WANTED: NICE GUY TO MARRY. I HAVE 30 DAYS TO GET MARRIED OR I LOSE FIVE MILLION DOLLARS. Me: 25, tall, big booty, long hair, regular job that pays ok. You: smart, funny, in good shape, nice guy with manners. Non-smokers only. Please respond with info about yourself and a photo. Thanks!
How lame was I, placing a Craigslist ad for a husband? But how the hell else was I going to find a husband in order to claim five million dollars in—oh, by the way—thirty freaking days?
I had weighed all the options. I really had.
First, I’d thought about walking up to some random guy on the street and proposing marriage. Yeah, like that would work. He’d run off so fast, he’d leave skid marks.
So, I played with the idea of using one of those online dating sites. But those suckers cost money, and besides, I’d have to write a bunch of crap about myself and post a picture, and I wasn’t ready for the world to know I might be inheriting a sizeable estate. At least not off the bat.
Last, I considered asking one of the guys who frequented the bar where I worked to marry me, but to be honest, I didn’t want to date any of those dudes, much less marry one. Scratch that.
So I was left with the good old standby for reaching the masses in the internet age, Craigslist. Hell, I’d used that site to find my crappy apartment and crappy job. Why couldn’t I use it to find a crappy husband?
Kidding about the crappy husband piece.
I read my ad one last time and pressed submit. Honestly, what more was there to say than what I’d included? I didn’t want romantic walks on the beach or conversations that carried into the night. I wasn’t dying for the joys of motherhood (although I wasn’t opposed to it), or for someone who’d make love to me for hours (I wasn’t opposed to it either, but still). And, I didn’t care if the guy had money or not. If all went according to plan, I’d have plenty when all was said and done.
What did I have to lose? All replies to my post would go to an anonymous mailbox, thanks to the magic that was Craigslist. I’d read through a few replies, weed out the crazies, meet a couple dudes, and make my selection.
Simple, right?
I’d have my answer shortly.
While I let the internet work its magic, I hopped in the shower to get ready for my shift at the Drive By Saloon. Corny name, I know, but it was my home away from home, and I made enough there to cover the rent on my little apartment and make the minimum payment on my student loans—for a degree I never finished, I might add. Which meant I’d be paying those loans for damn near the rest of my life at the rate I was going.
You know how people gripe about it being hard “to get ahead?” Well, I’m the poster child for that shit.
I stepped out of the shower into my freezing, unheated bathroom. San Francisco doesn’t get particularly cold in the winter, thank god, but the lousy heat in the old buildings meant you were never really warm enough without a few space heaters overloading the circuits. But that’s what cheap rent got you. I bundled up in my fluffy robe and began working on my hair when I heard a string of beeps coming from my laptop. The kind that notify you when an email comes in.
I heard a few more.
Then I heard a bunch.
Beep, beep, beep, beep…
And suddenly, my little laptop wouldn’t shut up.
What the hell?
I ran over to it, hoping against hope that it wasn’t dying just yet. It was on its last legs—I mean, I’d had it since college (that degree I never finished, remember?)—and I was in no position at the moment to buy a new one. And I needed it for my husband hunt.
Please don’t fail me now.
It flickered to life when I opened it, and I saw my email downloads go from fifty, to a hundred, to two hundred…
Holy shit, was there a limit on how many emails you could get at once? I think I was about to find out.
The messages, which kept scrolling by as they downloaded too fast to read, numbered upward of three hundred in just minutes. They all started with you have received a reply to your Craigslist post…
So I opened a couple.
Hey baby, let’s meet up. I could use a rich wife.
I’ve wanted to get married for years. Hit me up.
I’m not in it for the money, I swear.
You sound like a nice lady. Let’s get married. I promise I won’t bother you. My dark days are behind me now.
Good grief. Is this what Craigslist got you these days? I didn’t expect Prince Charming, but I wasn’t expecting abject bottom-dwellers, either. The emails continued to scroll by, finally slowing as they approached a count of four hundred.
Then came the dick pics.
Some were big, some small, some hard, some soft. Some had shaved pubes, and others looked like they were wearing little hair sweaters.
This couldn’t really be how people met these days, could it?
I closed my laptop in a panic. If this was all I had to choose from, I was never going to get that damn money.
