I imagine most of us have, at one time or another, met someone who boasted a membership in Mensa. A quick overview is that it is for those who are deemed genuises. And can prove it.

And, for those of you who might have known what the Mensa organization stood for, but forgot (thereby immediately eradicating your membership) here is the url http://www.mensa.org

This story is about how to achieve membership in an elite organization if you didn't have the stuff to be a Mensa member. Really, you can still have the opportunity to be in and amongst a group of smarties.   

It is a new on line dating site called brainiacdating.com."

The tag line for this site is "where it is sexy to be smart."

I kid you not.

But being smart, in the Mensa (over 160 IQ sense of the word), is not a criteria for joining. I think inhaling and exhaling rhythmically, some ability to type, possibly even know how to spell, and  maybe be able to upload a picture are the only requirements. Frankly, not much different than the requirements for most of the other on line dating sites.

So what's the draw? 

Well, at this moment in time, it's free. 

And my experience tells me… what is that adage?… oh, yeah,  I remember, you get what you paid for.

Slain any dragons lately? Leap a moat in a single bound? Out jested the court jester?

Me neither.

Yet, friends tell me that their experiences in the on line- find your soulmate, honey, baby, sweetie, space- require some Herculean tasks to be fulfilled before a date can ever be made.

“Like what” I ask.

Par a golf course; wrestle a tuna (that would be like in fishing, not sushi) into submission; sail something; paraglide, parachute, paranormal capabilities a plus.

And rules…

“Call me, after 11 but not before 3, and only on Wednesday” or when followed by i like in neighbor or weigh.

“We all do that,” I tell them.

Tacitly or implicitly there are the ‘requirements’. Womens’ tend toward the be “introspective, thoughtful, artsy, craftsy, psychologically oriented, loving, funny and family oriented.”

Frankly, if one came along for me who can scale tall buildings, that would be a bonus. Dragons, optional.

I've never been much of a gambler.

It's hard to be a card shark when you can't remember what has been picked up, thrown or discarded. The card game  21 poses a slight challenge when trying to quickly add numbers without a calculator, say a 9 and a 7, then having to decide, immediately, if you wanted to be "hit" again. I did like craps, but only because I seemed to have a knack for throwing the dice, and for that, others at the table reward you.

I've not been to the race track in a millennium, Vegas, yes, but only as a pit stop on my way to doing something else. And no, white water rafting, for me, didn't count as gambling with my life.  I've yet to go to Atlantic City or Mohegan Sun. I probably never will.

I've never been much of a gambler.

I do, from time to time, buy lottery tickets. "You pick" I say to the proprietor of the convenience store. I am well aware that some folks spend hours agonizing over their numbers. Birthdays, anniversaries, marriages, divorces, all have incredible mystical, astrological, I am a soothsayer type significance. "You pick" is as significant as I can get.

I'm never been much of a gambler.

Except for the on-line find your match, soul mate, forever buddy, love interest sites. There, one dutifully receives a selection of profiles, with a yes, no or maybe just a click away. And, the theory goes, if you study the profile as if it were a filly running in the 5th at Aqueduct (is there still an Aqueduct?), throw your monthly fee down, you too can possibly, maybe, hopefully, step right up ladies and gentlemen, be a winner.

Maybe I am a gambler.

I am absolutely, positively, definitively certain, that when people post their ages on these on-line sites they are calculating in dog years. 

It is baffling to me to think that any participants in this activity sincerely think that you won't notice, upon meeting them, that the age stated and the accompanying picture are decades off.

Which, silly me, is easily explained away, by the dog years calculation. 

"My god," he exclaimed, "I woke up this morning and apparently, overnight, grew a chin wattle, a pot belly and, insult to injury, I shrank.".  

The shrinking part I can relate to. Indeed, each time I go for a bone scan, upon receiving the results, I am convinced that it won't be long before my feet won't reach the ground when I am seated. I would, however, be sure to include a snapshot of that in conjunction with my other photos. 

But maybe he's a really nice guy. 

Maybe, you can have deep and lengthy conversations learning about living through the Depression, being on the beach in Normandy, or making the transition from ice boxes to refrigerators. 

A history lesson. You could do worse. 

So, did you call and lambaste your parents, immediately after reading the Times article when a parent's ' I love you' Means 'Do as I Say' or skip that step and just call your therapist?

What a conundrum. Was I loved? Liked? Is doing the best they could, enough??

Revisiting every 'time-out' you were made to endure, every 'yes…but' (YES, you did do that, BUT you didn't do this) and then, of course, fast forwarding to the next level– failed relationships, unrewarding jobs, and your own attempts at parenting would definitively be a recipe for a Prozac cocktail, with a Xanax chaser.  

The experts line up on different sides of the divide. Children should "earn" the love of their parents, says Dr. Phil and The Supernanny. ( And clearly, doesn't having your own TV show make you an expert?)

So what's a parent to do?

The latest scientific data points to something called "autonomy support." Sounds suspiciously like an undergarment. Anyway, along with unconditional acceptance by parents and teachers "one should maximize opportunities for the child to participate in making decisions, being encouraging without manipulating, and actively imagining how things look from the child's point of view."

I suspect those who accumulated this data rarely had to pick up one child from school while the younger sibling was busy having a meltdown in aisle 2 of the local A&P.

Nonetheless, the reason Therapists were invented was to aid and abet in the revisiting of all the traumas of our childhood. And with unemployment at an all time high, at least the mental health industry is alive and thriving, while the "experts" duke it out as to how to say "I love you." 

Driving through Connecticut recently, on my way to Rhode Island, scanning through radio channels, I caught the tail end of a commercial asking "are you a senior, or know a senior, looking for companionship?"

Would you like someone to spend time with? Perhaps someone who could drive you places? Helpful in shopping, likes to cook, clean up and can even do minor repairs?

This is too good to be true I thought. Driving (at night, I wondered?) wants to cook and clean up, fixes stuff. Why not?

Really, the consensus of opinion is that the over- 50's group knows that finding a mate is really difficult. Really really difficult. So, why not look into yet another site making such sweeping and sweet promises for fulfillment?

So I looked into it.

Oops.

Yes, it does boast all those promises, Yes, it is a legitimate site. Yes, it is a really wonderful wonderful concept. Yes, I am going to sign up. No, this go around I don't think I will meet my soul mate.

It's called seniors helping seniors. Look into it.

"They laid there like a dead person."

Hmmm, pretty awful summation of a nights frolicking, don't you think?

Well, I have a story that takes that comment to new heights. For you see the frolickers in this case are, actually, well, dead.

Gunther Van Hagens and his wife Angelina Walley are anatomists who have developed a technique that allows for corpses to be preserved. The cadavers are stripped of skin, revealing the muscles and organs underneath, and then they are posed. It is the scientists contention that when visitors are exposed to the body and how the body works, they might be inclined to make more informed decisions about how to take care of themselves.

A stretch. No pun intended.

But it appears that Dr. Van Hagens and Walley may have pushed the proverbial envelop as their latest exhibit intends to include cadavers posed in the act of lovemaking.

Oh my.

As I said, laid there like a dead person.

I've often wondered about our use of pet names.

I'm not talking about the honey, sweetie, baby variety. It's the the animal kingdom names that I find particularly fascinating.  I get it, that's why they are called pet names.

"He's a teddy bear" she confided. Really? All that conjures up for me is a guy who is really chunky and probably hairy. If I was going to use an ursine descriptor I would probably have chosen "panda". Really, is there anything cuter than a panda?

Then again, have you ever met anyone who referred to anyone as panda? Me neither. It must have to do with the dark circles around and under the eyes.

Felines are a biggie. 

It's extraordinary, actually. One can go from being a purring, playful kitten to a lioness in just a few minutes time. Must be the catnip mixed with a crisp chardonnay. Cougar, a relatively new term, doesn't seem to be an endearment as much as an advertisement.  Is an old guy who wants to be with a young women a Jaguar?  Nah, that's just his very very desirable car. 

Other creatures that I think are worthy of consideration are penguins and dolphins. Seems they haven't made it into the  endearment department. Movies yeah, pillow talk, not so much. Not sure how amorous I'd feel, come to think of it, if in the midst of his nuzzling my neck he murmured Flipper.

Anyhow, for me,  honeybabysweetie, one word, works best.

I’ve heard of some pretty scary things out there, but for the moment, this clearly tops the list.

Speed Shrinking is not the latest diet fad. It is actually, according to a New York Times article, an emceed, 3 minute therapy session.

I wonder if it is catered?

It takes me at least 3 minutes to settle in my chair, get comfortable, clear my throat and fluff my hair. Could I possibly have any time left to complain about my life?

Apparently, some of these sessions are held in bookstores. I was told that going to bookstores was a good place to met someone of the opposite sex. Browse an area of interest, they say, with the hope of finding someone with the same interests. Foreign or exotic travel, science, non fiction…But, stay away from self help books, one is warned. After all is Mr/Ms Right attractive when they are searching for answers to their purported failings?  “Step right up”, barks the emcee, “bare your soul, expose your inner most fears, meet other neurotics, have a latte.”

I, for one, know that there are a some things that can be successfully accomplished in 3 minutes. Boiling an egg to perfection, comes to mind.

Getting an answer to your fears and insecurities…not so much.

I recently, in a moment of reckless abandon, and clearly with way too much time on my hands, went through the old emails I had received, or had sent, from one of many other times I was participating in the meet your mate in the on line dating world cha cha cha.

A trip down memory lane, perhaps? Which ever way you slice it, it is a trip.

Clicking away, I revisited my old friends to see what they were up to. In some cases, I am delighted to report, their profiles were gone. “Perhaps” reads the text where the profile used to be “this person has met their match.”

Alternatively, I suppose, is that they have given up the ghost, returned to their former ex, or are taking a break from the reading of profiles to the reading of some quality literature. The more benevolent and optimistic me hopes it is, as the profile text reads, “because they have found their match.”

We’ll see.

And, yeah, for full disclosure, I had to look up picaresque to make sure it meant what I thought it meant.