Tag: love

  • Online Dating – She Bit My Arm

    Online Dating – She Bit My Arm

    Carol and I folded our respective ex-spouses back into the community years ago. Then, at 68 and 75, we decided to find each other.

    But what do you do at our age?

    How many potential candidates are sitting at a bar waiting to connect with official Medicare-card-carrying strays?

    The library?

    There are probably a few possibilities left, but I haven’t read a book in ten years. What would I talk about?

    Church?

    Sure, there might be candidates, but they didn’t exactly fit my desired profile.

    So, like millions of other singles, I went online.

    Where Do You Start?

    Plenty of Fish. Match. OurTime. SilverSingles. Senior Singles. FarmersOnly. Christian Mingle.

    And about 400 others.

    I decided to start with one of the cheaper ones.

    It proved to be cheap.

    They all start about the same: Male. Height: Tall. Build: Slim, athletic, average or a few extra pounds. Picture. Likes. Dislikes. Hobbies. What are you looking for?

    I filled it all out.

    For the record, my build is average — without my beer belly.

    Let the Dating Begin

    Plenty of Fish: $29.95 on the Visa.

    Online dating quickly becomes a full-time job.

    You reach out to dozens of people. The ones you like don’t respond. The ones you don’t like flood your inbox.

    My age put me into the “few extra years” category.

    Slim pickings based on my desired profile, but my inner child kept reminding me:

    You’re in your mid-seventies!

    I was looking for a woman of average build who loved romantic cruises on a lake at sunset, cozy nights by the fire, traveling and trying new restaurants.

    I got my first hit.

    She loved nighttime cruises, too.

    Through marshland looking for good places to catch walleye.

    Then she’d get up at 5 a.m., bait the hooks and spend four hours enjoying the hot sun and feeding mosquitoes.

    Cozy evenings?

    Absolutely.

    Watching Jeopardy! reruns.

    Travel?

    Four times a year to Poughkeepsie to visit the grandchildren.

    “Billy is a junior and third-string running back. Maybe you could join us for our October trip. We’re hoping to see him get across the line of scrimmage at least once before Grampy dies — or Billy graduates.”

    This wasn’t going to be the one.

    Then She Bit Him

    Next, I connected with a woman who seemed to have everything I wanted and more.

    We arranged our first date at a bar.

    Everything was going great. Talking. Laughing. Shots. Karaoke. Cuddling in a booth.

    This could be the one.

    Then suddenly:

    “Oh, shit. My ex-boyfriend is here. We shouldn’t have come here. This is the biker bar he hangs out at.”

    Wonderful.

    Am I about to become a bumper sticker on the mirror behind the bar?

    He walked over.

    “Are you dating her?”

    “Nope. First time.”

    He nodded.

    “You better be careful.”

    Then he pulled up his sleeve and pointed to several marks on his arm.

    “These are all the places she bit me.”

    Nope. Not the one.

    Maybe I Needed a Better Dating Site

    I moved up to the next level and decided to test the lower age ranges.

    50+.

    A long shot.

    Hopefully she wouldn’t do the math.

    When this 50-year-old reached retirement age at 67, I’d be 92, sitting at Happy Acres Rest Home eating creamed corn, Jell-O, applesauce and prunes.

    Then I got a hit.

    Beautiful Asian woman from Singapore. Late 40s. Slim. Great smile. Smart. Very friendly.

    She told me in her culture the man was the head of the household and her role was to pamper and fill every need of  her soulmate until death do us part.

    “You are what I dreamed of. We have so much in common.”

    We communicated day and night for weeks.

    Soon, we were in love.

    Finally!

    I had found my life partner.

    She couldn’t stand being away from me any longer and decided to buy a one-way ticket to Orlando.

    Cost: $965.

    Then came a little problem.

    “My brother owes me money, but he can’t pay me until he sells his motorcycle.”

    Could I cover the airfare?

    Of course, she did love me and would certainly pay me back.

    “How do I send it?”

    Easy.

    Buy gift cards and text her the numbers.

    Nope.  She certainly wasn’t the one.

    My beautiful future bride from Singapore disappeared about as quickly as she had appeared.

    Watch out for this scam.

    Surely my luck had to improve.

    One More Try

    Next came a beautiful woman, 65, athletic, 5’8”, no baggage, no kids, no cats, no dogs, no grandkids and no debt.

    She raved about her experience in fine dining, French wine, white tablecloths, candles and Baked Alaska for dessert.

    She lived 50 miles away.

    Perfect.

    We planned dinner, drinks, a piano bar and maybe dancing.

    Then she walked in.

    If that was really her profile picture, it had been taken about 35 years earlier.

    Apparently, I’d fallen in love with a historical photograph now dressed in an aqua colored house coat. 

    She spent most of dinner guzzling imported wine and working her way through four baskets of warm rolls and several helpings of tenderloin.

    At one point, I excused myself, walked into the men’s room and slammed my head against the hand dryer.

    When is this going to be over?

    The $6.50 Rule

    After all my online dating experience, I can offer one valuable piece of advice:

    ALWAYS MEET AT STARBUCKS THE FIRST TIME.

    Invest 30 minutes and $6.50 on a large Caramel Frappuccino.

    If there’s nothing there, you’ve lost half an hour and the price of a coffee.

    If there is?

    Move on from there.

    Or maybe move in.

    Then There Was Carol

    Carol and I actually did meet online.

    We had both reached the same conclusion at about the same time:

    One more try.

    We happened to both sign up for the most expensive dating site. 

    And this time, it worked.

    No walleye.

    No bite marks.

    No Singapore gift cards.

    No 35-year-old glamour shots.

    Just Carol.

    We got married July 18, 2026.

    So maybe online dating really does work.

    It just took several bad dates, one scammer and a woman whose ex-boyfriend had teeth marks on his arm to prove it.

    What happened after online dating?

    Carol and I got married—and I danced down the aisle at 75. [Read our wedding story.]

    At 75, I Got Married. We Threw Out the Wedding  Rulebook.

    https://crazyfamily.blog/2026/08/17/date-an-undesirable-see-the-world/

    Many More Stories ….crazyfamily.blog

  • At 75, I Got Married. We Threw Out the Wedding Rulebook.

    At 75, I Got Married. We Threw Out the Wedding Rulebook.

    Carol and I got married on July 18, 2026.

    Why get married at this point in our lives? Our combined age is 144 years—or 1,008 dog years.

    I was getting tired of being introduced as “Grammy’s boyfriend.”

    I felt pretty good for 75 and reasonably confident I could live long enough to make the last payment on a 72-month truck loan.

    We had both been down the aisle before, and who knows how many dog years we have left? So if we were going to do this, we weren’t interested in having a traditional wedding. We wanted something unique, reasonably inexpensive and, most importantly, fun.

    Our goal was simple: Make it the best damn wedding most of our guests had ever attended.

    Based on what they told us afterward, I think we came pretty close.

    Forget the Fancy Ballroom

    We rented our residential community hall for $500. No fancy hotel, no country club, no ballroom. 

    A friend created the decorations using artificial flowers, glass vases, peacock feathers, blue lights and a glitter backdrop.  It was beautiful and we didn’t need a second mortgage.

    There were 12 round tables arranged on both sides of a wide center aisle. 

    Your seat for the ceremony was also your seat for dinner and the reception, so there was no ceremony in one room followed by 90 people wandering around trying to figure out where they were supposed to go next. Your silverware, napkin and water were already waiting for you.

    We didn’t have a head table either. I’ve never understood why the wedding party has to sit in a straight line facing everyone like they’re about to conduct a City Council meeting, while their spouses are stuck in the back with the bride’s second cousin and his third-grade teacher.

    Instead, Carol and I had a small table right in the middle of the room, surrounded by everybody. We didn’t use it much. I think we managed about three bites of food before we started making the rounds and talking to people. After dinner, our little table disappeared and we were right in the middle of the party.

    Exactly where we wanted to be.

    Some other traditions didn’t make the cut. There was no garter toss. At 75, I wasn’t completely confident I’d be able to get back up.

    There was no bouquet toss either. Carol’s bouquet was artificial, and we doubted anyone wanted to catch it badly enough to risk a concussion. 

    Besides, our guests ranged in age from about two to 80, with the average somewhere in the 50s. 

    There weren’t that many single people, and most of the ones who were single apparently had enough sense not to try this again.

    Unlike us.

    We didn’t spend a fortune on decorations, but there were three places where we decided not to go cheap: food, photography and entertainment.

    We hired a good caterer and served a quality buffet. People will eventually forget whether the bride’s bouquet matched the tablecloth. They will remember lousy food.

    The same goes for photography. I don’t care how many times Uncle Marvin tells you he just bought a used iPhone 12 and will take your wedding pictures as his gift.

    Don’t do it.

    We hired professionals for both photography and video, and I’m glad we did. We also took pictures of every possible family combination. Some of these people hadn’t been together in years, and now they have family portraits that may never have happened otherwise.

    But the thing that probably made the biggest difference wasn’t the food or the photographs.

    It was the production.

    At 75, You Don’t Walk Down the Aisle

    You dance.

    We spent months figuring out how we wanted the ceremony to feel and listened to more than 100 songs.

    When it was time for the wedding to begin, I wasn’t standing nervously at the front waiting for Carol. I entered wearing coat tails, a top hat and carrying a cane.

    Then Stevie Wonder started singing “For Once in My Life.”

    And I danced down the aisle.

    No rehearsal. No choreography. Just go.

    The wedding party followed behind me, and I think that’s when most of our guests realized this wasn’t going to be a normal wedding.

    Then Carol entered. She looked absolutely gorgeous in a dress that matched her peacock theme, but there was no Here Comes the Bride. Instead, Etta James started singing “At Last.”

    After 1,008 combined dog years, it seemed appropriate.

    We exchanged our individual vows, but we had one more vow to make together. Most couples wait until the reception for their first dance.

    We didn’t.

    Kenny Chesney’s “Me and You” started playing, and right there during the ceremony, Carol and I danced and sang the song to each other as our joint wedding vow.

    That was the moment I’ll never forget.

    There wasn’t a dry eye in the room.

    Including mine.

    Then, after we were pronounced husband and wife, Natalie Cole’s “This Will Be (An Everlasting Love)” started blasting. There was no solemn procession and no carefully measured steps.

    We danced.

    And everybody was already smiling before the reception even started.

    Then We Had a Party

    I’m convinced a great DJ can make a wedding, and a bad one can turn it into four hours of people checking their watches.

    We got lucky. Ours knocked it out of the park, but it wasn’t luck alone. We met with him beforehand and explained exactly what we wanted. 

    This wasn’t simply, “Play some wedding music.” We told him the atmosphere we wanted, the genres we liked and the music we didn’t want.

    Our reception was probably 80% great dance-and-sing-along music from the ’70s and ’80s. People knew the songs. They sang, danced, laughed and, most importantly, stayed.

    That’s what we wanted.

    We spent six months planning the wedding, not because we wanted it to be perfect, but because we wanted it to be ours. We skipped traditions we didn’t care about, kept the ones we liked and invented a few of our own

    If you’re crazy enough to get married when you and your bride have a combined age of 1,008 dog years, you might as well have go non-traditional and all have a great time 

  • Grandpa AD Mac: The King of the Prank

    Grandpa AD Mac: The King of the Prank

    Every family has its legends.

    Some are remembered for wisdom.

    Some for business success.

    And some — like my Grandpa AD Mac — are remembered for sheer mischief.

    Grandpa and Grandma Irene built a successful Michigan bean-processing business. When asked how he became so successful? “

    “Simple…it’s our slogan. “Eat our Beans and Let Us Hear from Ya”, but that isn’t why we still talk about him.

    We remember the pranks.

    The one-liners.

    And the stories that still get told at family gatherings decades later.

    Grandpa summed up his feelings about grandchildren perfectly:

    “You kids bring me double happiness — happy when you come, and happy when you go.”

    That pretty much tells you everything you need to know about Grandpa.

    He was quick with a line, fearless with a prank, and always looking for his next victim.

    The Bean Business

    By day, Grandpa and Grandma Mac ran a fast-growing Michigan bean-processing company.

    They worked hard.

    They built a successful business.

    But once Grandpa left the factory, beans took a back seat to entertainment.

    And Grandpa was usually the entertainment.

    The Funeral Lady

    One of Grandpa’s best friends was a small-town funeral director who had a problem.

    There was a little old lady in town who regularly checked the obituaries and attended funerals for people she barely knew.

    She had a routine.

    Sign the guest book.

    Walk up to the casket.

    Lean over the deceased.

    Whisper:

    “I knew him well.”

    Then head straight for the sandwiches and lemonade.

    Apparently, free funeral food was a major part of her retirement plan.

    The funeral director had finally had enough.

    Grandpa had a solution.

    They staged a fake wake.

    Grandpa put on his best suit, climbed into a casket and waited.

    Sure enough, the woman arrived.

    She signed the guest book.

    Grandpa ate his breakfast.

    Walked solemnly toward the casket.

    Leaned over Grandpa.

    And whispered:

    “I knew him well.”

    Grandpa suddenly shot straight up out of the casket.

    “THE HELL YOU DID!”

    I don’t know exactly what happened next.

    But I’m fairly certain she skipped the sandwiches.

    The Hospital Trick

    Grandpa didn’t restrict his pranks to friends and relatives.

    Medical professionals were fair game.

    During one hospital stay, Grandpa received his breakfast tray.

    Eggs.

    Ham.

    Toast.

    And a glass of apple juice.

    Beside the tray, the nurse left a sterile specimen cup.

    “Mr. McIntyre, enjoy your breakfast. We’ll need a urine sample.”

    But he didn’t drink the apple juice.

    Instead, he carefully poured it into the specimen cup.

    A little later, the nurse returned.

    She spotted the full container.

    “Perfect. Thank you.”

    She reached for it.

    Grandpa grabbed it first, held it up to the light and studied it.

    Then he said:

    “Wow. This looks so good, I think I’m going to run it through twice.”

    And drank it.

    I would have paid good money to see that nurse’s face.

    The Great Denture Swap

    But Grandpa’s masterpiece may have happened at a Michigan Bean Association convention at a historic resort.

    These conventions supposedly involved beans.

    From the stories I heard, beans occupied approximately 15 minutes of the agenda.

    The rest involved drinking, joking, storytelling and harassing competitors.

    One night, around 3:00 in the morning, Grandpa slipped the front-desk clerk twenty dollars and somehow acquired the master key.

    Then he went to work.

    Room by room, Grandpa quietly entered while everyone slept.

    His mission?

    Swap their dentures.

    Apparently, the Michigan bean industry had a surprisingly high percentage of false teeth.

    The next morning, chaos erupted.

    Hungover bean executives woke up, reached for their dentures and discovered that their teeth no longer fit.

    Some apparently thought they’d had a stroke.

    Others thought something had happened to their jaws overnight.

    Eventually somebody asked the obvious question:

    “Where’s Mac?”

    The mystery was solved.

    But there was still one problem.

    Nobody knew whose teeth belonged to whom.

    So all the dentures were placed on a table in the hotel dining room.

    Imagine breakfast.

    Coffee.

    Eggs.

    Toast.

    And thirty sets of used teeth lined up next to the silverware.

    One by one, grown men walked around the table trying on dentures until somebody yelled:

    “These are mine!”

    Disgusting?

    Absolutely.

    Ridiculous?

    Completely.

    Pure Grandpa Mac.

    Closing Time

    Grandpa also had no patience for guests who overstayed their welcome.

    After several hours of listening to somebody discuss their retirement account, gas mileage, medical problems or grandchildren who definitely should have been starting quarterback, Grandpa had a solution.

    He’d look across the room at Grandma and announce:

    “Irene, we need to go to bed so these people can go home!”

    Subtlety was not one of Grandpa’s strengths.

    But it worked.

    Grandpa’s Real Legacy

    Grandpa and Grandma built a successful business.

    That was an accomplishment.

    But decades later, nobody sits around telling stories about how many bags of beans they processed in 1963.

    We tell the story about the woman at the funeral.

    We tell the story about the apple juice.

    And we definitely tell the story about a dining-room table covered with dentures.

    Grandpa understood something long before the rest of us did:

    Life is more fun when you give people something to laugh about.

    His bean business may have fed a lot of people.

    But Grandpa AD Mac gave our family something that lasted even longer.

    A lifetime supply of stories.

  • It All Started with Bill and Ginny

    It All Started with Bill and Ginny

    Of course, every crazy family has to start somewhere.

    Ours started with Bill and Ginny.

    They met on a blind date.

    Dad was quiet and passive. Mom was the life of the party—a little crazy and a great storyteller.

    After their third date, Mom started calling Dad “Wallet.”

    Dad couldn’t figure it out.

    Did she think he had money? Came from money?

    Finally, after several weeks, he asked:

    “Why do you keep calling me Wallet?”

    Mom stared at him.

    “How could a family with the last name Fold name their son Bill?”

    There was only one problem.

    His last name was Voll.

    Didn’t matter.

    For the next 60-plus years, every card Mom gave Dad was signed:

    Wallet.

    The Drake Hotel

    Mom and Dad didn’t exactly master the Catholic rhythm method.

    Nancy was conceived on their honeymoon, and the rest of us started arriving one after another.

    Years later, we asked Mom:

    “How did you end up with 11 kids?”

    She explained.

    “After Nancy was born, I had three months of no sleep, diapers and baby food. I needed a break.

    “So Dad and I would go to the Drake Hotel in Chicago for the weekend.

    “And every time I came home from the Drake, I was pregnant.”

    Apparently the Drake had an exceptionally effective turn-down service.

    Years later, we actually went back to the Drake bar for a conception celebration.

    And every Father’s Day we’d tell Dad:

    “Thank God you didn’t take piano lessons—or none of us would be here.”

    Then Came Nancy

    Nancy was the oldest.

    And apparently responsible for training the rest of us.

    At seven years old, she taught her younger siblings how to fill empty bleach bottles with water, add dry ice, screw on the caps, run—

    and watch them explode.

    At the next parent-teacher conference, the nun told Mom:

    “Nancy is a wonderful student. Very well behaved. But she has the wildest imagination.”

    Apparently the class had been asked what exciting things they’d done over summer vacation.

    Nancy answered:

    “I taught my brothers and sisters how to blow up bleach bottles.”

    It wasn’t imagination.

    Nancy Finds Religion

    Nancy also took her Catholic education seriously.

    She’d been taught Catholicism was the road to Heaven, so she worried about our Jewish neighbors, the Altmans.

    She brought them cookies because, as she explained:

    “They’re not going to make the bus.”

    Then came Good Friday.

    Nancy had us build a wooden cross and plant it in the backyard.

    Next she recruited Kim, our seven-year-old Protestant neighbor.

    She stripped him down to his shorts, tied him to the cross and smeared ketchup across his stomach.

    And who had a perfect view of the Crucifixion?

    The Jewish neighbors we’d just given cookies to.

    The Backyard Funeral Home

    Nancy also conducted funerals.

    Lots of funerals.

    Dogs. Cats. Birds. Chipmunks. Turtles. Goldfish. Guinea pigs.

    Even an alligator.

    Shoeboxes became caskets. We became mourners.

    Nancy conducted full funeral Masses wearing a bedsheet for vestments, drinking grape juice from a wineglass and distributing Wonder Bread communion.

    By the time we eventually sold the house, the backyard had so many graves it practically needed its own cemetery map.

    We had to resod the whole thing.

    And remember—

    Nancy was only the first of eleven.

  • Date an Undesirable,  See the World

    Date an Undesirable, See the World

    Dating in a family of 11 was an adventure in itself.

    With six girls and five boys, dating sometimes became a family partnership. The girls attended an all-girls Catholic academy and Catholic college. The boys went to Notre Dame. Eventually, one brother married one of our sisters’ roommates, and three of the girls married Notre Dame guys.

    Apparently, we didn’t believe in looking too far from home.

    The $1 Chaperone

    One of the girls I met and dated was from Cuba, and she was beautiful. We hit it off and dated for three years.

    But with nice comes a price.

    Her parents had two mandates.

    First, she could date only good Catholic boys.

    I passed that test.

    Second, there had to be a chaperone on every date.

    That was a little more challenging.

    Fortunately, I had ten siblings.

    I offered one of them $1 to ride along, sit in the back seat while I picked up my date, and make sure her parents saw that their daughter was properly chaperoned.

    It worked beautifully.

    For a while.

    Soon $1 wasn’t enough. The going rate climbed to $1.25, then $1.50, then $2.

    By the six-month mark, even $2 couldn’t get me a chaperone.

    I was crushed.

    Then Christmas came—and so did a miracle.

    My family gave me a folding dummy dressed in a Notre Dame sweatshirt and stocking cap.

    Problem solved.

    Before picking up my date, I’d pull the dummy out of the trunk, unfold him, put him in the back seat and fasten his seat belt.

    There he sat, faithfully chaperoning us.

    It worked like a charm.

    For three years.

    The Girl Who Was Never Going Anywhere

    Mom was concerned about my sister Jenna.

    She had no interest in dating or proms. While the rest of us were going out, Jenna was perfectly happy at home in her jeans and saddle shoes, sitting at the dining room table.

    Mom worried:

    “She’s never going to meet anyone, get married, go anyplace or enjoy life.”

    Then we boys brought a few guys home from college to party after a football game.

    One was a quiet accounting major with dark-rimmed glasses and a pocket protector containing two pencils and a pen.

    He went gaga over Jenna.

    They got married.

    He quickly moved up the corporate ladder, eventually becoming a senior vice president with a global insurance firm.

    And while the rest of us live modestly and plan a trip to an amusement park in Ohio…

    Jenna is in Monaco on a Mediterranean cruise.

    The Mom Smell Test

    Whether we liked it or not, anyone we dated eventually had to pass Mom’s smell test.

    If Mom decided a boyfriend or girlfriend was an “undesirable,” she could be remarkably cunning and creative in trying to uproot the relationship.

    My sister Susan dated Lawrence for four years.

    Lawrence did not fit Mom’s preferred profile.

    Mom tried coercion.

    Grounding.

    Strict curfews.

    The silent treatment.

    Nothing worked.

    So Mom changed tactics.

    “Susan, we think it would be a great experience for you to spend six months abroad in a student exchange program.”

    Susan jumped at the opportunity.

    Off to England she went.

    Six months later she came home.

    And went right back to Lawrence.

    Mom wasn’t finished.

    “Susan, here’s another wonderful opportunity to learn and travel in Germany.”

    Off to Germany she went.

    She came home.

    Back to Lawrence.

    By now, the rest of us had figured out Mom’s international dating strategy.

    One of us finally asked:

    “Susan, are you really going to break up with Lawrence?”

    Susan had her answer:

    “Yes. As soon as I get back from Norway next year.”

    And that became one of the great lessons of growing up in our family:

    Date an undesirable. See the world!

    You can’t make this stuff up.