By Gina Angostura
Columnist

I had to do it, don’t you see? She left me no choice.

My friend Cammie got married. In Vegas. She assures me the ceremony wasn’t performed by an Elvis impersonator, but that’s what I’m telling people. I’d like to say I’m not catty. I’d also like to say I look like Angelina Jolie.

So, because Cammie is now safely esconced in her new home with her new husband, and therefore, ahead of me in some intangible way, I had to take drastic measures and do something I said I’d never, ever do again: go back online in search of a date.
(Cue “Psycho” music.)

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I’m sorry. I mean, I’m really sorry. I’m so sorry, I’m pathetic.

But I did contact one cute guy, a dad and poet. Good combo? Maybe not. Maybe he writes poetry about children. That would equal the written version of those photos of the babies placed in pumpkins and teacups. By the way, aren’t there laws to protect infants from being photographed asleep dressed like fruit?

But I haven’t paid for a membership on the site. And since he only sent a flirt message back – “I’d love to hear from you again” – which means he didn’t pay either, well, then it’s over before it starts.

I’ve decided that I, like Napoleon Dynamite, need some skills to attract a date.

“The Technique of the Love Affair,” an advice book from the flapper era I’m currently reading, says to be successful in love, a woman must have or develop certain qualities that make her stand out in the crowd. They are, in order of importance, Beauty, Fame, Rank, Wealth, Popularity, Intellect and stuff like artistic ability or cooking. But what if I don’t have those things in any measurable amounts?

I mean, I have some, but I might be stretching the definition a bit. For example, it doesn’t seem to impress too many men that my intellectual range is so broad that I know the newest entry into the Oxford English Dictionary is the word “Interwang.” It’s simply Chinese slang for “Internet.” But it sounds so cool to say out loud. Say it. You know you want to: Interrrrrwaannnnngg.

And I am popular, in my own way. One of my cool party tricks, besides being able to recite “The Canterbury Tales” in Middle English, is a little thing I like to call projectile spewing, aka the spit take.

You know what that is. It’s the staple of early comedy, where you take some sort of liquid into your mouth – Diet Coke, milk, tequila – and then, when your friend says something hilarious, or not even hilarious, just odd, you involuntarily spit it out all over the computer of the coworker who is out for the day and whose desk you are borrowing.

Hey, I cleaned it up. Everyone laughs when I do it. But somehow I don’t think that particular skill is all that attractive to men.

As a matter of fact, I think when I go on my next date, I’d better not have anything to drink.