Internet Dates From Hell Part 6

While I was rummaging and making room for my new spring ensembles, the phone began to ring. Instead of falling victim to my old bad habit of immediately answering the phone, I was willing to give my new caller ID contraption its first workout. Realizing I hadn't preset my message machine to four rings, it didn't pick up after four rings like usual. Good, I thought to myself; this gives me more time to recognize the number. No luck. I did not recognize the number. Just then the phone stopped ringing. The nice thing about this caller ID is that it immediately stores the last number until the user erases it. Walking back to my closet, I heard my cell phone ring. The same number appeared there. Who could this 212 number be? I hoped it was not another telemarketer! However, what telemarketer would know both my home and cell number? I decided to let my voice mail cover this one. A minute later, I retrieved my voice mail.

"Trish, this is Ted. I've been trying to call you over the last hour. I tried you on your home number, but you weren't there. I'm calling from home, and my cell phone's battery is charging. The number is 212-."

"That's odd, because 212," I thought to myself, "is a city number! He told me he lived in Connecticut." Now I knew that something was more than just odd with Ted. Ultimately, I decided to call information and determine what that number was. After finding out from information that the 212 number was the student union building at the university where he worked, I became overly suspicious. I decided to call him "at home."

"Ted, this is Trish. I got your message."

"Oh, Trish, I'm glad you called. I forgot to ask you a question."

"Shoot," I said.

"I've been running this by my mom and she wants to know which nursing school you attended," he said.

Running this by his mom? Which nursing school I attended? What is wrong with this guy? It was time for me to be more a.s.sertive.

"Are you at home now, Ted?" I asked.

"Yes and no."

"What do you mean? If your mom is there and she's that interested, I would love to tell her myself!"

"Ah, well, I have two homes. The one in Greenwich is more of a weekend home, and the other is temporary."

"What does that mean?" I pried.

"Umm, well, it is really hard to find a reasonably, affordable apartment in New York City, so I decided to just crash in my office at the college for a little while."

"You're kidding!" I laughed.

"Trish, college positions don't pay well."

"But, Ted, this is the weekend, so shouldn't you be up in Greenwich now?"

"Yes, but I had to work on this summer's catalog."

At that point he had redeemed himself by telling the truth. Although I found it a bit bizarre, he did sound sincere, and I still wanted to meet him.

"Trish, are we still on for brunch tomorrow?" Ted inquired.

"Yes, I will meet you at noon."

All things considered, the brunch went exceptionally well. We decided to make another date, for a dinner, and went out a few nights later for some Mexican food. We were fond of each other and continued to date. Our time together included dinner dates, nights at the theatre, the latest films, and working out at the gym. He even took me to the gym at the university where he worked. He gave me a tour of the university and confided in me that he had actually lived in his office for over a year. Over a year! Now that was really weird. What would a son of a wealthy Greenwich doctor be doing living in an 8' by 10' office? I wanted to know details, so I asked him, "How does this work?"

"You see, I keep a sleeping bag under my desk with a few changes of clothes. Since my office is next door to the gym in the sports complex, I shower in the locker room before the coaches get in at six or after everyone leaves late at night."

"What about the maintenance staff?" I queried.

"Oh, they're all friends of mine. They think I am a workaholic. I also keep my office locked."

At that point I questioned whether he was insane or just a cheapo. I concluded that he was a little of both!

Just then Ted's cell phone rang. Answering, Ted turned to me and said, "Trish, I have to take this call. It's important. It's the athletic director. I'll be back in a few minutes."

Ted scurried down the hallway and up the stairs until he disappeared. To pa.s.s the time, I checked my e-mail on his computer. As I was checking my e-mail, I noticed that his computer was part of a LAN (local area network). Out of curiosity, I checked his history. To my surprise, I found that he had visited several p.o.r.n sites. Oh no, here we go again! The p.o.r.n sites were mostly of barely legal teens and nurses. To think that he worked around young college students, not to mention his mother being a nurse. What would she think if she knew? When Ted came back in the room, he caught me with a horrified look on my face.

"The fact that you live in your office is one thing, but this compulsive obsession is way more than I can tolerate. I thought we discussed my legacy and bad experiences with guys much like yourself!" I bellowed.

"Wait a minute. Why are you judging me? Every guy visits p.o.r.n sites once in a while," Ted retorted.

"Yes, Ted, but not sites with photos of barely legal teens and nurses. Your mother certainly wouldn't approve, would she?"

"Well, that was a low blow," Ted snorted.

"Talk about an Oedipus complex," I thought to myself. The situation was really getting freaky.

"Look, I am not looking for sympathy; I got kicked out of my home for this and other things," Ted replied.

"I don't care to know the details. Your computer is part of a LAN. People lose their jobs every day due to company-installed spyware programmed to catch people like you," I informed him.

"You're making me out to be a criminal. What do you mean by 'people like you'?"

"Sorry, Ted, it is getting out of control. I am supersensitive about this sort of thing. I know that, although you made a few bad choices, you're right. You're not a criminal. I have no right to judge you."

"Maybe you should just go," Ted concluded.

As I walked to the subway, I began to resign myself to the thought that the world was filled with misfit boys like the misfit toys in the cla.s.sic tale Pinocchio. Then again, at least it was obvious when Pinocchio told a lie.

19.

Don't Date a Biter.

April 2003.

Nearing the one-year anniversary of 9/11, the most heinous attack ever made on American soil, I slowly emerged from the coc.o.o.n I had unconsciously spun. Most New Yorkers, at first, rallied around each other and became closer in the months following the attack. However, as the year progressed, I noticed more and more of my fellow New Yorkers detaching themselves from each other in the effort to insulate against the horrors they had suffered. I too became more and more distant as the months elapsed. After watching one of the most important financial buildings belonging not only to New York City but also to the world, destroyed in a matter of minutes, my sense of self-importance and need for companionship paled by comparison. Internet dating was the last thing that concerned me at that point in my life. However, after a year and a half of quiet solace, I decided that loneliness and self-denial would never bring back the thousands of lives lost or the buildings that were destroyed. Solitude solves nothing, I decided.

It was at that time I decided to reenter the electronic dating game. I received a very romantic response to my profile from an Italian man named Paulo from Rome. He wrote that he had enjoyed my profile the most because it was filled with richness of culture, pa.s.sion, and adventure. He explained that the majority of American women seemed very cynical and lacked creativity. The image Paulo attached was as qualitative as any I have ever seen on the cover of GQ. Dark hair, piercing green eyes, five-o'clock shadow, just the right amount of chest hair, and toned biceps protruding from his designer white T-shirt completed the picture. Studying architecture at Cooper Union on a scholarship, Paulo appeared much younger than his stated age of thirty years. Although most people would have given their right arm to excel in the family-owned olive oil business as Paulo claimed he did, he had decided that a second career was in order. As a child, he had proven his love for Venetian architecture to anyone who knew him. Paulo described his summers in Sicily and his winters in Palermo from the ages of six through twelve. From the articulated sand castles to the dioramas he constructed, Paulo's love of architecture was noteworthy. It was time, at the age of thirty, to pursue his first love. He stated that there were very few students near his age. As a result, he considered online dating. After a few good experiences, he was looking for a great experience.

We spoke on the phone and our conversation lasted for over an hour. His Italian accent allowed me the opportunity to fantasize enjoying espresso at a corner cafe like the ones in the Piazza Navona. Perhaps riding a Vespa on the Isle of Capri or even sailing through the ca.n.a.ls of Venice in a gondola might cure what had previously ailed me. Even just the beautiful change of scenery could lift my spirits and drag me out of the destructive doldrums that had plagued me over the past six months. Nevertheless, we agreed to meet at a beautiful, architecturally sound Catholic Church close by. Paulo had chosen this church because of its traditional Italian motif.

As I approached the church, I saw Paulo sitting on the third step, smoking a cigarette, Leonardo DiCaprio-like. He wore the same ensemble that he had worn in the photo he sent me. However, he forgot to mention that he was only 5'7". Had I known, being five foot ten inches, I would have worn flats that day. Instead, in the heels I had chosen, I now loomed nearly six inches over him. Nonetheless, I enjoyed our conversation immensely. He asked me if I would be interested in seeing the inside of St. Francis of Padua's chapel, to which I responded, "Certainly. Not only have I heard ma.s.s here before, but I've attended a christening here as well."

"In that case would you be willing to give me a private tour?" Paulo asked warmly.

"By all means," I responded.

After forty-five minutes of a bulging-eyed Paulo and countless "oohs" and "ahs," we exited the church, this time through the rear door behind the altar.

"I don't know what is more beautiful, you or the church," Paulo exclaimed.

At that point his height was no longer an issue, for his words and sentiments were big enough to compensate. Enjoying ourselves greatly, we agreed to meet for dinner two nights later.

We planned to meet at a restaurant of his choice, a trendy hot spot. This time, I wore stylish flats and a pretty sundress. We sat down, and he ordered some wine without even asking if I wanted any, and started to flatter me, Italian-style. We shared appetizers, and he fed me breadsticks. Right before the main course arrived, he told me that I had very cute cheeks.

"Your cheeks are so cute, I would like to bite them," Paulo proclaimed.

"Are you serious? I don't think that's a good idea, Paulo," I retorted.

In the midst of questioning his motives, Paulo seized the opportunity, and actually bit my right cheek quite firmly! Shocked and a tad disorientated, I excused myself and made haste to the restroom.

As I stood in front of the mirror, I watched my cheek turn a deep purple as teeth marks from both his upper and lower jaw appeared. At this point, the pain became quite intense and sharp. I rummaged through my purse to find the strongest painkiller I had with me. There it was: Extra Strength Excedrin. After washing it down with some water, I headed back to the table to inform Paulo that I didn't appreciate his love bite. I demanded both an explanation and an apology. He neither apologized nor explained his behavior. Normally a pacifist, I was so incensed that I wanted to haul off and hit him with my handbag. He thought it was no big deal and actually laughed about it. I told him this was outrageous, and I didn't know what they did in Italy, but in America it is unacceptable to bite your date.

Riding home in a cab I wondered what I would tell my colleagues and students tomorrow. I also pondered if I still had any leftover penicillin from last winter when I had had a sinus infection. If I did, the first order of business would be to swallow two pills and then ice my face to bring down the swelling. How dare he! Who the h.e.l.l did he think he was? Considering that his height was only five foot seven inches, I wondered if I should have told him about my three brothers who range in height from six foot two inches to six foot four inches, with weights of over 250 pounds!! Who knows, maybe Paulo might have bitten one of them on the kneecap, to make matters worse than they already were.

20.

It's a Small World After All.

November 2003.

Realizing that I had bitten off more than I could chew, I turned my attention to the beginnings of another school year. As I mentioned earlier, the beginning of most school years has more work than any other time in the term. As most teachers will tell you, they need a good two months to get comfortable with the new cla.s.s, parents, and recently hired staff members comprising the school environment. Normally, this comfort zone arrived much sooner than the Thanksgiving break. However, this year was different because I was teaching the first grade! And this was no ordinary first-grade cla.s.s; I was to teach children with developmental delays. Since my degree qualified me to teach in this area, the district invited me to take the challenge. Not only would I have to learn a new curriculum, but I also would have to relocate to another cla.s.sroom in another wing of the building. To make matters more complicated, some of these students had not attended kindergarten the year before. This was the best time to focus on my career and a better time to leave Internet dating alone.

Slowly but surely the winds of November blew the leaves off the trees. "My G.o.d," I said to myself, "where did the last three months go?" Before long, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's would arrive. Great! It would be another holiday season without the festivities. I couldn't remember when I had last enjoyed a truly Merry Christmas or a really Happy New Year's Eve, and now I was facing another lonely holiday season. During my first six years of living in Chelsea, there had always been lonely-looking little old women living next to me. These old gals had survived their husbands by at least a dozen years, but I often wondered how they survived the holidays. Occasionally I would witness the token appearance of one of these ladies' daughters or granddaughters or some other relative, giving me the standard, "Happy Holidays." Come to think of it, I had noticed many other mature ladies frequenting the elevator and lobby of my building, to the point that I asked Ralph, the doorman (a New York historian in his own right) about this phenomenon. As he laughed, he told me that I needed to research the few blocks I walked each day.

"Why should I, Ralph?" I inquired.

"Don't you know this is Spinster Heaven, Trish?" Ralph answered. "I hope you won't be a member of the chosen few club," Ralph added as he opened the door and smiled at an old woman with packages in tow.

I watched this transaction in sheer horror! I saw myself coming through a similar door (if not the same door) in the distant future, with an ancient Ralph a.s.sisting me with my little Yorkshire Terrier and shopping bags full of unnecessary gaudy clothing. "That's it," I said to myself. "I am going back upstairs to my Internet dating habit. Spinsterhood is not for me!"

After posting my profile once again, I researched the community now called Chelsea. I learned that back in the forties and fifties, before Chelsea's alternative/ bohemian lifestyle of the seventies, eighties, and nineties, this was an enclave of professionals "on their way to the top." In the forties and fifties, dentists, doctors and CPAs in the midst of their careers gravitated to Chelsea. Most of the buildings in the area were zoned professional and residential, including my apartment building. My apartment in particular had been a dentist's office in the late fifties. I only learned this after tearing up the grotesque lime green rug and noticing on the hardwood floors the markings of what were once part.i.tioned walls separating the examining room from the waiting room. After asking my landlady, who had owned my co-op, she confirmed my suspicion by telling me that her father was the dentist who practiced there. She also added that her mother worked as his receptionist and nurse. She spoke fondly of the apartment and reminisced about the many times she had sat on the floor of what became my galley kitchen. She rambled on incessantly about the innocent days where she would wait patiently for her parents to finish their workday, playing with her dolls and coloring for hours. What struck me while she spoke was the fact that people back then needed much less to get by. I came to the conclusion that I would never complain again to anyone about how small my apartment was.

Ironically, the next day, as I boarded the elevator from the lobby, I encountered an odd-looking man smiling awkwardly. Introducing himself as Michael, and enlarging an awkward smile, he spoke of his newness to the building and expressed a yearning to meet people. He was either high on life or laughing gas, and his smile made me uncomfortable. I immediately categorized him as an out-of-towner, maybe from somewhere out west or even Canada. In New York people don't smile at all, especially at strangers for no apparent reason. I politely said h.e.l.lo to him and attempted to end the greeting there. When he pressed the sixteenth floor b.u.t.ton, I just knew that he was my new neighbor. I got off the elevator and proceeded to unlock my apartment door. To my surprise, he was standing next to me, still with an increasingly disturbing grin as he said, "I'm right next door, isn't that funny?" Funny was the last thing I was thinking. It was scary maybe, but certainly not funny.

Thinking about the way I looked, as most women do on a regular basis, I realized that my appearance was less than desirable. "Great," I thought to myself, "this would have to be the day that I rushed home from the gym without my usual locker room shower, deciding to wait for the comfort of my own tub." With my hair tied in a severe ponytail under a foolish-looking baseball cap, I realized my appearance must have been ghastly. I wasn't in the mood for any new encounters. Nonetheless, he seemed harmless. I guessed the little old lady next to me had either pa.s.sed away or moved down to Miami, where they have bingo every Wednesday. It's amazing that in New York City, one could live next door to another person and not even know his or her name, nor care to know it.

After a relaxing bath, I resigned myself to checking my online dating site. By the time I had logged on, I realized the irony of my screen name, which read "Girl Next Door in NYC." A few days later, while checking my responses, I surprisingly discovered an e-mail from my new neighbor, Mike. He didn't write anything about recognizing me or knowing me; he simply sent a "form" e-mail that he may have sent to any number of women. Laughing out loud, I felt the need to respond. Returning the e-mail, I mentioned, "As my screen name says, I actually am the 'Girl Next Door'!" "To refresh your memory, we met on the elevator just a few days ago."

At that moment, I could picture Mike reading the e-mail and saying, "Well, golly gee," as his smile got even wider. He wrote back, asking if I cared to meet him for a drink. I thought about how easy and convenient it would be. But with added thought, I decided that I didn't feel a connection, and it wasn't just his excessive smiling. I wrote back: "Thanks, but maybe we can meet sometime down the road instead."

Like a bad cold sore, I couldn't shake Mike for anything. No matter how kind I was, he insisted we meet for something. What puzzled me, however, was that his requests were always electronic. I never heard him knock on my door. I am not complaining, mind you. But this is the nature of cyberdating. Mike knew the rules. I developed a newfound respect for him in the way he allowed me my s.p.a.ce. He could have been a nuisance, since we were living so close, but I must say one thing for him: he was a gentleman and knew his place.

Mercifully, I didn't see him in the building for approximately two weeks. Once again, on the way to the gym on a Sat.u.r.day morning (just like the first time I had met him), he entered the elevator, but this time he was with a woman who could have pa.s.sed for his sister.

He greeted me with a great big, "h.e.l.lo, Trish. This is Samantha."

"Hi, Samantha, nice to meet you," I said.

Mike proceeded to tell me that Samantha hailed from two towns north of Omaha-his own hometown. She had just moved to New York.

"That's nice. Where did the two of you meet?" I inquired.

"We met while line dancing at the Gold Rush last weekend," Mike proudly responded.

What made me smile (but not as wide as they were smiling) was their outright similarity. Their smiles were identical! No wonder they grew up in the same area. What a wonderful thing it must be to smile for no apparent reason. Or maybe they had a reason. Maybe that old saying holds more weight than I thought: there's a key for every lock. This instilled the strangest sense of hope in me. I had never felt so elated during my years of cyberdating than I did that morning.

Part II.

Hope Prevails.

21.

Finally! My Internet Date from Heaven.

November 2003.

After what appeared to be a lifetime of miscues in the game of dating, I had nearly resigned myself to the thought that I was destined to be single. "Single, hmmm," I thought to myself. That didn't sound so bad. I could come and go as I pleased and not have to answer to anyone. If I wanted to eat ice cream for breakfast every day for a year, I could do so without an onlooker criticizing my mental health. I could miss my weekly housecleaning ch.o.r.es without reprisal from an overzealous, a.n.a.l-retentive husband. I could date whomever I wished, without worrying about food expenses (missing out on, particularly, that wonderful experience of standing in line with all the other miserable housewives at the local supermarket). Single! It sounded better and better the more I said it. I wouldn't have to deal with annoying in-laws and wouldn't have to attend infinitely boring family outings.

But then again, it would be tough during the holidays. Those d.a.m.n holidays! I couldn't seem to evade them. Just to think it had been only six short years ago that I had found myself reveling in holidays like Christmas with its mistletoe and yuletide cheer, New Year's, with its noisemakers and silly hats, and Valentine's Day with its pink hearts and candy a.s.sortments. After a year of near hits (if not near misses), I considered reentering the harried world of Internet dating one last time. I knew I had said "one last time" before, so this time, I would use the word "final." Final!! There, I said it. My only problem with this word was its finality. I was never a final-type girl. I had always had hope for myself and for my fellow man. But before I would waste another six long years, I needed to draw the line in the sand.

An odd sense of hope enveloped me while changing my old screen name to a more subtle screen name. My new screen name really spelled it all out. How could any red-blooded American male refuse? I changed my "Girl Next Door in NYC" screen name to "Nordic Angel."

Thinking of all the lessons I had learned regarding mistakes or miscalculations, I pondered using my newfound knowledge to keep from getting sucked into another h.e.l.lish date or relationship. My next step was to make a list of how I would do things differently. Reviewing everything that had transpired over the last six years, I prioritized based on importance, to create my own little top five list. This doesn't mean that I disregarded everything else I had learned. Instinctively I made sure that my potential date had a variety of recent photos attached, and I made sure that there was at least one head shot without a hat or sungla.s.ses obscuring his true ident.i.ty.

Number one on my list was to not accept e-mails that were outside the tri-state area. As much as men from foreign lands intrigued me, both my budget and patience were worn out regarding the travel issue. Number two was that the guy needed to have been in previous long-term relationships. Number three was to select men who were neither flashy nor pretentious. Next was to select a family-oriented man with a future in mind. Finally (I know I already used that word), I would select someone who shared his love for the arts with others. The other lessons that I had learned based on my experiences would have to be tested via the telephone and the first date.

Returning home from visiting friends in Philadelphia with my best friend Greg, I rushed into my apartment to a ringing telephone. Much to my chagrin, it was just another telemarketer hawking some useless product. Taking off my coat, I instinctively turned on my computer. As I signed on to my Internet provider, I heard the ever-familiar sound, "You've got mail." Boy did I! I had fifty-two responses alone that day, and one-hundred-forty-one over the past three days! "Wow, I guess that new screen name worked," I thought to myself.