Oh, Canada

A girl named Lindsay left a super-sweet comment on my blog a while back announcing, “It’s official: I have a cyber crush! I’m not sure why you’re single!”

I usually don’t take comments like that seriously, because more often than not they’re written by very straight married moms who reside on other continents. You know who you are. Unless they’re left by lesbians who look like the love child of Julie Andrews and Ellen DeGeneres. If such a miracle of science were possible. Those I take very seriously.

Sifting through comments last week, I traced Lindsay’s trail back to her web site, clicked on the “About” page and an absolutely adorable photo of a blond-haired, blue-eyed beauty appeared on my screen. I immediately fired off an email to her, and now we’re in love pen pals.

The Olympic-sized torch I carry for Julie Andrews is pretty well documented here, here and a little bit here. (Question: How excited am I that Oprah’s reuniting the cast of “The Sound of Music” to celebrate its 45th anniversary today on her show? Answer: Eeeeeee!) And earlier this year, I accused Ellen DeGeneres of being a vampire because she keeps getting younger and hotter. Now I have my very own girlfriend pen pal who looks like a combination of them both. I’ve taken the liberty of nicknaming Lindsay as if she were an all-in-one celebrity couple in the esteemed tradition of Bennifer and Brangelina: DeGendrews.

I didn't want to violate DeGendrews' privacy by posting her photo, so I photoshopped Isabel's head over her face. Then I became concerned that Teva would be jealous. Now I find DeGendrews even more attractive than ever before. Also, I lied. I want to violate her privacy. All night long. Like the Lionel Richie song.

DeGendrews just recently started dating a girl whom she met in kickboxing class who is so fit that she apparently doesn’t break a sweat while vigorously exercising. I don’t trust people who don’t perspire. It can’t be healthy to hold everything in like that. She’s obviously hiding something. Also, I keep asking myself: What does a kickboxer have that I don’t? A hot body. Six-pack abs. The ability to swoop in wearing a sports bra and short-shorts with the word “BITCH” slapped across the ass, strut her buff physique and bravado, fight off thugs in a dark alley and rescue DeGendrews in case of emergency. I guess that’s fine if you like that sort of thing.

Even if it weren’t for the kickboxer who is possibly experiencing phantom pains in sensitive spots on account of the voodoo doll I may or may not have in my possession and be repeatedly kicking in the box, DeGendrews lives in Toronto. All this time I thought America was coming between me and sex, but now I’m convinced there’s clearly an international conspiracy to keep me chaste.

I’ve been trying to twist the arm of my manfriend MirtoP so he’ll accompany me on a trek from Boston across the border. The only way I seemed to gain ground on this campaign was by promising that I’d ask DeGendrews to find him a male companion while we’re in town. “Must resemble Dennis Quaid – but will settle for ‘old’ Matt Damon type,” he texted. Then a few minutes later, another text: “Mennis Quaimon!” Because apparently he and I are only attracted to people who look like combinations of other people. It’s so nice to be understood.

Amid a flurry of correspondence in which we extolled the virtues of Scrabble, crossword puzzles and merkins, I accidentally emailed DeGendrews from my personal account. Now she knows my full name. Which I suppose she would have found out eventually when we get married. We were exchanging flirty messages last night, but at some point we stopped talking dirty and started gabbing about Asians and our moms and kittens. We really suck at cyber sex.

I’ve also learned that my life partner pen pal is American but moved to Canada 10 years ago for a lady she fell in love with on the interweb.

I’m thinking about taking up kickboxing.