A British humorist, Howard Jacobson, is my new favorite pundit. Wickedly irreverant and funny. My two favorite flavors.

It is his contention that "Love You, Love You" should be said only "in the arms of the person you love romantically, erotically, madly, deeply. And even then not quite so often as it would seem from watching bed scenes on television and in movies…"

He goes on to tell the macabre tale of "Laura Lundquist and Elizabeth Barrow, aged 98 and 100 respectively, who were residents of Brandon Woods nursing home situated near Bliss Corner-I kid you not- Massachusetts. They had shared a room for a year. According to nursing home staff they acted like sisters, walking everywhere together, taking lunch together, and each saying to the other, "Goodnight, I love you" before turning out the lights and going beddy bye-byes. Love you. Love you. And then guess what happened? In the tradition of the best macabre story-telling, but here's a hint-It involves a plastic bag."

Okay, so maybe that's a tad on the "c'mon, she was a crazy old coot" register. Agreed. But the idea that we utter these words, on a daily basis, to one another does not guarantee that we actually might really, deeply, and honestly mean them.

What to do?  Should "love you" be met with, "are you sure?" Not a recipe for hearing further sweet murmuring words anytime soon.

And I, at this particular moment in time, being devoid of a truly, madly, passionately romantic interest, would miss hearing those words. So, as long as you're not slightly unhinged, I just want to tell you, love you.

At least that seems to be Nancy Meyer's intention in most of her more recent films.

Something's Gotta Give, Baby Boom, The remake of Father of The Bride, It's Complicated, all have the requisite successful female, love on the loose, love reworked, happilyish ever after. The women, Diane Keaton (clearly the poster girl for these roles) and Meryl Streep (who came to her age appropriate senses, after her romp in Mamma Mia) are the women we want to be.

I particularly admire that Nancy's heroines appear to be unbotoxed, uncollagened, and nonliposucked. Or, alternatively, the magic of filters is at work. 

But the real thing I covet in her films is not the homage to the middle aged, or how happy the endings end, it's wanting to have, as my very own, her set designer.

The near perfect (out there on the east end) beach house. The Vermont money pit, (but it does come with Sam Shepard), the perfect Californian home for Steve Martin and Diane Keaton to hold the wedding of their daughters' dreams. Want to take a wild stab at the budget for, oh I don't know, the flowers? Think about it, those kleig lights give off an enormous amount of heat during filming. Could they have been fake? Horrors ! Never.

I imagine if there was a citywide blackout, I would manage to root around and find, oh I don't know, maybe a dozen misshapen nubby looking candles. Never quite clear why I save them after having them burn down to half their beginning size, they are dutifully put back into drawers never to be seen again. 

So how come, when the blackout (or some semblance of prolonged darkness) occurred in Diane Keaton's beach house, she was able to light her entire (possibly 300 to 400 sq foot) kitchen with perfect, assorted sized white candles. I ask you, where does one keep such a stash?

If there is a sequel, and I really hope there is, it isn't to find out whether or not Meryl Streep and Steve Martin become a dynamic duo. It's to see what the extension and renovation of her kitchen looks like. 

Agree?

It seems to me the requirements of perfection in the dating world expand far beyond one's physical attributes, and encompass sharing the exact same tastes in books, movies, theater and recreation.

A recipe for imperfection.

Unless, of course, you are dating yourself.

Okay, clearly, there has to be some crossover in order to have more to talk about then breakfast cereal choices. For the record I am a Special K kinda gal. So movies, books and theater are quickly accessed to fall within the same interest level in order to proceed to the concept of heaven, met your match, get me off this dating site, bliss. 

Until you get around to the recreational activities conversation.

Hunting and gathering? Only in the supermarket. Having a Hell's Angel moment on the back of your Harley? Unlikely. Heli skiing? Drop me from a hovering propellered craft and pick me and all my body parts up a few hours later. Sure. Trekking in Bhutan, a week at an Ashram…

So I ask you, doesn't anyone shop anymore?

I have come to the conclusion that out there, somewhere, it must, has to, absolutely exists.

After all when I see my old friends on line, year after year after year, I can only surmise that they are there on a quest for the perfect woman, otherwise what could possibly explain their (apparently) lifetime memberships. 

To wit, I recently had a conversation with one on-line hopeful who told me, unabashedly, that he had been out on one hundred first dates. Does it strike you, as it did me, that this boast is bizarre. Why, I wondered, did he share this? I suggested to him that he might rethink his criteria. Needless to say, I was not his 101st.

Yet another hopeful said that whether it was on-line, on the Starbucks line, or at the buffet line at a dinner party, you initially consider the person very seriously, but wonder if there is "something better". Who am I to argue that logic?  I, after all, did write a blog likening dating to shopping at Loehman's…Anyhow, back to his discussion of seeking perfection he said…"And as we all know, perfect is the death of good, and especially of good enough." I thought that sounded pretty profound.  Of course, I don't think I understood exactly what he meant, but didn't want to be less than perfect and admit to that. 

Then I read the article women with partners at home gain weight.  "She was a 10 when I met her", he lamented, "but now, alas…."

You have got to love the irony in that. 

Tell a prospective date that you want to skype.

"You want to what?" they ask, incredulously. 

This is the latest act, in the pre screening for the possible, potential, could happen, we might just have a first date, in the you really want to go out with me, dance. Really.

Can you imagine? How does one look dramatic, fetching, alluring and slim in the bright light of morning, with a somewhat fish eye lens capturing them in all their glory? Does a bathrobe have the cachet, the look, you were going for? Perhaps a video conferencing center could work. They have lighting people there, you know.

There are actually people, I have come to realize, who read what has been written in the on line profile. All of it. What you read, watch, do for fun. Aren't they aware that the only thing that is of any importance is how you look? Except for those confident souls who have no picture posted on their profile. Now that speaks volumes. Either they are uber confident in the written word, are famous, in the witness protection program or truly a beast.

Would they skype, I wonder?

Equally daunting is the pre screening telephone chat. You've got to be fairly confident that you remember what you wrote about yourself in case you are quizzed. How old did you say your were, followed by how tall are two definitive questions that can easily trip one up. So, make sure that you have read and committed your profile to memory before the dialing commences.

As I said, this isn't for the faint of heart. But as the new decade is slowing making its way in, there are many a hopeful who are making resolutions for the new year. Skyping for love, however, is probably not one of them.

HOPE YOUR DAY, EVENING AND TOMORROW ARE HAPPY AND MERRY