The Catalogue of Eligible Bachelors

"Where did you get this?," I laughed as I leafed through the stapled papers. 

Ma shrugged, "Eh, you know, from her. She insisted I take it home and 'look it over.'" 

"Her" is a relative who claims to dabble in shidduchim, but when it comes to follow-through is rarely present. 

The list was from a some sort of computer database, but the details were mostly restricted. The only sub-criteria selected was "working."

With some there was a blurry photo; many lacked names. As for what they actually did for a living, dream on. 

I flicked through, snorting. "Seriously, it tells me he has brown eyes but not his job?" 

I continued to skim. The train wreck from last summer was there; out he was crossed. Ah, Ponda Boba, still aging in reverse like Benjamin Button, skulking behind the gleamingly altered photo. He got a major X, along with "LIAR!"

"Why can't he accept that he's five years older?" I sighed. 

Taking new math into consideration, I ran my pen along those that were shorter than me on paper. I've stopped enjoying dates where the guy wants to kill me because I tower over him. 

I scratched out the ones that had been previously redt and knew weren't for me, the one who wrote "handsome" and "good looking" twice but no other details, the guy whose profile photo were two thumbs up at the camera . . . that narrowed down the list considerably.

I tried googling with the scraps available. Good thing, too; one was married. 

Miraculously, some survived the scourge. Ma called "her." 

"Oh, I don't have access to more information," she dithered. "You have to call so-and-so."

Ma and I both went "Nnnnnnnuh!" and I threw the paper out. 

Well, it was fun to see Ponda still living on Tatooine (meaning, in a science fiction universe where he's 6'4").