Thankful to have found my match, millionaire or not

I have been cleaning out my inbox in spurts lately. Apparently 28,000+ emails will slow an application down a bit. Today I happened upon a gem from January 3, 2007. It was a get to know you better email from Jon, an eligible bachelor from MillionaireMatch.com. Some of you may be thinking, but Rachael, you've been married since 2004? And you'd be right. And might I add that you certainly keep careful track of my marriage, gentle reader. But I digress. My foray into online rich guy dating was spurred by hearing about the site, telling my mother about it, and then the ensuing storm of both of our tendencies for curiosity and mischief. Mom informed me authoritatively that because it was free to sign up, and you had to be a member to see profiles, I should just stop being a baby and register. Don't judge me harshly; my mom is very persuasive. So I signed up, using a fake name, no photo, and describing myself as "a loner," "exercise-hater," "pessimist," "clingy" ... and any other tidbits that I imagined would repel a millionaire bachelor looking for love on the world wide web. After my profile, "Ms.IH8u" or some such thing, was created, mom and I holed up and poked around on the site until our voyeuristic needs were sated.

A few days later, I got an email from a millionaire. It was not personal or innappropriate, but it still felt oddly intrusive. Also, the bachelor in question was pictured next to his Delorean. Yes, the Back to the Future car. It made the whole thing feel too real and made me feel like a jerk for making a fake profile. So I set about trying to unregister. Which was tougher than I expected. And so I asked my husband to help me quit MillionaireMatch.com. This set Will on a fit of laughter and at least half a day of refusing to help me. "You made your bed" he cruelly snorted at me. I begged and begged, ("But, Wi-illlll, the DE-LOOOREAN!!"), and finally he relented though not before reminding me that Deloreans are awesome.

At this moment, my real-life match is toiling on the subway with our portable grocery cart, picking up used small appliances from a couple who is leaving Munich so that I can mix, blend, toast and boil in the near future. He also walks around with a German text book asking me what my name is and where my father lives, apparently so we can become German game show hosts. And every morning he takes the dogs out so I don't have to face the cold until midday. Not to mention, I occasionally only have to ask 4 times before he takes out the trash, recycling and compost. I don't need no stinking Delorean. I love you, mister.

(p.s. photo of Will is from our tour of Alcatraz. He is helpfully pointing at the cell for you.)