I never used to have outrageous tales to tell about my bad dates, because before I was married and divorced, I drifted happily from one long-term boyfriend to another. Each relationship--or “storia,” as they call them in Italian—ended, but we remained amicable friends. I speak fondly of my ex-boyfriends; my ex-husband, however, is another story.

It’s a sorry tale: I walked in on him entwined with someone else while we were still newlyweds, he left me (taking all the furniture and financial assets with him), destroyed my trust in men and my own judgment, and, timing-wise, ruined my chances of buying my own house or having my own children.  My friends were sympathetic, but eventually I got tired of hearing myself repeat that miserable tale, so I started looked for a new man, and a happier ending.

I tried online dating, browsing the Man Catalogues on the Internet, thinking that with one click I could get that witty psychologist who loved skiing and Italo Calvino delivered right to my door. I signed up for everything: Match.com, Nerve, the Right Stuff--for Ivy League types—and even Eharmony, until I found out it was run by the conservative Christian group Focus on the Family (I kept wondering why I always matched up with policemen from Novato—I must’ve checked “occasional recreational drug use” or something, and they sent me right to the cops).

From the beginning, I had spectacularly bad luck: the plastic surgeon who mentioned that if he just trimmed a little cartilage off the sides of my nose and lengthened the tip, I’d be pretty; the physicist who didn’t show up, then later called saying the police had stopped him, mistaking him for a murder suspect; the “sexy, outdoorsy” chap who turned out to be Dick Cheney’s doppelganger.

They were bad dates, but I laughed later on, recounting them at dinner parties and over lunch. That made going on blind dates a lot easier: No matter how disastrous, I’d end up with a good story—in fact, the worse, the better, as far as the retelling was concerned.  I never lost hope that I’d meet the right guy, but in the meantime, I amused my friends. My married pals came to depend on me not only for the vicarious thrill of dating, but to make their own domestic dramas and disappointments pale by comparison.

There was the screenwriter, for instance, who spoke Italian, loved to cook, and invited me on a second date to his place for dinner. When I walked into his apartment, the stench was so overwhelming I had to immediately crack a window. The living room had filthy white carpet with a runway of black where he’d tromped from kitchen to bedroom. The couch was shiny with grease. He cooked a great penne in vodka sauce, but I lost my appetite looking at all the crusty dishes in the sink. I excused myself to go to the bathroom and, well, I’ve been in nicer bathrooms in bus stations in Morocco. I ate and ran.

Then there was the art director, who was all charm and intelligence and creative inspiration when we met for drinks. He asked me out again, on a drive to the country for lunch. On the way up, he described how unfair his divorce had been, and it emerged that his wife had a temporary restraining order against him. Slowly and sickeningly, it dawned on me that I was in the car with a guy who’d been so crazy or violent that his ex had to resort to a court order to keep him away. It also turned out he really wasn’t working as an art director any more, and he’d somehow lost his job as a substitute teacher, too. Finally, he pulled over to the side of the road and broke into tears, telling me about the night he had to stay in Atascadero, which is not a nice hotel in Carmel. It’s the California hospital for mentally disordered criminals.  I very, very gently suggested that maybe we ought to just turn around and go back to the city.

Two weeks later, I was participating in a reading with some well-known Bay Area writers, including Michael Chabon, Dave Eggers, and Dorothy Allison. Right in the middle of the reading, there was a pounding on the window from a man standing outside. It was my criminally insane friend, trying to get my attention. I pretended I didn’t know him—who’s stalking Dave Eggers?-- and didn’t so much as glance when security took him away.

Finally, back home, I met a guy who seemed normal and nice. He, like me, was from Colorado, liked to ski and ride bicycles, and he was a chef. He invited me out on a long ride, where I learned that he used his bike so much because he wasn’t allowed to drive, for some reason. It was a gorgeous day, ending up at my favorite bistro. I love eating with a chef-- even if he did forget his wallet. After he drank several glasses of wine, he bicycled back with me to my house, gallantly, since it was after dark, and we opened another bottle. Then he wanted another. I was rather shocked at his alcohol consumption, but I’m not about to regulate anyone. He was getting sloppy, I was losing patience with him fast, and wanted him gone. I suggested he’d better go home, and went to the kitchen.

When I returned, there he was on my couch, with his clothes off. It wasn’t time for him to take his clothes off, not remotely so. Things were going in the opposite direction. I asked him why the hell he had his pants off, and he explained that he’s just one of those people who likes to be naked. Then he let loose with a small eruption and an apologetic smile, and asked for paper towels. I got him some, anything to get out of the room, and came back to find him, pants on again, thank God, wiping something off the couch. After he left, I went to inspect, and initially thought it was chocolate. It was not.

When I retold the tale of that last bad date to my friends, they weren’t so amused. The story had crossed a line from hilarious to pathetic.  Suddenly I wasn’t laughing any more about the fact that I hadn’t been in a good relationship in almost ten years, that my love life had become a joke. I didn’t like being the character I had become in my own stories.

In each tale, I was a fun-loving, outdoorsy gal who likes Haruki Murakami, hiking, and anything Italian, who mysteriously ends up being the hapless bystander on a bad date, suffering in the company of one of the many clueless, damaged, shallow, narcissistic single males over 40 who populate our major coastal cities. When it came down to it, I was always the victim--particularly in the Big Story of my divorce, betrayal, heartbreak, and subsequent financial ruin at the hands of my ex-husband.

What if, asked a wise friend who was neither laughing nor sympathizing with my stories, you told that story differently? What if you told it as if you were accountable for what happened to your marriage?

I tried it—for laughs—and mentioned the choices I had made, the red flags I’d ignored, the fact that I’d brushed aside my ex-husband’s ambivalence because I was determined to get married and have children. I told the story that way, and surprisingly, it was a relief. Blame did not fall down upon my head.

I saw I’d made mistakes, to be sure, and the great thing about mistakes is that if you recognize them, you don’t have to repeat them. I don’t have to marry that guy again. Nor do I have to be afraid of a new relationship, constantly choosing inappropriate men to date so I’ll have an excuse to avoid what had become my greatest fear. Did I really think RealMan4U was going to a viable partner--or yet another character in a story that proved it was ridiculous for me to be in a relationship?

Until now, the tales I’ve told about my marriage and dates have made it impossible for me to have a different, happier ending.  So I’m no longer out there dating to amuse my friends with a worst-case scenario story. Now I’d like to tell them something boring over lunch: You know what? I met a nice guy who really likes me.