I meet Mr. Ex-Mormon, and instantly realize: It’s not happening. This Guy.

Not me.

And now I’m going to sit for an hour and have coffee and feign interest while introspecting about how shallow I don’t think I am, but apparently, really must be.

He starts off by anxiously asking if he can pay for my coffee, and is overly thrilled when I agree to this.

I take charge of the conversation. I inquire about his genealogy software project, because if it’s interesting, then I might learn something new – heck, maybe I’ll even like the guy.

I’m open-minded and flexible, I tell myself. It could happen.

He starts describing this database type thing he built with a friend. It’s not a research tool; rather, it’s a data validation tool: It helps the genealogist determine, when they have a data conflict, which sources should be accorded more weight – to decide what is correct. It sounds interesting, but since I’ve done a lot of work with records, I know there is a hierarchy of information: source documents that state relationships; cited histories; family tradition; unsourced family trees on the internets.

Genealogy on the Internets 101: There are a lot more unsourced, unverifiable family trees than there are solid, primary proofs.

The gist of his project was, as the user collects their data, they enter each fact in to the software along with the source.

Is there a source catalog? Or a ranking system – like you choose a source type, such as a will or probate record, and it automatically assigns a validity weighting? This is a great idea, I think.

No, he says. How it works is, the user enters a source, and the more times a fact is entered with any source, the more validity it is assumed to have.

Right, I think. I inquire further, and come at it from a couple of different directions.

And no matter which angle I look, all I can see is how fundamentally flawed the premise is: “The more people say it, the more true it must be.”

We pitched it to Ancestry, he says. Met the higher ups and did a big presentation.

How’d that go? I ask.

They weren’t impressed, he said.

Huh, I reply. So, tell me about your family. You have three kids.

Yes, he says. The kids seem to be older, and mostly forgettable. Except the youngest one: the one that got kicked out of school, and, with nothing to do except be home-schooled by the ex, got his fifteen year old girlfriend pregnant.

So, tell me about your work, I say. You’re on a consulting basis?

Yes, he says. Last year was kind of rough, I was kind of underemployed. But now I’m in a contract position, I’m pretty happy with it.

Will it become permanent? I ask. Would you want it to?

Oh no, he says. I don’t like to be a regular employee. It makes me very uneasy, with the direct deposit, taking money out of your paycheck for taxes and retirement plans and health care you might not even want.

I gotta go, I say. Time to pick up The Child.

He jumps up. Will you have dinner with me one evening?

Oh crap. I can’t do this. He’s really a very nice person but … there are too many buts.

Okay, I say. I just don’t have the heart to disappoint.

He lights up.

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.