Year of the Chick

by Romi Moondi

  The only single girls who could get away with “bitchy” were the ones with legs up to here and boobs out to there. With neither of those traits at my disposal, I spent the next two weeks being way more open.

  For starters I approached the beefed-up dudes in the health food section of the supermarket, asking them what “whey” is all about.

  Then I loitered around the men’s magazines at the bookstore, which led to an exposure of three guys per cubic foot.

  I even went to Home Depot in search of nails, and asked the male associate a series of nail-related queries.

  All of this was only a sample from the two-week test, but the sum of my success was little more than a smile, a nod of acknowledgement, or an “Is there anything else you’d like to know about whey/nails?” follow-up.

  I even went out to the bar for another night out. But just my luck, every guy I talked to had a girlfriend.

  So if I couldn’t meet a guy in broad daylight, and I couldn’t meet a guy at a bar, what was left?

  Internet-dating?

  I backed my car out of the driveway and laughed, a nice loud laugh to break up the misery of my early-morning drive to the train.

  If you’re gonna start dating Internet-creeps, you might as well get an arranged marriage…

  ***

  The laundry was done, the dishes were done, and the blogging was done. What next?

  I thought about the quarter of vanilla layer cake that remained in the freezer, and rose from my bed to pursue it.

  I didn’t make it very far, since my legs turned to lead when I was halfway down the stairs. That’s when I remembered that along with being open for the last couple weeks, I’d also been going to the gym. I’d even managed to jog for two additional minutes each time out. Layer cake was not worth the damage to my progress, so I brushed my teeth instead. This guaranteed my stomach it was out of cakey options for the night.

  I returned to my bed and set my alarm for yet another Monday morning, and yet another damn week of being clueless in the dating scene.

  The final thing to do was shut down my laptop, but not before one last narcissistic e-mail check. My narcissism was rewarded with a brand new comment on my blog, from someone named James Caldwell.

  ----------------------------------

  Hello Romi,

  What a funny blog you have. Keep up the good work...

  James, a distant fan

  ----------------------------------

  I sat there for a moment, as my face turned upwards in a smile I couldn’t help. It was strange, because for all the comments I’d received from creepy men, no guy had ever thought to mention my sense of humour. And this one didn’t even smother me with flirting.

  I’m intrigued.

  I could see that James Caldwell had a blog of his own, so I immediately clicked for a read.

  I sat there frozen for the next five minutes. By the end my eyes were over-flowing with tears. As the tears started dripping down my cheeks, I wiped them away in disbelief. How on earth could seven hundred words about a guy’s first love affect me so profoundly?

  And who wrote lines like: “When everything else has been taken away, all that’s left is the truth.”

  James did!

  I scrolled further down his page. “Tomorrow is never guaranteed like yesterday always is.”

  This guy was deep.

  I switched to the Personal Bio page. He was an ex-pat living in Barcelona, but I couldn’t care less about the details. Not when his picture left my mouth hanging open.

  In a small but close-up jpeg was a super-hot dude, against the backdrop of a bright blue sky. I was shocked to even see it, since the majority of bloggers never even published a photo. I didn’t have a picture either, and it’s not like I was hiding three nostrils or a giant hairy wart. It just wasn’t common.

  Once I moved past the idea of a picture, I was mostly shocked to see an actual writer who was sexy. Before I could fall into a state of drippy drool, I smartened up to the fact that his picture was of course a fake. And how could it not be? Sexy guys didn’t have blogs, and sexy guys didn’t know how to write. Even in the smallest chance that the picture was actually real, how did I know it was current? His generic blue golf shirt, short sandy hair and plain black shades were inconclusive.

  Maybe it’s a file photo from 1987.

  Despite my doubts the truth didn’t seem to matter, since his profile page was filled with comments. Most of his comments were from female bloggers, and they sure didn’t mind letting loose with all the horny propositions.

  I laughed at the thought of this psycho-freak, reeling in the women with his hot-ass, fake-ass picture.

  Even so, I too left a flirty comment on his page, if only to compete with all the other drooling bitches.

  ***

  The next day I checked my e-mail before even getting out of bed. To my pleasant surprise, another blog comment from James Caldwell awaited. So I danced my way to his blog and left one for him.

  Yes Mr. Creepo, you have my attention.

  ***

  Where has James Caldwell gone?

  We’d been bouncing comments for days, but suddenly James had disappeared. He wasn’t even posting new material.

  Maybe he’s dead.

  Even though I knew this guy was probably a psycho, I missed his funny comments in my life.

  This feels unhealthy.

  I thought about it some more as I finished my healthy dessert of blueberries and a large bowl of ice cream (at least it’s low-fat). I knew I had to dig a little deeper, but I couldn’t keep leaving comments on the same posts over and over.

  Maybe I should send him an e-mail.

  I audibly gasped at this psycho move.

  Then I bounded up the stairs to do it.

  I already had his e-mail address, since readers were obliged to provide it when they left me a a comment on my blog. But to actually abuse that personal information with a message?

  You only live onc! Is that what stalkers and murderers say?

  ----------------------------------

  Hey James,

  Where have you been? Your groupies are getting restless. Come back soon before we go into withdrawal ;-)

  Romi

  ----------------------------------

  I fell asleep expecting nothing (besides a possible restraining order), so when I woke up to find a friendly e-mail from James I was thrilled.

  It started off “Hello Romi,” carried on with a mention of a screenplay he’d been writing (wow, a screenwriter?), and ended with a promise to come back soon.

  I sat still in bed with my hair in full morning disarray.

  What’s my next move?

  Could I, the aspiring writer, actually ignore the screenwriter mention?

  Yeah right, I’m already obsessed.

  I would at least try to keep my return message brief.

  ----------------------------------

  Hey James,

  Wow, you’re a SCREENWRITER?

  Now I feel embarrassed that you’re reading such a novice blog. What a dream it would be to write all day long!

  Okay, I’ll try to stop drooling over your career choice now.

  :-)

  Romi

  ----------------------------------

  It was definitely brief, and possibly borderline obsessive.

  Not ten minutes later, reply number two from James had arrived.

  ----------------------------------

  Hello Romi,

  Well it’s a tough job with great views of the Mediterranean and occasional benefits, but as they say, somebody has to do it.

  J

  ----------------------------------

  Who IS this guy?

  ***

  We’d been writing to each other for a week. I’d even managed to pull his birthday out of him and discovered we were opposite signs in the zodiac. This of course meant we were poised for strong attraction…or mutual disgust.

  As
ide from horoscopes, we talked mostly about writing and literature; they were fascinating passions for him and I alike. I eventually told him that I used to write a column in my high school publication, but I wasn’t really sure what else to share. I had no writing accomplishments to my name, so maybe I was merely a loser who peaked at seventeen.

  Let’s just hope I can distract him from that.

  Through it all I was starting to develop a crush. And yet, this Internet guy was probably a seventy-year-old grandma with lesbian tendencies.

  Well let’s not dwell on the details…

  Chapter Eight

  James Caldwell: screenwriter in Barcelona. Born and raised in the town of…

  Actually, I wasn’t sure.

  Well he’s single, that’s a plus.

  Wait a minute: was he even single? I hadn’t thought to ask.

  At least he’s not old enough to be my dad.

  How old was he anyway?

  I had no idea, but based on his picture I’d guess early thirties.

  Assuming of course that his picture was actually a portrait of the man himself. That sandy brown hair, those sun-kissed arms with the well-toned muscles, and what about those forearms? They had just the right amount of vein to catapult their way to the top of my forearm-fetish list (move over Daniel Craig).

  I shuddered at the thought of my heart racing fast for something that was probably a lie. If only I could look into those bright blue eyes to know for sure.

  Or green eyes, or orange eyes. Who the hell knew? I’d only ever seen him in sunglasses.

  I wondered if I reeked of it, my nervous but exhilarating Internet-crush. I could only hope it was hidden, since Laura was on her way to meet me, and it was way too early to reveal my excitement for a man who was possibly a fake.

  I stirred a bit of milk into my tea, and found myself a seat at a table by the café’s window. It was another Sunday evening, and not a very good one for the second week of May. Tree branches swayed back and forth from the abusive wind, and a darkened sky loomed above. Still it was Sunday, and what could be better than my Sunday evenings with Laura? We’d meet at this café for “catch-up talks,” a place on the outskirts of the city, nestled by old shops that had been here for decades. It was the perfect change from a weekend of censored fun with my parents.

  I took my first sip of this so-called “passion tea,” which was passionately gross but little else.

  A minute later Laura arrived and entered the queue, while my thoughts drifted back to the mysteries of Internet connections.

  As I started to weigh the pros and cons of an Internet relationship, Laura took her seat with a steaming latte in hand. I took a whiff and it smelled like heaven. I wanted to pour it on my naked body. Or maybe just drink it.

  “It’s so nice to see a friendly face,” I said. “So what’s in the latte?” My whiffing was becoming chronic.

  “It’s a hazelnut latte but it’s zero fat, and now they make it with sugar-free hazelnut syrup, so I saved like twenty grams of carbs!”

  I stared at my tea repulsed. Sugar-free syrup? How had I never heard of sugar-free syrup? Back in the era of the latte guy, I would’ve been the first to hear of breakthroughs in syrup.

  Laura removed her checkered Burberry scarf and folded it onto her lap. “So what’s the latest in Romi-land?”

  I wanted to tell her that a boyfriend was in the works (even if James didn’t know it yet), but at the moment he was more like a character from “The Sims” computer game.

  Instead I would focus on healthy living, the second favourite topic after “boy talk.”

  “Well with all the jogging I’ve lost four pounds but my mom says she doesn’t see a difference.” I rolled my eyes. “And she still hasn’t stopped about this voodoo weight-loss crap. She insists that I meet with a ‘special’ doctor.” I scowled. “But who wants to drink a green smoothie made of monkey heads? Nuh-uh, I will skip all that voodoo shit.”

  She laughed. “Monkey heads? I’m pretty sure what you call voodoo is what the rest of the world calls a nutritionist. Dumbass.”

  “‘Nutritionist’ is not even a real profession.”

  “Yes it is!”

  I sighed. “Oh sweet Laura, adding an ‘ist’ to something doesn’t make it a profession. And if it does then screw nutrition; I wanna be a cakeist.”

  Laura sipped her latte with widened eyes. “You’re insane.”

  Insane? Or had I just deflected the attention off of me?

  Score one for Romi the genius.

  “So Laura, what’s new with YOU?”

  “Well…there’s this guy.”

  I raised my eyebrows in genuine interest. “There’s a guy and I’ve never even heard of him?”

  “Oh you’ve heard of him. Sort of. Remember Mark?”

  This was getting juicier by the second.

  “You mean Mark as in your brother’s best friend?”

  She frowned and started rubbing her temples. “Yes.”

  “Well how the hell did this happen?”

  “You know how sometimes my brother and I run into each other at the clubs?”

  I nodded.

  “Well it happened again last night. Mark and I were chilling at the bar, which was the first time we’d ever really talked without my brother close by. And…we really hit it off.” She smiled.

  “That’s great!”

  “Not really. Mark kept darting his eyes like he was scared we’d be seen. Let’s face it, nothing can ever happen.” She pulled at one of her blond curls in frustration.

  “I don’t really get it though,” I said. “It’s not like your brother was planning to date him instead.”

  “Very funny.”

  I considered her quandary for a moment. If Laura was chasing a “conflict of interest” dude, why couldn’t I chase an Internet guy? I just needed more information on James Caldwell. But back to Laura first…

  I drummed my fingers against the table. “Well…he may be off-limits according to your scary Italian brother…but let’s remember a more important fact: how long have you been single? A year? And we know there’s an obvious attraction, so don’t write it off just yet.”

  I could see I was getting through to her. Just a little bit more…

  “When will you see him next?” I added.

  “At my brother’s birthday party. It’s in a couple weeks.”

  “Well your brother’s gonna be way too drunk to know what’s going on, so it’s the perfect opportunity. Just make sure your dress is a jaw-dropper.”

  Laura smiled as she imagined this magical dress, and we soon switched the conversation to one of her bitchy co-workers. All along, the Internet guy never strayed too far from my mind...

  ***

  As I pulled my car into the driveway that night, I was faced with a troubling thought:

  -Doesn’t James care that he knows not a thing about my looks? Does he even think about my looks? His life can’t be all screenplays and exotic parties, can it? CAN IT?

  For all James knew I was a white-haired grandpa with Internet skills. And even though his picture was likely a fake, at least I knew the age-range he was posing as.

  And yet he’d never once asked about me. His lack of inquisition could only mean the following:

  1. I am simply a pleasurable e-mail “buzz,” and he has no intention of taking it any further

  Or

  2. He’s gay

  From what I knew, he was a physically fit male in a form-fitting T-shirt. Not to mention a sensitive writer.

  Oh my god, I’m crushing on a gay dude.

  With my head held low from the obvious failure of my cyber “gaydar,” I walked into the house and trudged upstairs, wanting nothing to do with my inbox.

  Despite my elective decision for e-mail “de-tox,” I still turned on my laptop as I changed into my PJ’s. And I still signed into my e-mail. Who was in control of my body right now?

  The narcissist.

  I wasn’t expec
ting any e-mails from gay James Caldwell, especially because it was my turn to answer his latest. But what was I even supposed to write in response, when I’d asked him what the toughest thing about writing was, and he’d calmly answered “Writing in a language other than English.”

  Still bug-eyed by the talent of my gay boyfriend, I was surprised to see his name featured boldly in my inbox.

  Two e-mails in one day?

  ----------------------------------

  Hello Roms.

  Just on my way out to dinner and had a passing thought, or a question to be exact.

  Did you ever have any second thoughts about putting your name to your blog? I know I didn’t, then again, I couldn’t think of anything worthwhile to call mine...but I must confess, I’ve been overwhelmed with readers suddenly wanting to befriend me on Facebook of all places.

  Perhaps using my own name wasn’t such a good idea after all.

  What’s your experience?

  J

  ----------------------------------

  My heart started racing a mile a minute. I have a nickname now? But that’s not how you spell it! And why is he mentioning Facebook all of a sudden?

  He had searched me…because he wanted to see my picture…because he’s NOT gay!

  Unfortunately for him, my private profile didn’t answer any questions at all. Even my picture was hidden from the average stalker. Feeling quite stalkerish myself, I searched his name in Facebook.

  Why didn’t I think of this before?

  Only one James Caldwell came up, with the same familiar picture I’d stared at a hundred times. The rest of his profile was private.

  Damn.

  Without another thought I hit reply.

  ----------------------------------

  Hey James,

  My blog is coming along okay. And thanks for the tip on speaking from what’s inside. Right now what’s inside is my affinity towards the male figure, but you’ll know what I mean when you see my next post! :-)

  As for Facebook I haven’t had the problem you describe, but now I’m afraid. Let’s just hope no one finds out where I live and hatchets me to bits!