by Nic Tatano
But considering my longest romantic relationship featured a man who actually left a Gas-X tablet on my pillow each night instead of a mint, I did realize I needed help in discovering the woman buried deep inside me.
The blasted whiteboard was up again in Ariel’s apartment, with the heading “Catch and Release!” written in blue magic marker across the top. Roxanne, who’s a decent enough artist, added a fishing pole with my name on it and a fish on the end of the line.
So here we go with round two of the intervention.
“First, Wing Girl,” said Ariel, starting the meeting as she stood at the board with her hands behind her back, “we’re so proud of you. You’ve made significant progress in beginning the exorcism of the rampant Y chromosome that has been infecting your body for so many years.”
“You mean it’s not gone yet?” I asked. “Are you going to give me a Silkwood shower in holy water?”
“You may have mastered the use of forks and spoons, but you’ve got a long way to go,” said Serena.
“In other words,” said Roxanne, “no more belching.”
I playfully thrust out my lower lip. “Aw, c’mon. Not even when I’m home alone?”
“Nope,” said Ariel. “You gotta break the habit. As for your, uh, other problem,” she wrinkled her nose, “no more Mexican food on dates. I don’t think I need to embellish that any further.”
The image of the Gas-X tablet flashed through my mind. “Noted.”
“Now, to our lesson of the evening,” said Ariel, pulling a pointer from behind her back and using it to tap the top of the whiteboard.
“You’re kidding me. You actually bought a pointer?” I asked.
“Seemed fun,” she said. “And I figured since you went to Catholic school you’d be used to it.”
After hearing that I sat on my hands, as a brief memory of being whacked with a ruler flashed through my head. (What can I say, I colored outside the lines and Sister Mary Hatchet-face got pissed off.)
Ariel pointed at the board. “Anyway, you see the term I’ve written here. Can you tell me what that is?”
“Well, duh, I wonder what that drawing means?” I said. “It’s a style of fishing. Guys go out on a lake, drink beer, throw all the cans in the water and piss over the side of the boat, then release the trophy bass they’ve just caught because it is preserving the balance of nature. After that they go out into the woods and blow Bambi’s brains out with a rifle because they need to thin the herd.”
“That’s a spot-on description,” said Ariel. “But tonight we’re talking about dating.”
“Think of men in the same way as the bass,” said Serena, “except you don’t throw the good ones back.”
“You take the good ones home and eat them,” said Roxanne. Ariel and Serena shot nasty looks at her. “Oh, for God’s sake. Figuratively speaking since we’re doing the fishing metaphor.” The other two nodded. “Though occasionally it’s literal,” she said, under her breath.
“Anyway” said Ariel, “a good example of how not to employ the catch and release program happened the other night, when that nice-looking man offered to buy you a drink. Ergo, you did not catch, therefore you did not have the opportunity to either take him home or release him.”
“As I said then, I already had a drink.”
Ariel then took the marker and wrote the following:
“May I buy you a drink?”
She turned back to me. “Okay, when a man asks to buy you a drink it really makes no difference if you want one or not. It’s simply his way of saying … ” she pointed to me.
I said nothing.
Roxanne shook her head. “Wait for it … ”
The light bulb finally went on. “Oh! He wants to sleep with me!”
Serena rolled her eyes. “Dear Lord.” She got up and headed to the kitchen. “I’m getting a beer.”
“All men want to eventually sleep with you,” said Roxanne. “But you need to find out which ones are compatible.”
“Hence the term, catch … ” Ariel cast an imaginary fishing rod at me and began to reel something in.
“And release, I get it,” I said. “But am I simply to haul everything on the line into the boat?”
“Well, you don’t cut the line before you’ve gotten the fish out of the water,” said Serena, returning with her brew in a frosted mug. “Which is what you did. In the case of the guy from the other night, he was great-looking, polite, might have been your soul mate. But you’ll never know since you hit him with both the death stare and a snotty comment at the same time.”
“Yeah, that daily double of yours is devastatin’ to a guy,” said Roxanne.
“Okay, I get that part,” I said. “But how about the worst case scenario? What if some total loser or a guy I find unattractive comes up and wants to buy me a drink and I’m sitting there with an empty glass?”
“If you’re sure you have no interest, you politely decline,” said Ariel. “A simple no thank you will suffice. Or the even safer, I’m meeting someone.”
“That’s it? He’ll go away after that?”
Serena nodded. “Well, usually. Most guys who get shot down don’t want to prolong the agony. They know if you’re not interested, or already taken, there’s no point in pressing the issue and they’ll move on to someone else. They’re extremely fragile.”
“Of course, some won’t take no for an answer,” said Roxanne. “That’s when you bring out the death stare.”
“I thought it was totally off the table.”
“Nah, it has its uses,” said Serena. “You could suck the soul out of a guy with that thing.”
“Okay,” I said. “So let’s assume a guy who might be interesting offers to buy me a drink, I say yes, and he sits down. How long before I take him home or toss him back in the water?”
“Depends,” said Ariel. “How long does it take you to size up someone you’re interviewing?”
“Depends,” I said.
“And there’s your answer,” said Serena.
“Wow, that’s a huge amount of help,” I said, as I reached for my purse. “Let me write that down.”
“Here’s where you usually go with your gut,” said Serena. “Though in your case your women’s intuition on the subject of dating suffers from serious acid reflux.”
“You can thin the herd by looking for the red flags we listed during the last session,” said Ariel. “Married, divorced, kids, you don’t want any of that because we know you want someone with a relatively clean slate and not tied to some other woman’s evil spawn. By the way, I thought of two more. If he drinks too much, that’s a red flag. Smoker, outta here.”
“She now has more red flags than a friggin’ Russian parade,” said Roxanne.
“Still, there are plenty of guys out there we would approve of,” said Serena.
My eyebrows went up. “Oh, you guys get approval?”
“Absolutely,” said Roxanne. “You’re still a babe in the woods. If we left you alone you might go home with an axe murderer.”
“So,” I said, “let me get this straight. At least one of you will be with me at all times as I, for lack of a better term, screen prospective boyfriends?”
“Correct,” said Ariel, who then wrote the word CODES on the board. “Let’s move on.”
“What the hell are codes?” I asked.
“It’s a fail-safe system we’ve set up to protect you,” said Serena. “We can’t exactly sit there and tell you if we like the guy or not while he’s sitting there, and that old trip-to-the-ladies-room bullshit is way too transparent. If we think a guy might be a possible boyfriend, we’ll say he reminds us of someone you really like. Say, for example, your brother Will.”
I nodded, as this was beginning to make sense. Will is my favorite brother, and has the qualities any woman would want. And they frequently do. “Okay, so if you think I should go forward with a guy, one of you will say he reminds you of Will.”
Ariel wrote WILL = REEL IN on the board.
“I like this idea,” I said. “A guy like my brother would be great. I’d marry Will if we weren’t siblings.”
Their faces tightened.
“Or if we lived in Arkansas.”
“Moving on from the nuptial habits of rednecks,” said Ariel.
“Sophistication-challenged,” I said. “Redneck is a politically incorrect term.”
“Again, moving on,” said Ariel. “We now need a code name to tell you to cut the guy loose. Someone you really dislike.”
“Just say the guy reminds you of Vincent,” I said. Roxanne gave me the wounded-doe look. I shrugged. “Sorry.”
Ariel wrote VINCENT = THROW BACK on the board.
I raised one finger. “Question. Suppose someone starts out as a Will and turns into a Vincent as the conversation goes on?”
“One of us will pull out a cell phone and say we’ve gotta take the call because Vincent is on the line,” said Serena. “Then we say Vincent and his friends will be meeting us shortly and we have to leave.”
“Okay, all that makes sense,” I said. “But suppose things are going well, the guy’s a Will and we go home, and then there’s a red flag and you’re not there to protect me. What happens then?”
“Well, obviously you don’t sleep with the guy if you see a red flag. You’ll simply provide us a detailed transcript of what happened,” said Serena. “After proper deliberations the jury will then decide if the man is a Will or a Vincent.”
“So what you’re telling me is that you guys have supreme veto power over anyone I date?”
“That’s the deal,” said Roxanne. “As my mother used to say, it’s for your own good.”
***
So Sunday rolled around, same deal. Hair, makeup, ass-pop jeans. (That’s a new term I’m using.)
And after a string of Vincents last night, I was ready for a Will. Or in this case, Scott.
He was off to a good start. He obviously liked cats, and was polite enough to leave that rain check sticky note, which impressed the jury even though they hadn’t met him. So I had assumed he was a guy who would actually call you if he said he would. However, I was reminded last night to keep a sharp eye out for red flags, since Wing Girl was flying solo. Roxanne seemed very worried that I’d end up with a chain-smoking, drugged-out boozing polygamist with nine kids, four wives and several identities, and I’d eventually be featured on Dateline as a woman scorned.
Right now I’d settle for polite.
Diane beamed as I walked through the shelter door. She lowered her voice and said, “He’s heerrrrreeeee,” like that little girl in the movie Poltergeist.
I tried to be cool but my smile betrayed me. “You playing matchmaker?”
She shrugged and looked at the ceiling, eyes filled with delight. “Let’s just say I put in a good word for you. Not that you need any, looking the way you do.”
“And what do I need to know about him?”
She furrowed her brow. “Seriously? If you got new contacts you should know the answer. I’d do him in a New York minute.” She waved her hand as if swatting a fly. “Pfffft. Worry about his personality later. Take him home and ravish him.”
“I knew you were an old-fashioned girl. So, how’d the week go?”
“Three in, four out. Though I think it’s gonna be five shortly. Some guy just called to see if we were open Sundays and said he was headed right down for a cat.”
“This could be a very good day,” I said, as I headed for the back room.
I found Scott filling cat dishes with dry food, looking like the Pied Piper as a small horde of felines followed him and rubbed on his legs. “You’ve found the way to their hearts,” I said.
“Same as men,” he said. “How you doing this morning?”
“Fine. Hey, wanted to thank you for leaving the note last week. A girl appreciates that kind of stuff.”
“I’d be drummed out of the male ranks if I blew off a girl who looks like you.”
Was this a red flag? The obvious compliment? Classic pick-up line? Or was he just being cute?
And … cue the rose-colored glasses. “Thank you,” I said. “So we’re still on for lunch?”
“Absolutely. No weddings or other family obligations for the entire day.” He paused a moment and rolled his eyes. “Thank God.”
“How was that wedding, by the way?”
Big smile as he shook his head. “Oh, man, it was hard to keep from laughing. My cousin married a guy with so many body piercings he looked like the phone rang and he answered the staple gun.”
I laughed. “That’s funny.”
“What’s funnier is that they were registered at Ace Hardware.”
I began to seriously relax. Scott had a sharp wit, and a smile that put me instantly at ease. He didn’t strike me like the parade of losers at various bars last night, though it’s probably hard to hit on a girl with your best line while surrounded by a bunch of cats in a shelter.
I heard the bell on the front door jingle. “Hey, customer. Diane said some guy was heading down to adopt this morning.”
“Good, I’ll get to see how the process works,” he said, as I heard Diane direct the man down the hall. I hastily grabbed the community litter box and hid it in a closet, wanting to make the best impression for a prospective cat owner.
Then I heard his voice.
“Hi, I need a cat.”
Oh, you’re friggin’ kidding me.
Not again.
Not now.
I walked out of the closet and sure enough the face matched the voice. Vincent walked toward Scott, hand out. “Hi, I’m Vincent.”
“Scott.” He shook hands and extended nodded toward me. “And this is—”
“Belinda,” he said, with a wicked smile.
“Oh, you’ve been here before?” asked Scott.
“Not exactly,” I said, as I folded my arms in front of me.
“We know each other,” said Vincent, who was still smiling, for some warped reason known only to him.
“So, you want a cat?” I said, with eyes narrowed.
Vincent stuck his nose up in the air. “Yes, I do want a cat. What’s so strange about that?”
“I just figured you were picking one up for a niece or something. Or maybe some daughter you have out there … somewhere.”
“I don’t have any kids. I’m not married, remember? And the cat’s for me. Mine died a few months ago and I guess I’m through the mourning period.”
Oh, give me a break.
He turned to Scott. “And it needs to be an indoor cat, ‘cause I’m in an apartment.” Vincent looked at a few kitties which were stretched out on various cat beds. “So, who wants to come home with me today?”
A tortoiseshell tabby meowed. Vincent moved toward it and began to scratch its head. It stood up and began to purr loudly, twitching its tail. “What’s the story with this one?” He picked it up and cradled it.
“I’ll look it up,” said Scott. He moved toward the small file of index cards which held information on each cat.
“She’s three years old,” I said, already knowing her cat dossier. “Her owner passed away a few months ago.” I moved forward quickly, my fast heel clicks on the beige linoleum floor echoing off the walls, grabbed the cat from him, held her close and stroked her soft, colorful fur, a mix of tiger stripes and golden patches. “De-clawed.” I looked into the cat’s eyes. “And she’s fixed, so there won’t be any males around.”
“Sounds like your kind of cat,” said Vincent, with a smirk. “Except for not having any claws.”
My death stare began to brew. “What the hell do you mean by that?”
Scott began to develop a wide-eyed look of fear. “Maybe I should leave you two alone to talk—”
“No!” We both responded in stereo.
Vincent moved toward me and took the cat, who nuzzled her head against his chest. “She got a name?”
“Gypsy,” I said.
He tilted the cat’s head up and looked in
to her light-green eyes. “Hey there, Gypsy.” She licked his hand. “Seems like a gentle cat. Torbies are usually laid back.”
“You know what a Torbie is?” I asked. I took the cat back. She started to growl as she was probably getting pissed off at being passed back and forth.
“Half tortoiseshell, half tabby. They’re said to be lucky.” He grabbed the cat back from me. “Some people call ‘em money cats.”
“Really,” said Scott. “That’s very interesting. I read that Siamese cats—”
“So you want the cat or not?” I started to reach for the cat again but she hissed at me and Vincent turned sideways, as if protecting her from me by putting his body between us. I put my hands on my hips.
“I’ll take her,” said Vincent, holding the cat so that her head rested on his shoulder. “She’ll obviously be a lot happier with me.”
“Fine!” I snapped, and started to march toward the closet. “I’ll get you a carrier.”
He wrinkled his nose at me. “I already brought one,” he said, with a condescending tone.
“Fine!”
“So is there a fee?”
“Pay Diane up front. Forty bucks. Or more if you’re feeling generous. Most people who aren’t cheapskates pay more.”
He took a quick look at the cat. “I think she’s worth a hundred.”
“Fine!”
Vincent shook his head at me, spun on a dime and headed for the door. He stopped, turned to Scott and said, “Nice meeting you, Scott.” He cocked his head at me. “You might want to put out an extra saucer of milk for that one.” He shot me a quick smile, then left.
“Augh!”
My hands tightened into fists as I felt my pulse pounding in my head. Scott stood there, stunned. Neither of us said anything for about a minute. Finally he broke the silence, speaking very softly. “I’m gonna take a wild stab here and guess he’s … not on your Christmas card list?”
The line was so funny it broke the dam holding in my anger. I started to laugh as my hands relaxed.
