The BACHELORETTE Project (The Project: LESLEE Series)

by Tami Anthony

  Online dating is the new black. It’s perfect and it’s easy and it’s convenient. I can post up breathtaking pictures of myself, write out an impressive, perfect girlfriend profile (girl loves football and baseball, likes to cook hamburgers and steak, and enjoys having sex all the time—in various positions), and just chat it up with different men in the tri-state area, all the while sitting at Karen’s computer in a t-shirt, some unflattering granny panties, and my favorite pink fluffy slippers. It’s perfect! How come I didn’t do this first? I may have already found my happy ending like Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks in that Internet-based movie You’ve Got Mail. What the hell was I waiting for?

  “Karen, I think I’m going to Plan E now,” I say and take a big bite of my Caesar salad. Since Karen has been on this crazy exercise and nutrition kick (if you want to call it that, practically starving herself for her wedding so she can fit into the perfect dress), the only thing that’s been in our kitchen has been vegetables, fruits, and almonds. I had to sneak in some croutons and salad dressing just to keep Russ and me from going insane.

  “What’s Plan E?” Karen asks from across the kitchen table as she eats one of the five almonds on her plate. It’s sad the lengths people will go for a wedding. Then again, I’d probably go a little crazy, too, considering it is a very special day in some people’s lives.

  I do a fake drum roll on the table and Karen laughs. “Ladies and gentlemen …” I say in my announcer voice, “I bring to you the wonderful and spectacular world of … Internet dating!” I smile excitedly as Karen looks at me as if I’ve just gone crazy.

  “Please tell me you’re not serious,” she responds and my confidence almost drops.

  “I am serious,” I tell her.

  “Do you know what kind of people are on the Internet?” she asks and I shrug. “Perverts and cheaters. I have yet to find one person that has success through online dating unless they were just looking for a quick one night stand.”

  “I don’t know why you’re not being supportive of me.”

  “It’s not that I’m not being supportive of you, Les. I’m being realistic.”

  “I don’t see any harm in Internet dating,” I say defensively. “We’re in the twenty-first century. Things are supposed to be technical. I can’t help it that every time I see an eHarmony or match.com commercial, I shed a tear and wish that it was me so happily in love with someone that I met through the great graces of the Internet. Even if it sounds borderline pathetic, I don’t care. This is my last resort, and I will catch a man with the ‘net.’” Karen rolls her eyes. I know she’s not buying what I’m saying, but she doesn’t understand. She’s not single. “Besides, I’ll be doing this as an experimental thing. You know, for my project.”

  I continue to devour my salad without the slightest emotion on my face. Karen not helping me with this is just crazy to me. She’ll go bar hopping with me, help me pick out clothes for my dates, but won’t help me with this? It’s like she’s too good for my dating tactics now. I take a sip of my water and attempt to give Karen the guilt trip. Puppy dog eyes: check. Loud sighing: check. By the look on her face, I can tell that I’ve hit a sensitive nerve in her.

  “Now you’re mad at me, aren’t you?” she asks and I say nothing. “Leslee, it’s not that I’m not supporting you,” she assures me. “It’s just that now you are being a little ridiculous with this whole ‘finding the perfect man’ experiment thing.” Karen cuts an almond in half with a knife, and then proceeds to pop it in her mouth. I try to steal an almond from her plate, and she smacks my hand.

  “I just want you to back me up, that’s all,” I tell her. “Don’t you want me to be happy?”

  “A man doesn’t make you happy,” Karen says to me. “Only you can make yourself happy.” I begin to pout, and she throws her hands in the air. “Fine,” she replies. “I’ll help you.”

  “Yes!” I squeal in excitement as I jump up to hug her. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

  “Sure,” Karen says. “My laptop is in the living room.”

  “Great!” I exclaim as I run into the living room and retrieve Karen’s computer. I plop in the seat next to hers and turn it on. “This is going to be so much fun,” I tell her. “You’re assisting me on my cyber journey to love. So, where should we start?”

  “Well, what Web site do you want to use?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. “I know anything about Internet dating because I’ve always had a boyfriend.”

  “OK, what about eHarmony?” she asks. “You did say you saw that commercial on TV.”

  “That’s true. We can start there,” I say as Russ walks into the kitchen. He makes a beeline for the refrigerator.

  “What are you two up to?” he asks as he grabs an apple from the fridge drawer.

  “Leslee wants to start Internet dating,” Karen informs him and he laughs.

  “I don’t think my struggling dating life is amusing, Russ,” I tell him.

  “I don’t think it’s amusing either,” he says and smirks. What the hell does that mean? “What site are you planning on using?”

  “EHarmony,” I tell him. “I saw a commercial.”

  “That’s old school,” Russ says. “You don’t want to do that. Why don’t you try Plenty of Fish? That’s a good dating site.” Karen shoots Russ a dirty look.

  “How would you know about Plenty of Fish, Russ?” she asks him which sounds more like an interrogation.

  “There’s this guy at my work who went on there and found his fiancée,” Russ tells us, “and when I tell you he’s an ugly bastard, he really is an ugly bastard. Anyone can go on there and find someone.”

  I type ‘plenty of fish’ in the computer and the Web site pops up. The starter page looks quite minimal. This shouldn’t be that difficult of a task. “OK,” I say, “so where do I start?”

  “It looks like you have to start a profile first,” Karen tells me.

  “OK, a profile,” I say aloud. “What’s that?” Karen shuts her eyes and starts to shake her head. Did I miss something? I think to myself. She knows that I’m not into all this technology stuff, let alone for dating. I don’t know anything about online dating at all.

  “Wow,” Karen says. “You are definitely on the old school boat. You mean to tell me that you don’t have a MySpace page, a Facebook account, Twitter …”

  I shake my head. “Sweetie, I worked in a law office and we were highly encouraged not to own social networking accounts to preserve the reputation of the employees that worked there. Plus, I lived in Manhattan and I was fabulous. Who needs to be technical when you are envied by all those around you?”

  “I’m aware that you lived in Manhattan,” Karen says, “but I can bet that ninety-five percent of the city has either a MySpace, a Facebook, or some other Internet account that somehow ties them to the rest of civilization.”

  “Maybe,” I say, “but only a small portion of the ninety-five percent were fabulous like me.” Karen rolls her eyes. Maybe she’s jealous. There has to be a small part of her just wishing that she could’ve walked a few city blocks in my Jimmy Choos. Hell, I wish right now that I could walk in those shoes again. “Anyway, how do I do this?”

  “Well, it looks like you have to type in your information first,” Karen says as she reads the screen. “You have to come up with a username.”

  I clap my hands like a three year old opening up birthday gifts. “That’s great!” I say enthusiastically. “What’s that?”

  “OK, a username is a name that you will use when dealing with the Internet community,” she slowly tells me. “It’s like an alias if you want to call it that. It can reflect your personality or your interests. You choose it yourself.”

  “Oh, I see,” I answer. “What would be a good username for me, then?” We both begin to think just waiting for that imaginary light bulb to go off over one of our heads.

  “Oh, I have one!” Karen exclaims and begins to type.

  “What is it?”

  “T-W-A
-T-W-A-F-F-L-E-6-9,” she spells out as she types. I read the computer screen to see what it says. My mouth drops.

  “Twatwaffle69?” I question and Karen bursts into laughter. I don’t find this amusing at all. It’s almost insulting. “I can’t use that.”

  “Why not?” she asks even though she already knows the answer. “Twatwaffle is the new thing. All the kids are saying it.”

  I roll my eyes at the idea of calling myself a damn twatwaffle. God, she must be crazy. “Anyway,” I start, hoping that Karen can take me seriously, “any other ideas?” Karen appears to be thinking hard about this one.

  “Oh!” she says loudly. “I got it. D-I-Z-Z-Y-B-I-T-C—”

  “Don’t you even think about it!” I snap. “That is not appropriate nor does it describe the fabulousness that is me.” In a split second, I come up with a fantastic revelation. “That’s it!” I say in excitement as Karen looks confused. “Fabulous. I am fabulous and I’m fashionable, so …” The wheels in my brain begin to turn. “My user name can be ‘fabulousitychic214.’” I say. I’ve finally decided. It fits me perfectly. I am fabulous, I am woman, I am fabulousitychic214! “It’s great, right?”

  “Sure,” Karen tells me. “Whatever you say.”

  I begin to fill in the information and I know exactly what to say and what I’m looking for. It actually isn’t that much of a difference between my video for Lonely Hearts and my Plenty of Fish profile, except of course it’s written out. I search on Karen’s computer for a few flattering pictures of myself and I post them up. Finally, my profile is complete and now I am on to the ‘fishing.’

  “Okay,” I start, “so I am a FEMALE seeking a MALE from ages …” I stop for a second. “Karen, is 25 to 38 too broad of an age span when looking for men?”

  “Twenty-five?” she asks. “I guess I can see you as a cougar.”

  “I’ll just put it in anyway,” I say. “OK, so MALE from ages 25 to 38 seeking …” I stop again. “Am I looking for just dating or a long-term relationship?”

  “Dating,” she says. “Saying long-term makes you look desperate.”

  “OK, so I’m seeking DATING in PENNSYLVANIA within 10 miles of me,” I say. I click the search button and an array of profiles pop up on the screen. My eyes widen. “Wow!” I say in amazement. “So many varieties of men. I had no idea how many eligible bachelors were in our area.”

  Karen scoots closer to me in order to see the computer screen. “Not bad,” she says and clicks on a profile. A Caucasian man’s profile pops up and we begin to read.

  “Oh, look!” I point. “He likes to read, he likes football, he has no kids, and he’s tall. These are pluses.”

  Karen shakes her head. “Look at his picture.” I look at his picture with a football field behind him. He’s wearing a Philadelphia Eagles jersey and smiling.

  “There’s nothing wrong with him,” I tell her. “He looks good.”

  “No, you need to look a little closer,” Karen says. “He’s missing one very important element.”

  “And what’s that?” I ask.

  “His left arm!” Karen exclaims as she points to the computer screen. I didn’t even notice it. His entire left arm is in fact missing from the picture. “So, if you’re looking for a man to cuddle with and give you a hug, he will not be the one. Next.”

  “That’s just wrong,” I say. “You can’t just say no to a guy because his arm is missing. Maybe he has one of those bionic arms and left it at home.” I shrug.

  “Leslee, I know you,” Karen starts. “And I also know that this would be a problem for you. Stop being nice and unrealistic, and move on to the next one. You feeling sorry for him will not bring his arm back, that is if he even had one in the first place.” I sigh. She is right. I am a jerk and it may be one thing that I could not look past. Moving on …

  “What about this guy?” I ask as I click on to another profile. “He’s a good looking guy.”

  “With three kids,” Karen points out in the profile, “and he’s legally separated which probably means that he’s just looking for some ass until his wife forgives him for whatever stupid thing he did. Next.”

  “Karen, how can you be so brutal in this process?” I ask her. “I’m willing to have an open mind about things.”

  “So you mean to tell me that you are willing to haul his three children to daycare or where ever they have to go all the while trying to keep a healthy relationship with this man?” she asks. “You and I both know that it will never happen. Plus, he’s not officially divorced. That to me is two strikes, and two strikes in the dating game means that you are out, completely out, totally out, there’s no chance in Hell, so like I said before, NEXT!”

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Earrings: CHECK. Tight jeans and semi-revealing shirt: CHECK. Hair straightened and flattened to the very core: CHECK. I’m officially ready for my date, another one. Yeah, I know. I can be ridiculous, but these goodies won’t be fresh and young for long. I have to get while the getting’s good. Besides, this is all for my experiment … or so I tell myself.

  I take one last look at myself in the bathroom mirror to make sure that my lip gloss is popping, my eyeshadow is intact, and that I look irresistible. I want to make heads turn tonight, especially my date’s.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Karen asks me as she walks into the bathroom.

  “I have a date tonight,” I tell her, “with Xavier.”

  “Xavier?” she questions. “And where did you meet him?”

  “I met him on that beautiful Internet Web site, Plenty of Fish,” I say. “I just might have caught a good one.”

  “And how come you didn’t tell me?” Karen asks and I shrug my shoulders.

  “I didn’t think you’d be interested.”

  “Of course I’m interested. Every date you go on is an adventure within itself,” she says. “So, where’s he from? What does he do? What does he look like? What size is his penis?”

  “I’m not going to answer the penis question,” I tell her, “more so because I don’t know.” I do have an idea. I mean, we’ve been emailing each other for three weeks. He told me that his penis was the length of a remote control, but I don’t know what that means exactly. Remotes, just like penises, come in different sizes. “He lives in West Philly, he installs windows for a living, he lives on his own, he doesn’t have any kids, and he’s 25 years old.”

  Karen nudges me playfully. “Twenty five,” she says. “You cougar!”

  “It’s not that big of an age difference,” I argue. “Plus, we’re meeting at Cuba de Alma.”

  “Oh, I see,” Karen says and looks at me. “I’m going with you.”

  “What? No, you can’t go.”

  “Yes, I can. Why not? You know what they say about Internet dates. You should always bring a friend just in case he turns out to be some sort of psycho or if he’s ugly.” I don’t say anything. I apply more lip gloss in order to avoid her at all costs. “Why aren’t you saying anything?” she asks. I don’t want to tell her, but I’ll have to break some unfortunate news.

  “Annie is coming with me,” I say. “I didn’t want to tell you because I didn’t want you getting mad because I didn’t ask you first.” Karen’s face of disappointment turns into mere jealousy. I didn’t want to ask Karen because then she’ll start interrogating him. She may even ask the size of his remote control then I’ll really be embarrassed. I love Karen to death, but she really has no tact whatsoever.

  “Annie?” Karen questions and I nod my head. “You ask her but don’t bother to ask me?”

  “Well, Annie doesn’t even know that I’m meeting a guy there if it makes you feel better,” I reply. Yes, this is true. I’ve become manipulative. All I did was ask Annie to go to dinner with me. I didn’t have to tell her that there was also a third-party meeting us there.

  “Well, I hope you have fun,” Karen tells me. “While you’re out on your little threesome date, I will be going to the gym so I can have abs of steel by my weddi
ng day and an ass like Kim Kardashian. I’m gonna become super hot.”

  “I hope you have fun, too,” I say as I walk out of the bathroom. “I’ll call you if I run into any problems.”

  “Oh, don’t bother,” she tells me snidely. “I’ll be too busy listening to Lady Gaga while I sprint on the treadmill and lose that extra fat that keeps me from my perfect wedding dress.”

  “OK,” I answer not really knowing what to say to that. I can see that Karen has really jumped off the deep end with this one, but I know a lot of women do that for their weddings. I wonder if I’ll be like this when I get married, if I get married. At this rate, I’ll be lucky to have a half normal date. “Well, I’m leaving,” I say as I bolt through the front door and into Annie’s car waiting by the curbside. “Hey!” I exclaim. “You ready for tonight?”

  “Are you kidding?” she asks. “I haven’t had Cuba de Alma in a long time,” Annie tells me as she begins to drive. “I have to ask, though. Why did you pick such a fancy place?” Should I tell her the truth now or wait until we get there? Unfortunately, we are in a moving vehicle. She can either turn the car around and say no or she can run into another moving vehicle out of anger and injure us both. I’ll pray that it’s neither.

  “You promise not to get mad?” I ask squinting my face in fear.

  “Oh, God! What is it now?” she grunts.

  I take a deep breath. Let it out, I think to myself. Let it ALL out. “OK, so I met this guy online through an Internet dating site and I’m meeting him tonight … at Cuba de Alma … and you’re coming with me for safety precautions.” There, I said it. It didn’t sound so bad coming out of my mouth, but by the look on Annie’s face, I can tell she is not pleased … at all.