Operation Match

Ok, guys. It's dire. Everything I always feared about online dating. Except worse.

The profile went live Thursday, and I've taken Polly's advice. Rather than reading guys' profiles in depth, therefore getting my heart set on them, I'm emailing anyone who looks like potential with the subject line: Maybe a match?
And this email:
It looks like we might be a match. If you're interested, I'd love to hear from you.

Simple, direct, and totally ineffective. I've heard back from only two guys, one to tell me he was seeing someone, but just staying on Match until his membership expires (Translated loosely: in case I find someone better). And one guy who is both locationally undesirable and has a kid (which would be fine in someone I was crazy about, but not someone who's on the fence already.)

One of the things you can do is "wink" at people, and I've gotten a few, and responded to them with a wink of my own, expecting them to take the lead on actual conversation. One did. And that turned out to be unfortunate.

Him: Good Afternoon! Hope you are having a great day! I am in the Bergen Beach area of Brooklyn! I look forward to hearing from you! Ciao! (his name, which I'll leave out)

Me: (4 days later, but there was a weekend in there, and I have a life):
Hi! It was great to get your message. I'm in Queens--Jackson Heights.
What do you like to do for fun?

Him: It couldn't of been too great, it took you long enough to respond, you didn't even leave a name??

Um, check please... so yes, my great dating adventure is off to a slow start.

I did, however, go to my first Mensa Singles event last night. Two of my friends (they're comediennes, those girls) were emailing today with their guess of how the night went. I'll share their conversation:

V: Did you have fun? Did you meet anyone? And I’m so curious, where does Mensa meet?

K: prob at a library or museum or something :oD

V: Well, I picture it in two ways. The first is in a large auditorium, maybe chess boards set up in one corner. The second is in a study with old Elizabethan furniture; couches, chests, etc.

K: the second. and it's hazy with pipe smoke.

V: And I picture Bookgirl sitting on the arm of the couch, martini in hand, chatting it up with a guy who is seated next to her.

K: and the guy is wearing a cardigan with elbow patches.

Me: How did you know? Were you guys spying???

Actually, we met for dinner at Tao, a trendy, upscale restaurant in midtown. There were eight of us, and three were men, which is almost a slam dunk when it comes to the New York City female to straight male ratio. Short of a sporting event, those are the best odds you're going to get.

The guys were good-looking and very nice, and conversation was vibrant all around. No numbers were exchanged, but we all promised to do another event soon, so who knows?

After having been deliberately out of the dating scene for so long, I thought that putting myself back on the market was going to open a floodgate of possibilities from the universe. But right now, I'm just hoping for a trickle.

p.s. I've gotten a few sympathetic emails, so I'd just like to state for the record that I'm not feeling at all sorry for myself. If that post sounded at all dejected or whiny to you, please go back and reread it with my "I find this all really amusing" voice. There, that's better.

Gauntlet Thrown

Polly Poppins likes to think of herself as a matchmaker. She prides herself on the fact that she even fixed her West Coast best friend up with her husband. But seriously? How hard could that have been? The Dol is petite and adorable, smart and funny, and unencumbered by my irrational terror of commitment. So I decided it was time to present Polly with a real challange.

The last time Polly fixed me up was the summer between high school and college. And it worked out well, except for the fact that I had to explain all the big words to him. You might think that would be a deal breaker, but not so much. We liked them big and dumb back them. We had a great summer fling and he was added to the list of men who almost took my virginity, before I lost my nerve at the last moment. (That's a story for another blog, but I'd like to take this opportunity anyway to apologize. I was that Catholic girl who liked to pretend she was edgy and wild. But just wasn't. And I'm sure that really sucked.)

Since that was the last time Polly and I lived within 200 miles of one another, future fix-ups were difficult. Sure, there was the Marine in Georgia on spring break, and the cute banker in New Orleans at Mardi Gras, and the trust fund guy on that one beach vacation, but they hardly even count. She's been dying to get her hands on my love life for years.

So this is it. The gauntlet has been thrown down. I plunked my credit card down for a three-month membership on Match. com, let her set up a profile, and let her say anything she wanted about me. I've agreed to take her advice, go out with anyone she tells me to. My romantic destiny is putty in her hands.

I figure she has to do a better job with my love life than I've been doing, since I tend to alternate between impulsive bad choices and a vibe that can only be described as "back away slowly."

p.s. By popular demand, her's the text from the profile, and the picture I have posted. Anything where my response is something that totally doesn't sound like me, like "No way" or "Keep it healthy" was a multiple choice. Feel free to critique.

Maybe_Yes_Or_No
Click here for keys to the universe...

32-year-old woman
Flushing, New York, United States
seeking men 30-45
within 25 miles of Flushing, New York, United States
Relationships: Never Married

Have kids: None
Want kids: Not sure
Ethnicity: White / Caucasian
Body type: Full-figured
Height: 5'5" (165cms)

Religion: Christian / Catholic
Smoke: No Way
Drink: Regularly

In my own words
for fun:
I go. All week long: career, gym, play, dinner with friends, drinks, and coffee. I stop only for football on Sunday, and then I crash on the couch, in my pajamas, with the phone set to go straight to voicemail. Nothing comes between me and my boys.

my job:
I work in marketing for a major publishing house, where there's always a new book (or twelve) to keep things interesting. I love what I do and I'm proud to be good at it, but pretend I didn't say that because I'm painfully modest.

my ethnicity:
I'm of French Canadian descent, although I occasionally pass for Betty Boop. I come from a large extended family with a ton of Quebecois idiosychrasies and an almost accidental sense of humor.

my religion:
While I don't attend mass regularly, I like having a faith and ties to a greater community. There's something reassuring about being in a churchfull of people I love for a baptism, first communion, or wedding. I like the sense of history.

my education:
I went to Hofstra, which is what brought me to New York. I have an English degree (like pretty much everyone else I work with).

favorite hot spots:
One of the reasons I'm so busy is I can't walk past a chance to try something new. I've gone to London for breakfast because I could. I took up kayaking this summer just because I've never done it before. I don't want to miss anything.

favorite things:
My favorite things are Starbucks Pumpkin Spice lattes; having my friends miss me when I'm gone; shoes; white wine; and the Pats' 6-0 record. If that's not enough, I love beach combing, a good book, and having too many choices.

last read:
Never Give Up by Tedy Bruschi

About my life and what I'm looking for:
You know, if you had asked me this time last year, I would have said my perfect match was Tom Brady but now, I think I'd like someone closer to home. I've got a strong sense of self and a lot of friends, so my life is full and happy, but I'd like someone to snuggle up with on the couch on Sundays.

My best friend says my ideal match is a retired pro-football player turned airline pilot, and while I think that's going a bit far, I would like to be with someone who is independent enough to keep the relationship interesting but available enough to indulge in the romance of late Saturday night dinners and leisurely Sunday mornings.

I'd like to be with someone who's funnier than he thinks he is, who laughs more than he complains, and who thinks my head-in-the-clouds tendency to walk into walls is endearing.

I love to spoil and I love to entertain but at the end of the day, I want someone else to do the dishes.

About me Hair: Dark brown
Eyes: Brown
Best Feature: Chest
Body art: Strategically placed tattoo, Pierced ear(s)
Sports and exercise: No answer
Exercise habits: Exercise 3-4 times per week
Daily diet: Keep it healthy
Interests Book club/Discussion,
Coffee and conversation,
Dining out,
Movies/Videos,
Nightclubs/Dancing,
Political,
Travel/Sightseeing,
Watching sports

Education: Bachelors degree
Occupation: Sales / Marketing
Income: $50,001 to $75,000
Languages: English
Politics: Liberal
Sign: Pisces
My Place: Live with roommate(s)

Pets I have: No answer
Pets I like: No answer

About my date
Hair: Any
Eyes: Any
Height: 5'7" (170cms) to
8'0" (243cms)

Body type: A few extra pounds,
About average,
Athletic and toned,
Heavyset,
Stocky

Languages: Any
Ethnicity: Any
Faith: Any
Education: Any
Job: Any
Income: Any
Smoke: No Way,
Occasionally,
Cigar aficionado

Drink: Social drinker, maybe one or two,
Regularly

Relationships: Any
Have kids: Any
Want kids: Any
Turn-ons: Boldness / Assertiveness,
Brainiacs,
Candlelight,
Dancing,
Erotica,
Flirting,
Money,
Power,
Sarcasm,
Thunderstorms

Turn-offs: Body piercings

In Your Dreams

I had a sex dream last night about someone I used to date. Now I don’t want to imply that I have any negative feelings toward him, but this is an actual quote from something I once wrote about our relationship:

“Getting back in touch with you completely ruined your memory for me. Up until now, I've been able to think of you as someone who was worth loving, basically a good person who was going through a rough time and just didn't treat me the way you should have. But now I realize that period of your life wasn't an anomaly. You're just a jackass."

The sex dream itself was horrific enough, but in the dream, I was just so pitifully, disgustingly grateful that he was showing me attention. All of my friends were furious and wouldn’t speak to me because I hooked up with him again (Which is pretty much exactly what would happen in real life). And I was grateful. Ugh. Ever have one of those dreams that makes you wish you could clean out your brain with bleach and lye soap? Or maybe volunteer for a lobotomy? Seriously, ugh.

I think it’s because I’ve been thinking of starting to date again. I haven’t been on a real date in five years. Some would (and have) said that perhaps five years of punishing myself for falling in love with the aforementioned wrong guy is long enough, and it’s time to practice some self-forgiveness. I think they may be right…

I’ve long held the theory that fat girls are invisible—that guys just don’t see me. But I’m beginning to suspect that might be more a product of some internal thing I was projecting. Because I’m in a really good space right now, and really happy with my life. And three different men asked me for my phone number last week. Yeah, talk about making me hold my head a little higher…

So this is it. I’m getting back on the horse. (Figuratively, gutter-brain!) My friend’s fiancé has a cute friend, and I told him to offer the friend my phone number. My instructions: “If he wants it, great. If not, just don’t ever mention it to me again.” I figure that way, I get potential positive results without that messy risk of rejection. And a few friends have mentioned setting me up lately, and my response, “Go for it.” (Okay, in the interest of full disclosure, I first made comments along the lines of, “You know someone who’s looking for a fat, clumsy girl?” But still, I said yes. Wish me luck!

This One's for Polly

My friend Polly e-mailed me the other day to tell me that I don’t update my blog often enough to keep her entertained. Normally, that would have been fine. But this email came on a day when I was so overwhelmed, so completely in over my head, that I couldn’t see straight. So instead of being flattered that she likes my blog, and yes, I have readers, I just barely resisted the urge to respond with something that would have made my mama ashamed of me, and then I ignored the phone when she called. So even though she doesn’t know all this (at least not until she reads this entry), I knew that I was fresh and felt bad about it. So I’m writing a special entry, just to entertain her. This one’s for Polly.

One of the things that makes working in publishing so much fun is that there will always be a giant gap between what needs to be done and what one human being can conceivably do. For perfectionists, in that gap lies madness. Carolyn Reidy, the head of the adult group at my company and my boss’s boss, once put it best: “Every person in this building has a stack of things on their desk they could do to sell more books that they will never get to. It’s all about triage.” Some days, I remember that quote and I’m fine. Others, the knowledge that I’m doing my best and it will never be enough gets more than a little discouraging. Last week was the latter. I grabbed the first piece of paper I could find and was using it as a bookmark last week, and then I noticed that it was my Prozac prescription refill. The universe has a sense of humor….

My book club met yesterday, and I had to brave public transportation to get there for the first time. My book club meets on Long Island at Hofstra, my alma mater, which is a beautiful campus. Set smack dab in the middle of a giant slum. I had forgotten just how much fun the Hempstead train station was, with the assortment of homeless, quasi-homeless, and strung out people. One man was talking to himself and crying, then he went outside and made out with his girlfriend for a while. She was wearing mint green fuzzy slippers. Good times.


We read a little bit of everything in the club. This month’s book was A Tree Grows In Brooklyn by Betty Smith. And it was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. I had read the first half before, but never finished it, because trying to set time aside to read something that long is hard to do when my work reading is piling up. But I always give myself permission to take a break from manuscripts for my book club, which is one of the reasons I love being in it so much. It was one of those books where I got to the end and just kind of held it for a minute to savor the moment. It was a book that reminded me why I love reading as much as I do. One of the women in the group is older, and read it in 1943 when it was new, as a 13-year-old. She’s never reread it, because she always wants to remember it from that space, not with her adult perspective. I have books like that from my past, that made such an impact that I can remember so vividly where and when I read them. Does anyone else?

I believe in people... well, sometimes

I realize I haven't written in ages. If you didn't notice, or even worse, noticed and didn't miss me, please don't tell me. It'll just make me sad….

It seems to be a season for engagements. Two of my friends and a cousin all got engaged over the holidays (although not, of course, to one another). The Hallmark people love me.
I'm being torn by my own Pollyanna-ness. Reality vs always wanting to believe the best of people. See, here's the deal. I won't name names, to protect the guilty, but a few months ago I was home from a night out too early to go to sleep, but too tipsy to be productive. So I decided wouldn't it be fun to go on Yahoo Personals? Who knew who I'd find???
Yeah, that's where the problem comes in. Because this guy, let's call him Guy, had an ad on there. The ad said Guy was single, and lived with roommates. "Hmm, roommates?," I asked myself. "Is that what we're calling the long-term girlfriend and her kids he lives with?" Because I know them.
And it wasn't an outdated, years-old ad. No, Yahoo handily tells the reader how long it's been since the ad owner logged on. In Guy's case, it had been days. So I stewed and hemmed and hawed, and finally decided not to tell the girlfriend. For the sake of this blog, we'll call her Girlfriend. But I saw the couple recently, and Girlfriend was wearing a shiny new engagement ring. I waited until we were alone and I said to Guy, "Guy, I'm not sure if you know this, but you have an active Personal ad on Yahoo Personals."
Guy, naturally, expresses shock. "No", he says. "I had no idea."
Me: "I figured you musn't know, that's why I wanted to tell you."
Guy: "I have to take care of that."
Me, pointedly: "Yes, you do."
Exit me, stage left.
Now back to the Pollyanna-ness. I want to believe it was an innocent mistake. Maybe it was an old ad that he visits every son often to see the matches. Because who doesn't like a good ego boost now and then?? And I love a happy ending. But there's this little voice telling me that something's fishy… I want to believe the best in people. But sometimes people make it hard.

Pumpkin Carvers

I met my friend Nancy last night for dinner and shopping in Union Square, one of those quintessentially New York nights out. We went to Zen Palate, a vegetarian Asian restaurant where everything looks like it could be meat, except you know it’s not. We both had the “Sweet and Sour Sensation,” which is essentially the same thing as the Sweet and Sour Chicken served at other Chinese restaurants, except made with soy. They redid the décor to look more upscale—low booths with pillows instead of chairs—but if you eat in the regular restaurant, you can still get 2 entrees for $20, so I don’t entirely get it.

Nancy and I have been friends for years, since we both worked at Penguin and she was my Nora Roberts book hookup. There are many things I love about Nancy—her spark, her fabulous, over-the-top, “make more heads turn than mine does” laugh, her creativity, the fact that we can talk about anything, the more outrageous the better. She’s one of the most fun people I know. We were in DC once, and she went back to the hotel early with our sick friend, while I stayed out. As I rolled into bed in the middle of the night, I accidentally woke her up. She turned to me and asked, “Hey pumpkin, did you have a good time?” and then fell right back to sleep. That’s Nancy.

But what I love most about Nancy is the way I feel when I’m with her. She makes me feel smart and witty and cute when we’re together, like people who aren’t with us are missing out. Maybe they’re just staring because we’re so freaking loud, but I think they’re a little bit jealous.

We were walking around last night, giggling madly and taking turns telling stories, when we came up with a new dating term. See, it seems one of her friends recently went out on a third date, and she invited the guy to her place. Third date. Staying in. The writing was on the wall. She bought wine, lit candles, put out crackers and cheese. And then told him her plan for the night—to carve pumpkins. Wait. Huh?

Nothing says “I can show you a good time” like pushing cozy domesticity WAY too early in the process. He, of course, trotted out the “I’m not looking for a girlfriend” line. Relationship over before it even started. We all know the bunny boilers, the “break up with me and I will make your life a living hell” girls. Well pumpkin carvers are the girls who give off such an air of desperation that they might as well be wearing a sandwich board that says, “I dream of picking out china patterns.” Pumpkin carvers. You heard it here first. Feel free to propagate it.