“Girls go to Mars to get more candy bars; boys go to Jupiter to get more stupider.”

The 7-½ -year-old, drop-dead gorgeous twinzers left this afternoon after spending the night with me. Following a rousing game of fetch on the front lawn (they like to pretend they’re Irish Setters), we had a nice supper. Afterwards, we snuggled on the sofa under an afghan and watched a Harry Potter movie. It was the one with Gary (my ultimate date) Oldman fighting Professor Lupin, the werewolf. Scary enough for little girls—but there was also a lightening storm going on in P-town.

Min was worried about the thunder and Sky has nightmares about werewolves and ghosts. I told Min that lightening was a problem for golfers, but we were pretty safe indoors. I told Sky that I’d never heard of anyone being hurt by a ghost; and anyway, werewolves are made-up creatures. I reminded them that wolves are noble beasts, and not so different from dogs. It was the werewolf prefix (“were” from the OE “wer”, meaning “man”) that presented the real danger to human children and all females.

The girls allowed as how some women were dangerous, too. True, I said. Out of every million violent people, you’ll probably find one violent femme. But as I once told an English lit professor (to happy cheers from my female classmates), I could rattle off the names of every famously bloodthirsty bitch in history during one class period; whereas, if he mentioned the names of every famously monstrous bastard, he’d have to have his sons take over reading the list for him after he’d died of old age.

Don’t worry. I didn’t tell the girls that all men are jackasses. They’re not. I didn’t tell them that most men would fuck mud if they couldn’t find anything more challenging. Most will. I did tell them that if they’re ever lost, they shouldn’t look for a policeman to help them—they should look for a woman.

Today, after the girls left, I went out for a very stupid coffee date with a seriously stupid man. The non-fat mocha was good; but, even without a watch, I could hear the clock ticking away the wasted minutes.

I was inspired enough to do a little thinking during the walk home. I knew I wasn’t ready to give up men. Aside from their natural protuberances, which I (God help me) deeply appreciate, they have a certain nasty something, and a scary, yet comforting, smell about them that I’m drawn to. But, screw it. I’m done wasting time on culls.

New Dating Rule: I will have no more first dates with American men (other than musicians, who are primarily party animals and don’t pretend to be otherwise). From now on, I’m strictly saving my dance card for men from the UK.

Sure, I know, lots of Englishmen are cads and bounders. But Jack the Ripper aside, they tend not to claim otherwise. And yes, they can be a bit kinky; but they nurture their kinks--they’re pleased with them. Plus, they read. They know things I could be, conceivably, interested in learning about. They have at least a passing knowledge of who Rosenkrantz and Guildenstern might be. And, like I said, they don’t usually pretend to be nice guys.

So, that’s it. Middle-aged men are on notice. No more corn-fed, smiley-faced flat-talkers from the Midwest for me. No more Oregon-born, holier-than-thou, bearded vegan hiker dudes. Leathery old Laguna surfer boys can just shoot the frickin’ curl for all I care. And every pizza-faced, sweatshirted Cubbies fan and angst-ridden, Italian-loafered New Yorker will just have to look elsewhere. I’m through.

I want to close my eyes and imagine myself in a raunchy Victorian novel. Or in an English country garden. I want to look into eyes that contain an unquenchable spark of mischief and intelligence. I want to know up front that my date is able to form complete sentences and can make a decent martini. I want him to teach me the subtleties of Scotch and know a swede from a radish. I want him to be a citizen of the world, not an American idiot. I want him to appreciate me for my wit as well as my ass, and understand himself well enough to know what the fuck he really wants—particularly if he thinks he wants me. And last, but not least, I want him to appreciate (and be able to identify) a Merry Widow when he sees one.

In short, I want every boy/girl encounter to be a pulp-fiction think-fest and a mini-vacation overseas. I think I’m up to the challenge. I love kippers for breakfast, bangers and mash for tea. I bake a mean scone and know my way around a crumpet. I was taught to say “tomahto” rather than “tomayto” and “tea towel” rather than “dishrag”. So, bring it.

No more Yankee coffee dates. No more inane conversations with men who wouldn’t know Marian Anderson from Marianne Faithful or Chaucer from chalk. When I sell the book (or win the lottery), I’m packing my London Fog, my copy of Fanny Hill and my Merry Widow and booking a first-class ticket to Heathrow. I hear the place is crawling with devil-may-care Pommies.

Meanwhile, werewolves of London calling? Sign me up: tally-ho and pip-pip. I’ll meet you at the Starbucks on SE 37th.