Romantically Challenged

by Beth Orsoff

  Michael arrived at 1:25. He looked like what I always imagined someone who grew up in Southern California would look like. His hair was golden and his skin was deeply tanned. All that was missing was the surfboard. He wore khakis, a white button down Polo shirt, and a blue blazer, which he peeled off before he even sat down.

  “I’m so sorry,” he said when the hostess brought him to my table. “I drove up from Hermosa and the traffic was awful.”

  “That’s okay,” I said, “I was late too.” There was no point in being a bitch about it.

  “Especially after the last time,” he continued. “I didn’t even know if you would still be here. But I’m so glad you are.”

  I didn’t mention that if he hadn’t shown up in the next five minutes I was planning on leaving.

  “I’m sure by now you’ve probably memorized the menu. Just tell me what’s good here and we can order.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I’ve never been here before.”

  “Oh, I thought you picked this restaurant. Never mind, I’ll ask the waiter.” Michael stopped talking just long enough for me to order, then resumed the conversation. “So I’ll ask you the standard first question. Why did you join Just A Date?”

  “Is that the standard first question?”

  “You haven’t been asked that before?”

  “This is my first date.”

  He clapped his hands together. “A novice, how wonderful.”

  If I hadn’t met Michael through a dating service I would’ve sworn he was gay. He was the most effeminate straight man I’d ever met. He was also completely self-absorbed, which in this instance was a good thing. Between the hostess constantly glancing our way, and the mother and daughter at the next table listening to our every word, I was having trouble initiating conversation.

  Michael made it easy on me. He would ask me a question and I would get maybe one or two sentences in, then he would interrupt me and talk for the next fifteen minutes. The only down side was that I finished my meal before he did because he did all the talking and didn’t have time to eat.

  Michael had such a good time chatting that he even ordered dessert. This pleased the hostess immensely. I guess she figured if we didn’t like each other, we would’ve left after the entree. She seemed to have a vested interest in the outcome. Maybe that happens when you seat people together.

  By the time we’d finished the tiramisu, I’d learned that Michael was the director of marketing for Adidas (not a director of movies, television or commercials), he was an only child, he owned a house in Hermosa Beach, he loved to entertain and often invited friends over to watch sporting events on his fifty-inch plasma TV, and he’d joined Just A Date because he was having trouble meeting women, supposedly because he traveled so much. I told him I was a lawyer and I didn’t cook.

  When Michael excused himself to use the men’s room, the sixty-something mother at the next table seized the opportunity. “Excuse me,” she said, “I don’t mean to pry, but did I hear you say you met this fellow through a dating service.”

  Before I could answer, her clearly mortified, fortyish daughter leaned over and said, “Please ignore my mother.” Then she turned back to her and said, “If you keep this up I’m going to diagnose you with Alzheimer’s and put you in a home.”

  “What am I doing that’s so terrible?” the mother asked.

  “You’re embarrassing her,” the daughter said, “and me.”

  “I’m not embarrassing anyone. I waited until her boyfriend left, didn’t I.”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” I said. “It’s our first date.”

  “See Beverly,” the mother said. “I told you they were on a date. When’s the last time you had a date?”

  The daughter didn’t answer her but looked like she was about to explode.

  “So did I hear right?” the mother asked, turning back to me. “Did you meet through a dating service?”

  “Mom, if you don’t stop this right now I’m leaving.”

  “You career girls are all the same. If you spent half as much time looking for a husband as you do worrying about your job, you’d be married by now.”

  The daughter threw some money on the table and walked out.

  “She thinks because she’s a doctor she doesn’t need a husband. I don’t know what I’m going to do with her,” the mother said as she shook her head. Then she wished me good luck, and left before Michael returned.

  I felt like the Ghost of Christmas Future had just given me a glimpse of what my life was to become. It was too horrible to contemplate.

  When Michael came back, I offered to split the check per the Just A Date rules, but he refused. When he walked me outside and asked me for my phone number I gave it to him. I was pretty sure he wasn’t The One, but after the scene I’d just witnessed, I needed to be absolute.

  Chapter 28

  Strategic Dating

  “What movie are you going to?” Kaitlyn asked as we both pedaled our respective exercise bikes. I’d talked her into joining me at the gym Sunday morning. No easy task. She only agreed because I promised to buy her a greasy breakfast burrito afterwards.

  “I don’t remember the name of it,” I said, wiping the sweat off my forehead with the back of my hand. “It’s the new Tom Cruise action flick. I told Michael I’d see whatever he wanted, so long as he drove up to the west side. The traffic down to Hermosa on the weekend’s a bitch.”

  “What if he said no?”

  “I would have canceled. I don’t like him enough to spend an hour in traffic on the 405.”

  “Then why are you going out with him again?”

  “Because I’m only ninety percent sure he’s not The One.”

  “Are you even attracted to him?”

  “Not really. Not yet, anyway. But sometimes when you get to know someone they become more attractive. And objectively, he is attractive. He’s just not my type.”

  She took a swig from her water bottle. “Is he my type?”

  I shook my head. “Too skinny. I know you have that thing about not dating guys with butts smaller than your own.”

  “Too bad. I wouldn’t mind dating someone who had a house by the beach.”

  “You’re ready to start dating again?” I would’ve thought after a five year relationship, she would’ve needed more than a month to recover. Between her and Greg, I was starting to think I really was the only idiot who believed in a mourning period.

  “Sure,” she said. “I already have a lead. He’s a good friend of my friend Marie’s husband. She gave him my number and he’s supposed to call next week.”

  “Stats?”

  “He’s thirty-two, runs marathons, and works at E-Cards.”

  “Sounds promising. What does he do at E-Cards?”

  “I’m not sure. I know it has something to do with their website. Marie explained it to me, but I didn’t really understand.”

  “Just as well, this will give you two something to talk about on the date. Guys love it when you show an interest in their career.”

  Kaitlyn stopped pedaling and stared at me. “Where did you come up with that one?”

  “I think it was The Smart Woman’s Guide to Finding a Husband.”

  “You read that? I’m way more traditional then you are and even I wouldn’t read that book.”

  “I didn’t actually read it,” I said. “I found it in the bargain bin at Borders and skimmed it a little. I made it to the chapter where it said if you’re playing a game with a man you should purposely lose so that he can feel more powerful. Then I tossed it back.”

  “So you’re willing to spend $300 on a dating service, but you’re not willing to throw a game of Monopoly?”

  “Not even if it only costs $1.99.”

  Chapter 29

  Second Dates

  I met Michael for a twilight movie at the Regent Theater in Westwood Village. I showed up on time. He was ten minutes late. But this time it was my fault. I accidentally gave him the wrong address.
Really, it was an accident. There are ten theaters in Westwood within a six block radius. It could’ve happened to anyone. Luckily, Michael didn’t seem too perturbed. He scored points for that.

  I handed him the movie ticket that I’d already purchased and he bought the popcorn. I didn’t think he’d attempt the old arm-around-the-shoulder trick, but I was surprised he didn’t at least try to hold my hand. By the middle of the film I decided he was either: (a) a gentleman, (b) gay, or (c) completely not attracted to me either.

  When the movie ended, Michael walked me to my car. “That was fun,” he said. “We’ll have to do it again when I get back from New York.”

  What, no dinner? Not even coffee or a drink?

  “Do you have my cell phone number?” he asked.

  “No, just your home number.”

  “You should have my cell number.”

  I didn’t ask why.

  Michael pulled a business card out of his wallet and I handed him a pen from my purse. He passed me the card and said, “If you want to talk, call me on my cell. My mother hates it when she has to pick up my messages.”

  “Why would your mother have to pick up your messages?” Even my $30 answering machine allowed me to retrieve my messages remotely.

  “Didn’t I tell you my mother lived with me?”

  “No,” I said. I definitely would’ve remembered if I was dating Norman Bates.

  “It’s great for me because I travel so much. This way, there’s always someone around to water the plants and feed the cat.”

  The second date worked. I was now 100% sure that Michael was not The One.

  * * *

  I called Celia Monday morning to let her know I’d be needing a new match. She wanted to know why, but I dodged the question. I knew the feedback was supposed to be confidential, but mistakes happen and policies change. After she assured me for third time that there was no way Michael would ever find out what I said about him, I told her, “He’s a little too effeminate for me. I like guys that are a bit more masculine. Preferably one that doesn’t live with his mother.”

  “Not a problem. I’ve got the perfect guy for you. Hang on a second while I pull his file.”

  I stayed on the phone until the silence switched to a message from the operator telling me to make a call or hang up. Celia called me back two hours later. “Sorry about that,” she said. “We’re having problems with our phones. But I can’t wait to tell you about Ronald. He’s thirty-three years old, 5’11”, and has dark brown hair. He lives in Marina Del Rey and works for a major credit card company. It says here he likes to swim, sail, water ski, and go fishing, hiking and white-water rafting. What do you think?”

  “He sounds great.” A little too outdoorsy maybe with the fishing and hiking, but I liked the rest of the water sports. And I’ve always wanted to try white-water rafting. I gave Celia my availability and she promised to call me back the next day.

  * * *

  When I walked into the Carriage Grill the following Wednesday, I knew that Ronald would not be effeminate. If this dark, brooding steak house, with its heavy wood paneling and deep leather booths was his favorite restaurant as Celia had said, then he had to be a manly man. Or at least one that wasn’t concerned about calories, fat grams, or cholesterol. I glanced at the menu on the way in. It contained only one entree that wasn’t red meat.

  I told the hostess my name and prayed that I wouldn’t have to explain why the reservation was only in my first name.

  “Julie, we’re so glad to have you here at the Carriage Grill,” the woman said with a smile. You would have thought we were old friends. It was a little disconcerting, but a nice change of pace. “Ronald just called and said to tell you he was running a few minutes late. He asked if you wouldn’t mind waiting for him in the bar.”

  Before I could even ask where it was, she said, “Down the steps and on the right.”

  It contained the same wood and leather decor as the dining room, but took the masculine theme a bit farther with a stone fireplace and a stuffed moose head on the wall. I felt extremely out of place in my lavender, floral print dress. (All of my black pants were at the dry cleaner’s.) If I’d known I wouldn’t have changed out of the navy pant suit I’d worn to work. Then I could have blended in with half the men in the room. The other half were wearing black or gray.

  I ordered a cranberry martini and took the drink with me to a red leather chair with a view of both the television and the entrance. I pretended to watch CNN with rapt attention when I wasn’t glancing at the door every few seconds, hoping to spot someone who fit Ronald’s description.

  The first tall, dark-haired man who walked in headed straight for the bar. When he started talking to another man, I concluded he wasn’t Ronald. Too bad. He had a great smile.

  The second dark-haired man who walked in wasn’t that tall, but he was walking towards me. I looked up and smiled, but at the last minute he swerved and headed in the direction of a party a few chairs away from me. No great loss. He was too short anyway.

  The third man was tall and what little hair he had was dark, but there wasn’t much left. Wouldn’t Celia have mentioned if he was balding? He sat down near me and looked around the room. I was close enough to see his cigarette stained teeth and acne-scarred skin. Please, please, please let it not be him.

  While I debated whether to ask the third man his name, a fourth dark-haired man walked in and headed in my direction.

  “Hi Julie,” he said and extended his hand, “I’m Ronald. Sorry to keep you waiting.”

  Chapter 30

  Financial Planning For Lovers

  I was so happy that Ronald wasn’t the third man, I didn’t really care that he wasn’t anything like the Ken doll I’d imagined. He had a full head of black curly hair, olive skin and a huge nose. His shoulders were narrow and his charcoal gray suit hung loosely on his thin frame.

  We followed the hostess to a half-moon booth set for four people. I sat down on the end. Ronald walked around to the other side and slid into the middle of the booth. I was happy he hadn’t asked me to slide over so we could sit side by side. I like to look at the person I’m talking to, which I’ve always found difficult when our sides are touching. Not enough personal space.

  The waiter came over to our table as soon as we sat down.

  “The usual Mr. Tarakian?”

  “Yes,” Ronald told him. “Thank you.”

  “Would you like something else?” the waiter asked me.

  I had barely touched my cranberry martini, which turned out to be mostly vodka. “No, I’m fine.”

  I waited for the waiter to leave before I asked, “How often do you come here that you have a ‘usual’”?

  Ronald smiled. “Not that often. Well, maybe once a week. It’s been more often lately because I’ve been working late and this place is only a few blocks from my office. Sometimes I come here for dinner and then go back.”

  “You have my sympathy.” I hated working late.

  “It’s normally not this bad. It’s just been incredibly busy lately because we’re launching a new product next month. I think my hours will calm down after that.”

  “What kind of product?”

  “Financial planning services.”

  “Like what?” I realized I was treading dangerously close to The Smart Woman Guide’s conniving female zone, but it was the next logical question.

  “Advising customers on their portfolios, estate planning, retirement, that sort of thing.”

  Boring! My dad was always after me to start investing. He’d even sent me an Investing for Dummies book for Hanukah last year. I tried to read it, but I could never make it more than five or six pages before I fell asleep.

  Ronald must’ve mistaken my nodding for interest. He was now explaining in detail all the different services his company offered. I kept shifting my position and adding a “really” every now and then just to stay awake. I didn’t know anyone could get this excited about financial planning.

&nbs
p; I stared at his face and let my mind wander. I noticed the spittle forming in the corner of his mouth. I also noticed how wet and mushy his lips were. He was probably a terrible kisser. My eighth grade boyfriend had lips like that. It was like kissing a wet mop. Once, during one of our make-out sessions, I was so disgusted I almost vomited. I broke up with him the next day.

  The waiter broke my reverie. He placed Ronald’s scotch on the rocks in front of him and waited for a few seconds. When Ronald didn’t acknowledge him, he left. After the waiter walked by our table for the third time, I put my hand on Ronald’s arm (Chapter Four from The Smart Woman’s Guide—“Touching”). “I think he needs our order,” I said, nodding in the waiter’s direction.

  Ronald asked for a medium-rare porterhouse without even opening the menu and I requested a petite filet and salad. As soon as we were alone again, Ronald pulled a mini calculator out from his inside breast pocket and started to crunch the numbers for me with various hypotheticals. I was grateful when my salad arrived. Eating gave me something to do.

  The lecture continued through the entree. “This steak is delicious,” I said after my first bite. I was desperate to change the subject. I didn’t care what we talked about, as long as it wasn’t financial planning.

  “Yes,” he said. “They’re always good. Now you’re a lawyer, right?”

  “Right. I work for an entertainment litigation firm.” I usually preferred not to talk about my job with new acquaintances. All anyone ever wanted to know was how many movie stars I’d met. When I’d tell them the truth—none—they were always disappointed. But even my dull job was a more interesting topic of conversation then financial planning.

  “Do they offer pension or profit sharing?” he asked.