Haven’t posted in a while — just wanted you to know I am alive and using the holiday week to recharge for the final stretch of my Super Bowl journey.

With the holidays here and most of the big-wigs who’d be required to approve a $3 million sponsorship already sipping hot chocolate in Aspen or on a plane to their in-laws in Cleveland, I’m in the very frustrating situation of having a nearly ticked-out fundraising clock and no practical way to get any closer to my goal. Which leaves me brainstorming some impractical ways: 

Should I be the first to sit on Santa’s lap and ask for a Super Bowl spot?  Or maybe I’ll start collecting money in a different currency . . .

“What’s this?” the NBC ad sales guy would ask.

“It’s three million dollars,” I’d answer.

“I’m sorry,” he’d say.  “We don’t accept foil-covered chocolate Chanukah coins.”

Obviously I’m kidding.  Even in this economy, no network would sell a thirty second commercial on the nation’s most-watched broadcast in exchange for holiday chocolates.  

At the very least, it will require Pez.

I keep seeing the Bernard Madoff story on the news and find it ironic that many of Madoff’s investors had given him three million dollars — the exact amount I need for my Super Bowl spot.   I’m sure the majority of these investors are now kicking themselves, thinking, I could’ve helped that nice girl Amila find a husband instead of getting screwed by Bernie.

Finally heard back from the potential husband who claimed he had an artificial log to go with the artificial fireplace I once won on the “Price Is Right.”  

Turns out he’s an artificial suitor.  He’s pushing a comedy CD he put together and I think was hoping I could help him out with some publicity.

Why is it so hard to find one great guy who wants to get his name in the paper — in the Weddings section?

My Super Bowl commercial aside, I haven’t ruled out the possibility that the man of my dreams might contact me just from the publicity, but so far no luck. One guy who saw the L.A. Times article wrote: “I read you once won an artificial fireplace on the price is right.  Well for sometime now I have had an artificial log with no place to artifically burn it.” I actually liked this guy’s approach — there are worse sins than not capitalizing the “P” and the “R” in “Price is Right” — so I asked for more info but haven’t heard back.  Apparently he was in his yard chopping the log and got fatally injured by a shard of polyurethane.

Other guys emailed with warm sentiments like, “Impressed you’re in Mensa.  How big r your breasts?”, charming foreign guys gushed, “I edmire what your doing sexy sexy and hope you end up in a Soup Bowl,” and I’ve heard from dating book authors of both genders with offers like,“I’m willing to send you my book for free and want nothing other than the satisfaction of helping you find your soulmate.  P.S. If you need a dating coach, mention this email for ten percent off my $500 hourly rate.”   

Even celebrities have reached out, like the guy who signed his email, “America’s most famous limousine driver.”  I’m tempted to call, if only to find out, does this guy drive his own limo to his red carpet appearances? Or does he have the second most famous limo driver drive him? 

Really, though, I truly appreciate anyone who writes, so a big thanks to all of you guys.  And if someone doesn’t turn out to be my future husband, if he (or she) is an executive at a dating service, a diamond manufacturer or a marketing guy at Uncle Ben’s looking to have their rice thrown at my wedding, I’d love to talk with them about sponsoring my ad.

Okay, hope I didn’t just piss off the famous limo driver.  I may need him someday to write “Just Married” in his rear window.

With the holiday here, I’m thankful for the strangers who’ve supported my goal, the friends and family who’ve always been there for me, and — most of all — I’m thankful that, since I’m single, nobody ever expects me to cook the turkey.  (Hopefully, my husband from the Super Bowl ad will know what to do with a baster.)

When I came up with the idea for the Copper Level of giving — for people who’d like to mail in a single penny — I was thinking that if each of the 300 million Americans contributed one cent, I’d have exactly the three million dollars I’d need to buy my Super Bowl spot.  What I didn’t count on was being so moved by the small donors and their stories that I’d want  to acknowledge each with a thank you card which, including the stamp, cost me seventy-two times the amount of the actual donation.

I’m paying for the thank-yous out of my own, non-Super Bowl money — so every penny gifted still goes toward my commercial or to the United Way if I don’t reach my goal — but somehow, the math of spending seventy-two cents (.30 for the card and .42 for the stamp) to thank someone for a one-cent gift makes sense to my heart, though I’m sure my accountant will freak.  That’d be like buying a round-trip ticket to Munich to go thank your friend Dieter for his gift of one iTunes download, or springing for a Harley just so you could ride to Chicago and tell a business contact,  “Bob, I really appreciated that fruitcake.”

But with Thanksgiving almost here — and with no email addresses for the mail-in supporters — how could I not acknowledge pennies so carefully taped to protective pieces of paper and notes such as, “I just lost my husband but will pray for you to find yours,” “This is all I can afford but I wish you luck,” or “I wanted to help even though my own Mr. Right is out of work.”  It’d be hard to be human and not write back to the cheerleaders who scribbled, “You go, girl!” “Can’t wait to see you on the Super Bowl!” or “Best of luck — we’ll be watching for you.”

If you were one of those people, keep an eye on your mailbox because the cards just went out and should be arriving shortly . . .

With February 14th a couple of weeks after the big game, I’m hoping next Valentine’s Day will be a change from the usual, which goes like this: I enter the lobby of my apartment building to see the front desk completely covered with floral arrangements awaiting delivery.  I purposely stroll by in slow motion, hoping the guy at the desk will say, “Oh, you had some flowers delivered,” or even, “Someone dropped off chocolates for you.”  There was only one year when, after noticing me walking extra slowly, he finally had something to say.  He said,  “Hello, Miss. Borkowsky, did you hurt your foot?”

If he asks the same question this year, my heart is still hopeful I’ll be able to answer, “Yes, some drunken idiot girl in stiletto heels smashed my big toe when I was out dancing with the great guy I met from my Super Bowl ad.”

I’ve been hearing from a lot of great guys from Australia — even got an email from a Sidney in Syndney (what a confusing life he must lead) — but the thought of having to hop on a plane every time I forget my favorite bra or a scrunchie at my boyfriend’s place is a little discouraging. One guy sounded great, but when I emailed to ask what he was looking for in a wife, he wrote back, “A green card.” The search continues . . .

I consulted with my friend Paul, who works in investment banking, for his take on the odds of getting my Super Bowl funding from Wall Street backers. “You’re too high a risk,” he said. “If an investor throws money in, he’ll want something in return. And what’re you gonna give him– an email saying, ‘Thanks for helping some girl named Amy find a husband?’”

“I’ve already worked that out,” I told him. “For ten thousand dollars, they get an invitation to my wedding. For five thousand they get to come to a private screening of the wedding video, and for one thousand they get an autographed wedding portrait.”

Amy's parents (looking much happier than they did in divorce court ten years later)

“Look, if I were you, I’d give up on the three million,” Paul said. “Just try to raise one, and post a free ad on craigslist: ‘Marry me and get a million dollars’.”

Let’s hope I make headway finding a sponsor whose product or service will get real value from tying in with my husband hunt — like maybe an online dating service or some beverage company that wants their soda to be served at my wedding.

Because even I, the eternal optimist, am not confident anyone could find Mr. Right posting, “Marry me and get just over three grand.”