Red Flags Flying

I'm not nearly as excited about the Yoga Master as I was a few days ago.  Now I'm skeptical.  It's still a few days until we're supposed to have lunch - assuming that will actually happen.  He's dropped out of sight.  On the phone the other night, he told me that he was in the middle of some Zen thing involving ten days of meditation and wheatgrass juice.  This spiritual and physical cleansing undoubtedly explains why he hasn't responded to a little email I sent him via Match yesterday.  All that connecting with the infinite interferes with ordinary conversation.

Namaste

Left to my own devices to satisfy my natural curiosity, I googled his name and discovered that the 115 Acre  Compound is for sale and that his wife was included in business photos as recently as mid-2010.  Plenty of divorced people maintain business relationships, but the happy family in the photo is apparently a fiction for marketing purposes.  I also discovered that, according to his Facebook page, he started using a site called Girls Date Free on or about September 8, 2011.

It's surprising that people leave information like that up on Facebook walls for all the world to see.  I suppose his page is fully public because he's using Facebook for marketing/self-promotional purposes.  Plenty of people do that.  Even my Uncle Jenifer who is running for City Council in Houston.  What I can't understand is why anyone who is trying to attract partners and/or buyers for a 1.9 million dollar property outside Ithaca would think it's good business practices to leave Girls Date Free in his personal news feed.

From the way he posts status updates and never goes back to respond to the comments, I suppose it's possible that he doesn't even know Girls Date Free is there.  Most likely, he went on Facebook to post something ultra-vegan or Zen Masterish, saw an ad for Girls Date Free in his side bar, followed a link or two so he could cruise for chicks, and the news wound up in his newsfeed when he clicked "allow access."

That happens all the time.  It's one reason I never click "allow access." The main reason is that clicking on that shit leads to your email account being usurped to send Viagra and Vicoden advertisements.

Now, even when I am at my most enthusiastic about an individual, I keep a close watch on my wallet.  If it's one thing I learned growing up in the Sabine River Valley, it's that some people are always looking for ways to separate you from your bank account.  Uncle Jenifer again comes to mind.  Any time someone asks you to lunch, you know they want in your pants, in your wallet or both.  Uncle Jenifer would also want your vote.

When the Yoga Master and I crossed Match dot com paths back in June, I dismissed him as a Narcissist.  A strikingly handsome narcissist, but a narcissist none the less.  This additional information further supports my original assessment.  He may be just a hapless fool, which would be perfectly great since we're all Bozos on the Bus after all.  However, the thing about Narcissists is that they are so thoroughly convinced that everything they do is Right and Good that they don't bother to consider the potential repercussions of their actions.  Anthony Wiener and BP provide examples of this phenomenon.  So do Sarah Palin, Dick Cheney and that blogstalking ex-boyfriend of mine with his eight page XXX rated google trail.  One of his on-line dating profiles claimed he was a gourmet cook, and I know for sure the best he could manage was tough, dry London Broil and microwaved broccoli.

This new fellow is probably not as ridiculous as that douche bag, and it's highly unlikely he is a petty criminal with incestuous tendencies like my Uncle Jenifer.   Certainly he's not a blight on the planet like Dick Cheney and Tony Hayward since few people are that awful.  Nevertheless, it's very likely that his former wife has a stake in that 1.9 million dollar "private hotel," and that he's imagines he's still the babe magnet he was back when he was a ski instructor in Vermont and a freelance film producer in New York City in the 70s.

God knows I cherish my own delusions, too, but at least Mama didn't raise no fool.