Did Bachelor #3 depress the snot out of you? I know, me too. I was kind of sad he was gone,  until about a month later when I finally caught up with all the thoughts I would have thought if I’d had time and it finally dawned on me … Wow, what a massive time suck.

At the time, though, I was trying to fill the giant black hole The Departed left behind, that I found myself staring at uncomfortably whenever I was alone, with constant, frenetic activity – the mad rush of people I needed to see who I hadn’t seen in too long, and things I suddenly remembered after seven years that I wanted to do.

I couldn’t concentrate on any of it. All I could focus on was the hole. I needed to fill it.

I got on Skype with my father and we talked about Bachelor #3, who he was not impressed with. He said, look, you need a transition guy … Someone to practice with. But that could be anyone, and don’t get attached.

I don’t know how to explain to him the problem with me and transition guys:  I don’t know when to get rid of them and I end up marrying them instead. That never ends well.

He says, don’t worry, you just need to give me veto power.

Fine, I say.

Great, he says. So what else is there on match?

You have to look for yourself, I tell him. Lots of guys. People. At least I think they’re people.

He discovers quickly that he can’t see very much on match without having an account, and so he sets about setting up a stealth account – what with having a wife and all – and providing just enough info that he can see things on match, but not enough that he has to pay or his wife could find him.

I’m paging through listings, and wondering how many of them are other people’s stealth accounts. He’s setting up his account, banging his head against the paywall, and cussing.

Is The Departed on match? he asks.

Huh. Good question. I change my search parameters and look for him. I don’t find him but I do find a bunch of other guys, and send off winks.

Nobody gets emails from me on match anymore, except just quick, short, one-or-two liners, if there is something in particular that I want to comment on in their profile. Mostly, I just save myself the effort, and send winks.

My father’s account is finally set up. He gets several emails almost immediately.

Nigerian princesses, I tell him.

Right, I guessed that, he says.

I search; he searches. When he finds an interesting profile, he sends it to me. I look, and wink. He attempts to veto a number of my selections; but if I like them enough, I just wink anyway.

I find a Mormon guy with an interest in genealogy. Mormons are nice, says my father. We’ve never had one in the family. I wink.

I find a Jewish doctor with three sons. Jewish doctors are nice, says my father, but what are you going to do with three sons? You need time for you. I wink anyway.

This isn’t how normal fathers and daughters spend their time, says my father.

Normal is overrated, I say.

I find a profile with the headline: I am unusual and so are you. I wink.

After winking at easily half of Seattle’s college-educated, (hopefully) single, (hopefully) male population, I call it a day. A couple of them will (hopefully) get back to me.