Romantically Challenged (21 page)

I checked my voicemail messages and returned all the calls that sounded like they couldn’t wait. Only two out of nine. Not too bad. When I finished, I was feeling good enough to leave the house, but I knew Rosenthal would be checking in later and I didn’t want to miss his call. I decided to make it a phone day.

My next call was to Celia at Just A Date. I hadn’t heard from her in weeks and another date was just what I needed to get me over my rejection from Adam. I dialed the number and was connected to a recording that told me the number I’d dialed had been disconnected or was no longer in service.

I must’ve accidentally rang the wrong number. I tried it again and received the same message. I knew that couldn’t be right. I pushed “0” for the operator and listened to one recorded message after another until I pressed enough buttons that I finally reached a live person.

“Operator, can I help you?”

“Yes, I dialed 555-0122 and all I get is a recording that the number is no longer in service. I think it must be an error.”

“I can check it for you for a $1.50 service fee.”

“I have to pay $1.50 so you can correct your own mistake?”

“The service fee is $1.50 ma’am. Would you like me to check that number for you?”

“Fine,” I said. I could always argue the point with the phone company when I received my bill. After a minute and of a half of listening to commercials about what my phone company could do for me, the operator came back on the line.

“It’s not an error message ma’am. That number was disconnected on September 5
^th
.”

It was possible they changed the number. “Is there a new number?”

“No ma’am. We don’t have a listing for a new number.”

“Why was the phone disconnected without a new number?”

“I don’t have that information ma’am.”

“Well do you know who would have it?”

“No, ma’am I don’t. Is there anything else I can help you with today?”

While I was thinking of what to ask next I heard, “Thank you for calling the phone company.” The operator had hung up on me. I’d have to drop in at Just A Date’s offices to figure this out for myself.

Follow Up

I drove over to Just A Date on my lunch hour Monday. Again I was stopped by the parking attendant. I couldn’t be sure, but I thought it was the same man. If he was, he didn’t appear to recognize me.

“I’m going to Just A Date,” I said.

“They’re no more,” he replied.

“What do you mean they’re no more? Did they move?”

“Don’t know. The men came and locked up the offices. No one been up there since.”

“What men?”

“Don’t know,” he said. “But they’re no more.”

The attendant agreed to let me park for a few minutes so I could go upstairs and check for myself. He was right. Just A Date was no more. The door was locked and an eviction notice dated September 3
^rd
was still taped to the outside.

I drove back to my office and called the Consumer Affairs Bureau. The clerk told me they’d had several complaints about Just A Date in the last few weeks. All they’d been able to discern was that the company had folded and the owners had disappeared.

“What recourse do I have?”

“Our investigation is on-going,” the clerk said. “You can call us back in a month or two and we might have more information for you.”

“I don’t want information in a couple of months. I want my file and my money back, now.”

“Hold on a second,” the clerk said. He must’ve set the phone down on the desk rather than putting me on hold. Instead of music, I heard the clerk ask, “Has anyone seen the lonely hearts club file? It’s not in the cabinet.”

Nice.

A female voice asked, “Man or woman?”

“Woman,” the male clerk replied. “Ten bucks says she’s another desperate lawyer.”

This was unbelievable.

“You’re on,” the female voice said.

I could hear more cabinets slamming and papers shuffling, then the clerk came back on the line. “The company was evicted from its offices at the beginning of the month. If the owners didn’t take the files with them, then they’re in the possession of the building’s management company.”

“Can you give me their phone number? I’d like to get my file back.”

“I imagine it’s been destroyed by now. That’s usually what happens in cases like these. Whatever can’t be auctioned off is dumped.”

“That’s fine.” I would’ve destroyed the file myself anyway. Although I probably would’ve peeked first at the comments from Michael and Ronald. “But what about my money? I paid them $300.”

“Are you by any chance a lawyer?” he asked.

“Why?” I wasn’t about to help him win his bet.

“Because unless you want to sue them, you’re out of luck.”

“I am a lawyer, but I’m not desperate, so you just lost ten bucks,” I said before slamming the phone down.

I wasn’t a desperate lawyer, but I was definitely an angry one. How dare they take my $300, set me up with two losers, and then go out of business! I was tired of going on bad dates. I was tired of being manipulated. I was going to make their lives miserable. I was going to sue.

The World Wide Web Of Dating Deceit

I went on-line and downloaded all the requisite forms and addresses. By the end of the week, I’d filed my case in small claims court and served the defendant. Once I calmed down, I realized that even if I won, I’d probably never be able to collect on the judgment. But I didn’t care. I was fighting back and it felt good.

I had no plans for the weekend until Kaitlyn called me Friday afternoon and suggested a girl’s night—Steve was out of town. I assumed as much. Kaitlyn and Steve had spent four of the last five evenings in each other’s company. Not that I was jealous. Well, maybe a little bit. It’s just that it’s a lot harder being single when your friends aren’t.

Kaitlyn met me at my apartment after work. After we’d ordered food – a medium roasted veggie pizza from Johnnies – I searched the
TV Guide
for entertainment.

“There’s nothing on,” I said. “Do you want to download or rent?”

That’s when she reached into her purse and pulled out a wad of paper that looked like it’d been torn from a magazine. The article was entitled
Finding Love in the New Millennium
. I read the first two paragraphs. Internet dating sites were the new singles bars…. I skimmed the rest of it. Nothing I hadn’t seen before. I refolded the pages and handed them back to her.

“Classic or new release?”

“Did you read the last page?”

I was determined not to be so easily manipulated. Distract and evade, that was my new m.o. “Maybe instead of renting we should try pay-per-view?”

“Didn’t you see the list of web sites? There’s one specifically for Jewish singles.”

“So?”
“So I thought we could go on-line tonight and check it out.”

“Why would you think I would even consider on-line dating?”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m not that desperate! Besides, didn’t you see that commercial where the teenage girl is talking about this wonderful guy she met on the internet and he turns out to be a ninety-year-old geezer.”

“Yeah,” she said. “That was a funny one. But this website has pictures. And my hairdresser told me three of his clients met their significant others on-line.”

“Why were you discussing this with your hairdresser?”

“I read the article last night when he was cutting my hair.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. Besides, don’t you think it seems desperate?”

“More desperate than joining a dating service?”

Kaitlyn had never liked the idea of me joining Just A Date. Considering how it turned out, maybe she’d been right.

After we polished off the pizza and a pint of Cappuccino Commotion ice cream, Kaitlyn and I laid on the living room floor with my laptop between us. We logged onto Jews-On-Line and cruised the site. At Kaitlyn’s urging, I filled out the visitor’s questionnaire, checking boxes for the characteristics I would look for in an ideal mate. Within thirty seconds, I had over five-hundred potential matches.

Kaitlyn and I spent the next three hours culling through hundreds of on-line pictures and profiles. I had to admit that most of the men seemed normal and there were even a handful I would’ve considered dating.

“Are you convinced?” Kaitlyn asked.

“Maybe,” I said. “I need to think about it.”

* * *

By Sunday night, the maybe had turned into a yes. Somewhere between lying on my living room couch Saturday night watching TV with Elmo and waking up alone in bed on Sunday morning, I decided that on-line dating wasn’t really for desperate people after all.

I logged onto the Jews-On-Line website, filled out a profile, uploaded a photo my dad had  e-mailed me after their visit, and hit SEND. Five minutes later I received an e-mail notifying me that I was now officially JOL Member Number 83002. I had the option of e-mailing other members or waiting for other members to e-mail me. I hadn’t had much luck lately being forward with men, so I decided to wait and let the men come to me.

And they did. When I checked my e-mail Monday night I had twelve responses. It wasn’t anywhere close to the seventy-five e-mails the woman in the testimonial received her first week, but it had only been one day. And I hadn’t posted a picture with my boobs busting out of my shirt the way the testimonial girl had. Perhaps I should have. 

I rejected five of the twelve candidates outright because their profiles didn’t include photos. Looks weren’t the most important criteria, but I had to assume that if the man wasn’t posting a picture there was probably a reason. Then I rejected two more based on their photos, one based on his profile, and one because he didn’t live in L.A. I figured with twelve responses in one day, I could afford to be choosy.

I e-mailed responses to the three remaining candidates. By the next morning, I’d heard back from all three. Bachelor Number One suggested we meet right away. Either he was pushy or desperate. I deleted him. Bachelor Number Two sent me back a long, boring e-mail. I responded, but my hopes were fading fast. By his third e-mail I decided to drop him. I was focusing my energies on Bachelor Number Three.

His name was Ethan. He was a computer software dealer, but he didn’t look like a geek, and he seemed nice and funny on-line. We’d e-mailed to each other several times a day for three days when he suggested we meet in person. It still seemed too soon, but curiosity was getting the better of me. Besides, as Ethan pointed out, we needed to meet in person to determine whether we had any chemistry. If we had no chemistry, there was no point in continuing.

I told Ethan I’d meet him for brunch on Sunday. He suggested I pick the restaurant, which I liked. I wanted to meet in a crowded public place, just in case Ethan turned out to be a psycho. After all, we had met on the Internet.

I made reservations for noon at The Vine Café, an always crowded outdoor restaurant on Beverly Boulevard. I called Kaitlyn and Simone that morning and told them both where I was meeting Ethan and all the information I knew about him. Kaitlyn took down Ethan’s name and phone number, but told me I was being paranoid. Simone said if she didn’t hear back from me by the end of the day she’d call the police.

* * *

When I arrived at The Vine a few minutes after twelve, Ethan was already waiting. Except for the addition of a beard, he looked the same as he did in his photo. Average height, dark brown hair, dark brown eyes, and a bit of a paunch that would surely turn into a beer belly by the time he reached forty.

Once we were seated, we both pored over our menus as if we were cramming for exams. After we ordered, and the waiter took the menus away, we had no choice but to talk to each other. I didn’t know where to begin. We’d already covered most of the typical first date questions in our e-mails. But in person, we lacked the familiarity we’d developed on-line.

After a short, uncomfortable silence, I asked Ethan about his weekend. He answered me in two sentences and reciprocated. After I answered, he changed the subject to baseball. I feigned interest in his analysis of the Dodger’s performance this season and surreptitiously looked at my watch. I couldn’t believe it had only been ten minutes.

“You know,” Ethan said abruptly changing the subject, “you’re much better looking than I thought you’d be.”

Had I heard him right? “Excuse me.”

He repeated his statement.

“But you saw my picture before you met me.”

“Yes, but a lot of women lie about their looks.”

I still didn’t understand. “How can you lie about your looks when you post a photo?”

“A lot of women post pictures that show them from the waist up. Then when you meet them in person, they turn out to be huge from the waist down.”

“But the picture I posted was full length.” I was wearing black pants and high heels. I might’ve looked a bit taller, but otherwise it was an accurate portrayal.

“Yes, but you were wearing a jacket, so it made me think you had something to hide.”

I couldn’t believe I was having this conversation on a date. “Ethan, I described myself in my profile as petite. How big could I possibly be?”

“Yeah, you really should change that. Petite could be short and fat. You should describe yourself as firm and toned.”

At least going back to the gym had paid off. “Clearly you’ve been doing this longer than I have, but what would be the point of lying about your appearance when eventually you’ll meet the other person and they’ll find out the truth?”

“I guess people think that by the time you meet them in person, you’ll be so smitten with them from their e-mails that you won’t care what they look like.”

We both agreed that was unlikely.

I was still processing this information when Ethan added, “It’s not just women that lie. Men do too.” He must’ve assumed I was wondering if he was referring to himself, which I was, because he added, “I don’t mean me.”

Ethan explained that a female friend of his had been a member of JOL for over a year and had met tons of lying men. “The only difference is that women usually just lie about their looks, men lie about other things too.”

“Such as?” I had to ask.

“Age is a popular one. They say they’re younger then they are and then post photos of themselves from ten years earlier when they still had hair. And then of course there are all the married men.”

Married men! “Why would married men join Jews-On-Line?”

“To meet women, of course.”

Ethan estimated that at least half of the men on JOL were actually married. He didn’t tell me what he based this figure on and I didn’t ask. Instead I said, “Are you married?” It would explain why he was telling me all this.

“No,” he replied. “And this is my real hair. So would you like to go out again?”

* * *

I waited until I arrived home to call Kaitlyn and Simone to tell them I was still alive. I also filled them both in on the ugly truth about JOL. Kaitlyn told me she thought Ethan was crazy and I shouldn’t believe a word he said. Simone said she suspected there was at least some truth in Ethan’s revelations. I agreed with Simone. I would either need to find a new method for meeting men or accept the fact that I’d be spending the rest of my life with Elmo. At that moment, Elmo was looking like the better alternative.

Matchmaking in the New Millenium

This morning it was Simone’s turn to play hooky. She had her first fitting for her wedding gown at ten o’clock. She figured she could make it into the office by noon, so there was no point in wasting a vacation day. Since Simone’s assistant was on vacation this week, I was assigned the task of turning on her lights and computer. If anyone asked where she was, I was supposed to tell them that she’d left for a doctor’s appointment and that she’d be back by lunchtime.

Thankfully, Rosenthal left for his therapy session without asking me Simone’s whereabouts, but Greg appeared in my office five minutes later.

“Where’s Simone?” he asked.

“At a doctor’s appointment,” I said without looking up from my desk.

“Yeah, right. Where is she really? Job interview?”

I stared at him with my lips pressed together. I knew the story was for Rosenthal’s benefit, but Greg had a big mouth.

“Forget it,” he said. “I’ll ask her myself when she gets back. Actually, I’m glad she’s not here. I wanted to talk to you.”

“Shoot.”

He sat down in my guest chair and put his feet up on the corner of my desk. “What are you doing Wednesday night?”

“Watching
Law & Order SVU.
It’s the two-hour season premiere.”

“You’re pathetic.”

“I know. But lawyer shows are always so much more interesting than actually being a lawyer. I keep hoping I’ll pick up some pointers on how to make my life more exciting.”

“That’s easy,” he said. “Condense six weeks of work into an hour, then spend the rest of your time screwing the other lawyers in the firm.”

“That was
Ally McBeal
, but I’ll take it under advisement.”

“You should. In the meantime, how about going Speed Dating with me on Wednesday night?”

“What’s Speed Dating?”

“I’m surprised an avid dater such as yourself hasn’t heard about it. It was dreamed up by some rabbi to promote Jewish marriages. Basically, it’s an introduction service for Jewish singles.”

“What is it? A singles party?”

“No, you’re actually paired up with seven different people for seven minutes each. The only rules are that you have talk to each person for the full seven minutes, and you can’t talk about your job or where you live. At the end of the night, you decide whether you want to see any of the seven people again. If both parties say yes, then they match you up.”

“Are you serious?”

“Absolutely. The next event’s Wednesday night at Starbucks. Do you want to go?”

“Not really.” I could just imagine all the nerdy Jewish guys that would go to something like that. “Why don’t you go first and tell me how it is? If you like it, I’ll go to the next one.”

“I think it would be more fun if we went together. Besides, you owe me one for getting you the low down on Steve Rogers.”

“You’re going to call in your favor for this?”

“Why not?”

He probably thought he’d look like more of a stud if he walked in with another woman. “Okay, it’s a date.”

* * *

When we arrived at Starbucks, the place was already packed. Greg and I each paid our $10 registration fee and filled out the top portion of a questionnaire with our name, address and phone number. The lower portion of the form was broken into seven sections with a blank line for a name and one question underneath: WOULD YOU LIKE TO SEE THIS PERSON AGAIN? YES OR NO (CIRCLE ONE).

We’d just handed in our forms when the organizer of the event rang the bell and introduced himself. He placed me and the other twenty-one women at small tables spread throughout the room. On the center of each table was a plastic number. I was seated at table number thirteen.

He then assigned each man a number from one to twenty-two. I never did figure out how they managed to come up with an equal amount of men and women. The organizer told the men that when he rang the bell, they should go to the table that matched their number. After seven minutes, he said, he would ring the bell again, and all of the men would move to the next odd- numbered table if they’d been assigned an odd number, or the next even-numbered table if they’d been assigned an even number. This way, no one would be staring at the table on either side of them looking for their next date.

That seemed fair. Completely random, but fair. A combination matchmaking and musical chairs, except only the men played. At the end of seven rounds, the organizer told us, we could socialize and talk to whomever we pleased. That way, if fate didn’t match us with the person we wanted, we could introduce ourselves at the end of the night.

The organizer waited until everyone was seated before he shouted, “Ready, set, date.” And we were off. Match Number One was named Richard. He was tall and stocky with black hair. His nose was too large for his face, but he was cute in spite of it.

Richard told me he’d grown up on the East Coast and had just moved to Southern California last year. I told him I’d been living in Los Angeles almost ten years and couldn’t imagine ever moving back. He said since L.A. was now his home, he felt like he should learn to surf. I told him I tried boogie boarding a few times, but preferred scuba diving. He said he wasn’t scuba certified, but that he liked to snorkel. We were still talking about our favorite snorkeling spots when the bell rang.

I waited for Richard to leave, then pulled the questionnaire out of my purse. I wrote down his name and number on the blank line and circled YES. I wasn’t smitten, but he was attractive and could hold up his end of a conversation. I returned the questionnaire to my bag and another man sat down.

Match Number Two was named Josh. Based on looks alone, he would’ve been a seven. Cute enough to date. But his incessant whining about Los Angeles’ lack of culture, combined with his nasal voice, reduced him to a five. Before Speed Dating, I hadn’t thought seven minutes was enough time to spend with someone to know whether you wanted to date them. I was wrong. After two minutes with Josh, I knew I never wanted to see him again. I just had to wait another five minutes for the bell to ring.

Match Number Three was named Seth. He was probably 5’5” in his work boots, but 5’3” without them. We talked about our hobbies and how hard it was to meet people in L.A. He seemed nice and normal. When the bell rang, I pulled out my questionnaire and considered it for a full ten seconds before I circled NO. I knew I could never get past the height issue.

Match Number Four was named Ira. He was tall, but about fifty pounds overweight. Despite the rules of the program, he spent the entire seven minutes talking about his career as a stockbroker. He told me how much money he’d made last year, and how much more money he intended to make in the future.

I asked him for a stock tip so the seven minutes wouldn’t be a total waste, but by the time the bell rang and I had a pen in my hand, I’d forgotten the name of the company whose stock I was supposed to buy. I pulled out my questionnaire and circled NO. Even a lucrative stock tip wasn’t worth an entire evening with Ira.

Match Number Five was named Barry. He was the reason I was afraid to go to singles events. I couldn’t accurately guess his height because he sat with his shoulders slumped over the table and his head bent down. This position did, however, afford me a great view of his few remaining strands of hair which he’d coiled into a bird’s nest on the top of his head.

After thirty seconds of post-bell silence watching Barry finger the grooves in the table, I started asking questions. I knew he was an unequivocal NO, but we had seven minutes to kill. His responses were either monosyllabic or “I don’t know,” and were always directed to the tabletop.

The highlight of our mini-date came at the end of minute five when Barry removed the hearing aide from his left ear to check the battery. It was still working, but the sudden movement caused the bird’s nest to fall and I was afforded the rare pleasure of watching Barry recoil it back into place. I spent the last two minutes staring out the window.

Match Number Six was named Evan. He was short with red hair, freckles, and wire framed glasses. I wasn’t attracted to him, but at least he talked and wasn’t afraid to look at me.

Evan also ignored the guidelines and opened the conversation by telling me that he was a plastic surgeon and had just joined a practice in Beverly Hills with a large celebrity clientele. I told him I didn’t think it was possible to be a plastic surgeon in Los Angeles without celebrity clients. He told me that even though I wasn’t a celebrity, he would be happy to help me with those little lines around my eyes. I had no hesitation circling the NO under his name.

Match Number Seven was named Danny. Danny was a sweater. By this point in the evening, the wet rings under his armpits had seeped out onto his chest and were creeping down toward his waist. Danny made a real effort at conversation, but I was distracted by his constantly wiping the perspiration off his face with his shirt sleeve.

After the third time, I handed him my pocket pack of tissues. They helped to soak up the sweat, but shredded in Danny’s beard. By the end of seven minutes, Danny looked like he’d had a terrible shaving accident. When I gently pointed this out, he quickly brushed the tissue particles off of his face, but they just landed on his chest and shoulders, giving him the worst case of dandruff I’d ever seen.

When the bell rang, I circled the last NO and beelined across the room to Greg. I was ready to leave, but Greg wasn’t. He’d spied two women he hadn’t been matched with but wanted to meet, and said he wasn’t leaving without at least one phone number. I braced myself for a long night.

Coffee Buzz

I wished Greg happy hunting and went to the counter to order a grande café au lait. I waited for my coffee at an empty table in the corner while I perused an abandoned copy of
Daily Variety
. I was only halfway through the lead story when I heard, “I’m sorry, but that’s my paper.”

The first thing that registered about the man standing before me were his warm hazel eyes outlined by long, thick, dark lashes. The rest of his features, his average height and build and dark brown hair, were unremarkable.

“Sorry,” I said. “I didn’t know anyone was sitting here.” I got up and handed him the paper.

“You don’t need to leave,” he said, and sat down in the empty chair across from me, still holding his steaming venti-sized cup with the name “Noah” scrawled in black marker under the lip.

The counterman called, “Julie,” and I said, “That’s me.”

“Nice to meet you, Julie, I’m Noah.”

The counterman called my name again. I released my hand from Noah’s handshake and said, “I better go get that.”

“Why don’t you join me?” he said. “I’m almost done with the paper. You can have it when I’m finished.”

I looked around the room and spotted Greg pretending to listen to every word being uttered by a buxom blonde. “Sure, I’ll be right back.”

I picked up my coffee, stopped at the condiment bar for a Sweet ‘N Low and a sprinkle of cinnamon, and returned to Noah. When I sat down, he handed me the paper. I read the portion of the address label that hadn’t been torn off: NOAH GREELEY, CAPITOL STUDIOS, BUILDING 9, ROOM 214, 1600 CAPIT.

“So how do you like working at Capitol?”

“How did you—”

I held up the paper and pointed to the mangled address label.

He smiled. “It’s as good a studio to work at as any I guess. How about you? Are you in the business?”

“Tangentially. I’m an entertainment litigator.”

“That’s close enough for me. I’m in business affairs.”

I knew a few people from law school who had left law firms for studio business and legal affairs jobs. The general consensus was that the hours were better, the pay was worse, and it was the closest a lawyer could get to making movies without quitting the law altogether and becoming a producer.

“So you’re a lawyer who isn’t a lawyer anymore?” I asked.

“Exactly.”

We talked about his job, my job and current movies. We both liked intelligent, mainstream pictures—which we both estimated was less than twenty percent of the pictures released by the studios in any given year—and art house films that contained stories as well as angst. Compatible taste in film was always a plus for a movie fan like me.

I hadn’t even realized we’d been talking for almost forty minutes when Greg came over and put his hand on my shoulder. “Are you ready to leave?”

“Sure,” I said. “Whenever you are.”