-can’t-find-love” single men in Rainy River District.
Single dads are welcome, and age is not an issue.
My intent is to profile you anonymously as Bachelor #1, #2, #3, #4, etc., depending on how many brave souls come forward—whose interest is piqued by the thought of letting loose their thoughts on women, dating, philosophies on life, likes, dislikes, and so on.
If need be, I’ll also set you up with your own private e-mail to facilitate responses from your admiring public.
I know you’re out there. What are you waiting for? Here’s a little something to get you started.
I married a true bachelor in every sense of the word. In fact, I think he has a “bachelor” degree or something, and I don’t think I will ever truly convert the man from the other side.
He’s like a cat walking on a wire fence. On one side is the family life and on the other the forest. He’s one step away from the wild.
I expect he reverts back to this place when left alone for extended periods of time. Like on those days when he’s off work and at home with full access to the Windex, Pine Sol, and laundry soap.
All I find when I get there is that the broom has been moved, but the floor has not been swept.
I expect that means he put on his dark sunglasses again and slid back and forth across the living room floor in his white socks and underwear singing into the broom handle.
I find further evidence of this trend on his side of the bed, where (as I have mentioned before) lies the “no pick-up zone”—socks and other discarded peelings that wait for that little French maid he expects will show up any time now.
Mind you, this little French maid has other things on her mind than doing laundry. Can’t say as I’ve heard him complain about that little news flash.
All in all (and I’ll save those stories for later) it’s not so bad, this bachelor alias I live with. He brings an untamed palette to colour my world when everyday life pales.

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