INTERNET DATES FROM HELL (6 page)

5
 

Don’t Waste Too Much Time on the First Phone Call
 

October 1998

After an eight-month hiatus from Internet dating, I decided to repost my profile and give it another go. Saul, an American Jewish cosmetic surgeon wrote me a lovely letter accompanied by what appeared to be a recent photograph. I say recent because you can never be too sure (right?). He was attractive and bright-eyed, so I felt compelled to give him my phone number. By the time I returned home from work, Saul had called twice. No sooner had I changed into my jeans and T-shirt, than the phone rang. It was Saul. Instinctively, I looked at my kitchen clock, then my answering machine, then back to my kitchen clock, all the while talking to Saul and walking from room to room. He had called three times within the last hour! The first call came forty-eight minutes earlier, the second, only eighteen minutes ago. This unnerved me. I received three phone calls in one hour. Like in the cartoons, I felt a tiny little poke in my lower neck (remember that little red devil with trident in hand, perched on one shoulder, and the angel with the harp on the other?). Well, the poke I felt was not from an angel’s harp!

I could have easily jumped to conclusions, like I have recently trained myself to do, and categorized Saul as nothing more than a desperate nutcase responding to a photo of me. Magically I heard the angel’s harp all of a sudden in my left ear. So I chose to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, he was a surgeon. Maybe he was between surgeries or patient rounds and he stole an hour to reach me. That’s normal, right?

The conversation began in the sweetest of ways. “I hope I am not disturbing you. This is Saul, you remember, right?” How could I not remember, when he had left two messages thirty minutes apart, and no one else had called me that day, which was a dry day for me.

“Sure, Saul. How are you? I got your messages, and I was just thinking about you.

“Really, that’s reassuring.”

Reassuring? I had found a cosmetic surgeon with self-image issues? If so, we had that in common. Maybe he had just chosen the wrong words.

After an hour and ten minutes of verbal volleyball, I gathered the following information about Saul. He was a forty-one-year-old cosmetic surgeon, educated at NYU, and had recently completed his fellowship at NYU Medical Center. His favorite things were playing and watching hockey, attending the opera, wine collecting, and playing tennis. He resided in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, and was unmarried but had hopes of marriage in the future.

The phone call flowed so well, I was eager to meet him. I painted this mental picture of him as we spoke. I pictured him somewhere between Ben Affleck and Harrison Ford, with an air of professionalism apparent.

We planned to meet a few days later outside a café in the West Village, for Sunday brunch. Since our conversation had gone so well (and was inordinately lengthy), I agreed to a meal date as our first meeting. As I approached West Tenth Street and Greenwich, I asked the cab driver to drop me off a block or so before the café. I needed at least a block’s walk to gather my thoughts. Also, during that short stroll, I might catch a glimpse of him from a comfortable distance. As fate would have it, that is exactly what happened! He was exiting his brand-new BMW right outside the bistro! I stopped dead in my tracks. So abruptly, that the woman behind me pushing her child in an open stroller smacked into my Achilles tendons. While we exchanged polite apologies, I somehow lost sight of him. Obviously, he had gone in. With less than half a block to go, the little pitchfork poked me in the neck again. What was wrong with what I just saw? What was it about his physical characteristics that shook me? Was it his legs? Was it his torso? Was it his head? I just couldn’t put my finger on it, but I decided it had something to do with his head.

Instead of proceeding directly to the restaurant, I crossed the street and found myself in front of the Traveler’s building. I pretended to hail a cab. As cabs came and went, I tried desperately to see through the 8x12 window sashes to confirm my doubts about Saul’s head. Once again, fate was on my side (if only that damn devil would stop poking me in the neck and the angel would start strumming a tune). Saul took the first table just to the right of the entrance, street-side. As he feverishly paged through the wine list, it appeared as if he were wearing a toupee. From my vantage, it looked more like a piece of romaine lettuce than a bad rug. Oh no, I did it again! What the hell—what are a few follicles between friends?

My hand was still in the air, and a cab pulled up. The cabbie yelled, “Where to, Miss?” I almost broke out laughing. The cabbie had the worst wig I had ever seen. I had to put my hand on my mouth to stop my hysterical laughter. I mustered enough composure to respond, “I changed my mind. I think I’ll walk.” At that point, the cabbie yelled, “What is it? My aftershave ain’t cuttin’ it fer ya?” If only he knew.

As I approached the restaurant, Saul recognized me, waved through the window, and pointed to my seat. I did everything I could not to stare at his head, although I knew I would have to make eye contact sooner or later.

In a polite, gentlemanly manner, Saul bolted upright and pulled out my chair before the waiter could do it. He said I was right on time. He added that I was even prettier in person. He took the liberty of ordering two glasses of Santa Margarita Pinot Grigio. Remembering his love of wine, I didn’t argue. Up to this point, I had carefully avoided looking at his head. I realized there was quite a draft and I couldn’t determine its origin. It certainly wasn’t coming from the doorway because this month of October was unusually warm. I looked around and noticed an enormous oscillating fan above our table. Saul seemed pleasant, but still his hair looked funky and I wasn’t sure what it was.

I ordered eggs Benedict, and Saul ordered bagels with lox. When our dishes arrived, he looked as if he was sweating from nerves. I told him not to be nervous, and he told me that he had an anxiety disorder and felt nervous in new situations. At that moment I looked down at my eggs Benedict and saw that it was covered with black pepper. I even blurted out, “I didn’t put any pepper on the eggs. What the hell is this?” I then looked up, and he excused himself, saying he had to go to the men’s room. As he nervously stood, I could see his hair flaking off into my eggs Benedict! His so-called hair was actually spray paint! I thought those infomercials in the early hours were a hoax! I never thought in a million years that people actually used those products! I honestly could not eat my brunch after seeing his sweaty fake hair flake onto my eggs. What a waste!

He must have had a little can of touch-up spray-on hair because when he returned from the restroom his head looked back together (whatever that might be). I played with my eggs while he was gone so at least it looked like I had eaten some. I felt really sorry for Saul. He was a nice and accomplished guy, but this “wig in a can” was a real turnoff. I just wanted to go home. I offered to pay, but he wouldn’t allow it. I thanked him and hailed a cab home. He wrote me a few more times and I just kept answering that I was busy. I hope he reads this someday and decides to shave his head instead of wearing that awful spray! Anything is better than that aerosol nonsense.

If I spent less time daydreaming about possibilities during our first phone conversation and more time studying his recent photograph, I would have determined a touch-up job had been done. Altering photos with a computer is a ploy in Internet dating deception.

6
 

Always Plan Your First Meeting to Be Forty-five Minutes or Less
 

December 1998

Less than two months later, another physician responded to my profile. This was Angelo, a five foot eleven inch behavioral psychiatrist who resided in the East Village. He sent a photo. The photo was far more definitive than any I had received to that point. By “definitive” I mean that it was clear, like an old Polaroid, except the date and time appeared in the bottom right-hand corner. Although the image portrayed him as balding, he didn’t attempt to hide it in any way—no spray-on hair. Learning from my mistake of looking but not seeing the image in the photograph, I studied this one carefully. With time and date as a great help, I stopped wondering when the picture was taken and focused on the particulars.

Unlike the others, which were obviously taken twenty or thirty feet away from the subject, this was a close-up, taken from eight or, at most, ten feet away. Seated on a group of rocks, Angelo was waving to the camera. He was flanked by enormous oak tree trunks (definitely a rural area). I thought he looked rather cute in his denim jacket and black boots. However upon closer analysis, I noticed in the bottom left-hand corner of the photograph what appeared to be the curve of a motorcycle’s rear fender, red light, and New York license plate. Was he into motorcycles? Nonetheless, he looked in good physical condition despite his hair loss, and his smile was inviting. I thought that there was something different about the watch on his left hand. With my knowledge of computer photo imaging (thanks to my friend Greg, whom I mentioned in the preface), I zoomed in to Angelo’s left arm, but it still appeared unclear. If only I knew then what I know now regarding computer imaging.

After responding with a detailed profile, I sensed sincerity on his part and therefore concluded that we had a lot in common, so I took his number and gave him a call. We had a great phone conversation, in which we discussed his love of opera, ballroom dancing, travel, scuba, and exotic cuisine. He also talked about the yearly renaissance fairs in which he actively participated. “Hmmm,” I thought, “he’s an intellectual and an M.D., and a lover of the arts and medicine. Adding to my intrigue, he mentioned that he treats his women well (although I didn’t know if I liked the plural form “women”). He stated that he loved to pamper his lady. It sounded too good to be true. I asked him how he pampered his lady, and he responded that he liked to give massages, brush her hair, do her housework, etc. This time, Old Man Reason was knocking on the doors of my perception. Knocking may be an understatement; he was downright banging this time. If only I had invited him in.

We planned to meet at the famous Russian Tea Room in Midtown Manhattan. Although I thought I would be the early one, he arrived first. When I asked him how long he had been waiting, he demurely responded, “Twenty minutes, not long at all, my queen.” I didn’t know which was more bizarre—the way he responded or the way he was dressed. Covered in leather from head to toe, he painted more a picture of a motorcycle club member than a behavioral psychiatrist. Jacket, pants, boots, and even a leather shirt was a bit over the top! I wondered whether his socks were made of leather, too, and where was that silly Village People hat that would complete this look? I didn’t need to look for the Harley; I knew it was outside somewhere. Or was it?

It didn’t take long for me to confirm that Angelo was indeed an M.D. because I was a nurse before becoming a teacher and I knew medical terminology. We discussed psychiatry and different medications for disorders. We compared notes regarding great sites for wreck and reef diving. We even discussed the best places for Turkish cuisine. He also confided in me concerning his previous girlfriend, who had a borderline personality disorder. After a while, I decided to ask him why he was dressed in full leather garb. He responded, “I’m going to a ball.”