There’s only one thing that I can count on—that Alan will call. No, Alan is not my boyfriend (although I wish he were; but he lives in New Jersey). He’s the comic relief in the sitcom I call my life. In this sitcom, nothing turns out the way it’s supposed to, and most of the time, I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.

My life works like this: The men I try to get rid of keep coming back and the ones I want to stay end up disappearing. And in between, Alan calls, punctuating the events of my life with comedic commentary (similar to Talmudic commentary), either when we’re on the phone or in his voice mail messages. He’s got a comment about everyone with whom I go out.

We’ll start with Psycho Cliff, so named by my friend Judy for Cliff’s rather unpredictable behavior, which, in time, I came to recognize as completely predictable. His pattern was to call me and to tell me that we were meant to be together and that he couldn’t live without me. (Who could resist that?) Then, out of his own insecurity and fear of rejection, he would do what I call “bolt and blame.” He would disappear, then e-mail me, generally between 3:00 and 4:00 p.m. (don’t ask me why), about something that I supposedly had done wrong. I would e-mail him back, calling him on his meshugas, and end the e-mail with “Please do not contact me again” . . .

“Hey, it’s Alan. If you asked five people whether you should be going out with someone whose nickname is ‘Psycho Cliff,’ four would say that it’s probably not a good idea.”

A week or so would pass and then I would hear from Psycho Cliff again. He would say that he was sorry and that it would be different this time. I would allow him to sweet talk me, and the cycle would start all over. Hope springs eternal. Finally, I got wise to Cliff, and I realized that he had been interpreting “Please do not contact me again” as “She rejected me. I have to go out with her again, so I can be the one to reject her.” The last time he bolted, I sent him a note, letting him know his psychiatric diagnosis, as per the “Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of the American Psychiatric Association,” but left out my usual closing. I didn’t want to tempt him.

“Hey, it’s Alan. Well, you’re probably ready for a well deserved good night’s sleep after throwing the book at Psycho Cliff.”

Then there was Joshua, the “sensitive and intellegent” [sic] high school Language Arts teacher, who had a “definate [sic] romantic side” and who noted on his JDate profile that “nice teeth are a MAJOR turn on.” I sent his profile to Alan, for reference (and potential comedic material). During our Friday evening date, Joshua couldn’t compliment me enough (I do have lovely teeth) and kept talking about all the places we would go together and all the things he wanted to do with me. Before the evening was over, he said that he wanted to see me the next night and offered to cook me dinner at my house . . .

“Hey, it’s Alan. So you’re going out with the teeth guy. Well, don’t let him make you floss on the second date. For something like that, you want to wait until at least the third date.”

Halfway into Saturday evening, he said that he wanted to get together with me during the week. Then, when he was literally out the door, he stopped and said that, although he had a lot of things to take care of the next day, he wanted to see me and, once he knew what his day was like, he would call me. I never heard from him again.

“Hey, it’s Alan. I heard that the police arrested Joshua for misrepresenting himself as a Language Arts teacher. As evidence, they cited the misspelling of several words on his JDate profile.”

When I don’t know whether to laugh or cry, I choose to laugh.