Finally got a chance to upload this shot of the end result — at least financially — from my whole Super Bowl quest: a nice little check for $6340 made out to the United Way.  I emphasize “little” because, with all the media interest, a couple of people had suggested going to Kinkos and getting one of those blown-up checks to present by hand at the United Way offices but somehow tearing a standard check from my checkbook and quietly mailing it in seemed more tasteful and appropriate.   It’s not like one of those $50 million lottery jackpots where they give the winner a humongous cardboard check, which seems like the worst strategy in the world from a security standpoint anyway — how do the grandma types who always seems to win get to the bank with that?  

“Heading over to the grandkids’ again, Edna?” a neighbor might ask.

“Why?” she’d reply.

“Because it looks like you have a Candyland board stashed in your bra.”

A big “thank you” again — and  a hug! –  to all of you who contributed, and stay tuned to this blog for updates . .

As I’m sorting through the emails, thought I’d share some of the most memorable ones . . . 

There’s the guy who sent a PDF of his divorce decree as proof of his availability, the father who wants to confirm that I’m a born-again Christian before finding a way to have me “accidentally” meet his son, who he fears would disown him if he knew his dad was arranging it (and they say Jewish mothers are bad!), and several guys who want to make sure I know that they need to be “the king, “  “the boss,” and “the CEO of our relationship.”  Heard from a number of commercial pilots with side ventures, including the pilot who’s also a swimming instructor — just how confident is he in his landing ability? –  the pilot who’s studying for a master’s degree in physics, and — as if reading textbooks in the cockpit were not enough to screw up someone’s ability to fly safely –  heard from one pilot for a major airline who owns and manages an Irish pub.  (What do they call it? O’Malley’s? O’Rourke’s? O’CrapMyPilot’sDrunk?)

The level of honesty is refreshing, from the 340-lb. guy who writes he has “a good heart but some issues with my thyroid,” to the computer consultant who confesses, “I am a good listener, fun to be with, but I am not very clean.  If you think being clean is important, I may not be for you.”

And I’ve gotten emails from an army of military guys, as well as from a teacher at a highly esteemed military academy requesting permission to use this web site as a teaching tool.   What could the future defenders of this great nation possibly learn from one skinny girl’s failed attempt to raise $3 million to advertise for a husband on the Super Bowl?  Will they hold me up as an example of bravery and courage for putting myself out there  — or as an example of what not to do when trying to recruit a few good men? 

Note typo of an "r" in "Amy."

Buried under the “pile” of emails were a few guys who seem like they could have real potential — and, so I don’t jinx anything, I’m not going to give details just yet.  But if things start to heat up with any one of them, I’ll keep you posted.

(Oh, and if you happen to be one of emailers above who I just had some fun with, please know that I do appreciate that you took time to write — there’s someone out there for everyone, and I’m sure it’s only a matter of time before you find her!)

Okay, now I have to go find a tactful way to reply to the 76-year-old with three ex-wives who writes he’s  “very youthful and to prove it, here is a photo of me listening to an iPod.”

My Super Bowl Sunday had no Doritos, no beer, no spicy chicken wings.  It was chipless.  It was dipless.  But it definitely wasn’t fruitless.  I decided to watch the game alone on my couch with a Yoplait, attempting to write back to as many of you guys who emailed me as possible — and switching the channel every now and then to HLN (Headline News) to see their coverage of my story.  (You can see clips at this site on the Amy’s Stats page.)

If you’re new here and just itching to read something more fun than what I could write after answering  email ‘til 4 a.m. every night for the past week (hence the “overtime” reference in this entry’s title) , check back soon after I’ve gotten a little sleep.