Authors: Dermot Davis
Like a young boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar, I look around the restaurant to see who may have witnessed my indiscretion and subsequent eye scolding. A very sexy brunette, whom I did notice before, seems to have witnessed everything; perhaps because she is alone she has more opportunity to people watch. Expressive eyes, voluptuous mouth, killer bod, I wonder why such a red hot sexy woman like her is dining alone. Did she get stood up?
Tracy returns from the restroom and immediately declares that she needs to leave, which she does. It’s fine by me; I can always pick up a burger on the way home. As I slowly finish off my overpriced glass of cabernet, I could almost swear that the solo sexy lady just gave me a wry smile and then turned away. I wait for her to look back at me, for the longest time, but she doesn’t: must have been my wishful thinking.
Before my next date I look up the term “Soul Mate” just to see what Wikipedia has to say on the subject. Apparently, the Greek philosopher, Plato had a lot to say on the subject. He believed that, at a time in the distant past, along with a head that had two faces, human beings also had four arms and four legs. The god, Zeus then split us humans into two parts, giving us our now distinctive one face, two arms and two legs. However, missing the rest of ourselves, feeling bereft in our completeness, we long for our other half or soul mate that we have been looking for in vain, ever since, in order to complete ourselves. Hmm. Maybe we are looking for our mirror image in another body, after all.
Susan is twenty-four in her profile and looks like she’s thirty-something in real life. I take her to the same restaurant as the first strike-out, in the hopes that this time I will get to try their food. Here’s the thing about meeting someone on a dating site: what looks and sounds good on paper does not necessarily accurately reflect what that person is like in reality. Susan, who looked classy and elegant in her photo is, in person, wearing so many beads, bangles, bracelets and rings that she looks like a walking jewelry store.
“My last boyfriend was very generous: a really big heart along with a really big wallet,” she shares. “That’s an irresistible combo to a woman, you know? Bought me this necklace on our second date. All these rings? He really knew how to treat a lady.” Then she stares at me with an almighty, toothy smile. WTF?
I know where I stand with most guys but sometimes I have no idea where a woman is coming from. What is this woman saying? A guy that buys you jewelry is a keeper? In which case, where is her big-hearted big-spender now? Did he just declare bankruptcy, stripped of all cash, in debt and tapped out from buying her so much jewelry? Then maybe she figured that he didn’t care for her anymore and so she dumped him? And why is she telling me this on our first date? Is it to let me know that the way to her heart is through Tiffany’s?
“What happened with you guys? You and your ex?” I ask casually.
“I really don’t want to talk about that,” she answers, and her voice slightly quivers. Is that a tear in her eye? So, now I’m thinking that, whether the breakup was in the distant past or more recent, she’s not fully over him, which is fair enough. My guess is that he broke up with her and that she’d rather still be with moneybags, instead of sitting here with me and being back out on the dating scene, in general.
It’s alarm bells all over the place for me and the way she got all teary at the mention of him suggests that to date her would risk involvement with an emotional basket case with a yen for crass jewelry. A soul mate, she is not.
Memo to self: change the online profile specifying the type of woman that I want to meet to sound exactly as if I’m describing myself.
She is cute though, and she has these amazing sad and vulnerable-looking eyes that are very expressive and incredibly sexy. I could easily imagine her in the bedroom; her dark hair a sexy mess and, a la Sophia Loren, those passionate eyes daring me to take her, body and soul.
As Susan continues to tell me about herself, I notice the entrance of the fancy rose seller. If you’ve never been on a date where a young woman wearing a flowing dress, Mediterranean style, strolls among the tables carrying a basket of single roses, with a cheap ribbon tied round it, don’t fall for her charms: it’s a scam.
Five and sometimes ten bucks for a single rose? Put a bearded guy on a stall outside selling single roses for that price and how many sales do you think he would make in a night? Maybe a couple of tourists, who just converted their yens and euros into the dollar, which is worth a fraction of their values and so to them is as close to worthless as monopoly money, would be takers.
What the cute young lady with the basket and the ribbons and the roses is counting on is that, on a date, the guy is vulnerable to emotional blackmail, especially if it is early in the dating process. What’s a guy to do when the rose seller approaches your table, smiles at your date and says to you, “A rose for the lady?”
If you say, no thanks, you risk coming off looking cheap to your date, or worse, you make it seem like you don’t think your date is worth the price of a flower. Even though
you
know it’s an over-priced rose, you can’t ask the rose seller, how much? If you do, then you better buy the thing because no matter how much the seller says, you can’t say, no thanks, because then you’re saying to your date that you were considering buying her a rose but not at that price because she ain’t worth the five or ten dollars.
Asking how much is a lose-lose situation for a guy. If the rose seller says twenty dollars and you pay it, then your date is thinking that you’re some kind of push-over and easily intimidated; you are a loser who will pay twenty dollars for a rose that could be bought in the store for a buck.
Luckily, I’ve perfected the win-win, ideal way of dealing with the whole, “Rose for the lady” situation: let the lady decide. If she’s cool and in any way smart, she’ll politely decline.
When the rose seller gets to us, sure enough, she smiles at Susan and asks me, “A rose for the beautiful lady?”
“Would you like a rose, Susan?” I ask with total innocence and lack of attitude. Susan doesn’t say, no thanks, right away. She checks out the selection of roses; they’re all different colors.
“They look very beautiful,” Susan says, looking at me to see which way I’m going to go with it. I’m familiar with her inquiring look. It’s the same look poker players give each other when looking to see what your tell is. I keep a non-committal half-smile on my face and give her a really hard read.
“How about this one?” the canny rose seller suggests, breaking up our Mexican standoff. Susan takes the rose from the seller and sniffs its scent. The rose seller instantly turns to me for payment.
“What do I owe you for the rose?” I ask, reaching for my wallet while looking at Susan to see if she’s going to put the darn thing back.
“Fifteen dollars,” answers the wily seller, which is bullshit because I overheard her tell another table nearby that the price was ten dollars.
“Didn’t I just hear you say, ten dollars to that table over there?” I ask, politely.
“This is special rose,” she says looking me straight in the eye, “fifteen dollars.”
What choice do I have? I pay her off and make a note to myself to rethink the whole rose for the lady scenario.
“Thank you, Martin,” Susan says appreciatively. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s special,” I say. “Just like you.” Susan puts down the rose and picks up the menu, totally missing my sarcasm.
I don’t remember much more of the date except that she ordered two glasses of wine (from the wine list, not house), two appetizers and one of the more expensive entrees, all of which she couldn’t finish and no surprise, asked for most of the food left on the table be nicely packed up to go home with her. I was thankful to end the date and kept my alcohol consumption to a minimum just in case I got guilt-tripped into stopping off somewhere on the way to her place to buy her some more jewelry.
Two dates and two strikeouts later, I am no closer to acquiring my hot-to-trot wedding date. I have one more rendezvous lined up. If that doesn’t bear fruit, I’m back to where I started except with less funds in the bank.
It’s Friday evening and I’m running late for my date. Earlier in the day, I had a job way out in West Covina, which is not my familiar turf and I ended up taking a picture of the wrong house. I had to drive back out there, find the right house and on my return got caught in heavy rush hour traffic. I didn’t have time to shower or do much to get ready for my date but I did put some of Mike’s product in my hair because I had a cowlick all day and no amount of brushing would get rid of it.
I’m not used to putting stuff in my hair and I managed to get rid of the cowlick but in exchange, after using some gel concoction in my hair, I look like I’ve just walked out of the sixties. It’s a good look for Mike but on me it just looks goofy.
My date’s name is Megan and she’s a twenty-four year old executive. She looks really hot in her photo but couldn’t be further from my interests so I’m not expecting much. Looking through her high powered resume again, now gives me the chills. Comparing my education and job history with hers, I look like a slacker. I’m running out of funds and I probably should cancel. She does look really hot, though.
I take Megan to the same restaurant because the prices are fairly reasonable, I know what to expect and there’s nothing on the menu that’s going to give me surprise sticker shock. Surprisingly, she looks just like her photo: really hot. Annoyingly, she keeps excusing herself to take incoming “important” phone calls.
“I want the complete financials on my desk first thing Monday morning, Warren. And that’s financials for the past three years, not two. Until I get those, there’s nothing to talk about.”
While Megan is talking like she’s Gordon Gekko’s female protege from the movie,
Wall Street
, I notice the same sexy, older woman that I saw on a previous date, eating alone at the same table which she was sitting at before. Wait. Did she just smile at me, again?
“I’m so sorry,” says Megan, hanging up, “you were saying?”
It’s really strange to me how a beautiful woman can look so pretty, yet something about them: the way they talk, their scary opinions, or just their attitude, can rub me the wrong way. And the more they talk, the less beautiful they become. Visually, nothing has changed but it’s as if the eyes or maybe the beauty appreciation center in my brain have adjusted Megan’s looks score downward, from a ten to a six, or maybe even as low as a five. I can’t help but frown to myself.
“I was wondering if you’ve seen the movie,
Wall Street
?”
“I don’t have time to go to the movies,” Megan answers.
“Wall Street is an old movie. It’s considered a classic.”
“Why do you ask? Why that movie?”
“It’s about money and business. It has this famous speech where the lead character, Gordon Gekko played by Michael Douglas, convinces everybody that greed is good. You should get it on Netflix or online somewhere.”
“I don’t care for Michael Douglas. He’s too old.” Like I was asking her to date the guy and what does “too old” mean, anyway? Too old for what? He can’t be too old to act, unless the character he’s playing is supposed to be younger.
“Do you have herpes?” she asks.
“Do I have herpes? No, I don’t have herpes, why would you ask me that?”
“I didn’t say herpes, I said a hair piece. You look like you’re wearing a hair piece, not that there’s anything wrong with that.”
“No, I put some stuff in my hair to try to make it behave but all I managed to do was make myself look like a poor man’s James Dean.” I smile at her and she frowns.
“Who’s James Dean?” Seriously, this girl needs to get a life.
“He’s an old actor, you wouldn’t like him. He’s so old, he’s dead.” I say with a straight face and more for my own amusement. Her cell phone buzzes again and she instantly checks the caller ID.
“I have to take this,” she says, taking the call.
“Oh, hi,” she answers, her tone instantly changing to one of sweetness and light, which is very disconcerting.
“I had a great time too,” she continues, obviously now talking to a previous candid date, someone that she definitely likes. “Yes, I’d love to but I’m in a meeting right now, can I call you back?” She checks her watch and doesn’t look at me, not even for a split second. “I’ll be done here in like, thirty minutes.”
She hangs up and without even an acknowledgement of her conversation or her presumptuousness in determining that she is dumping me in like, thirty minutes, closes her menu and casually asks, “Tell me about yourself,” in a tone that is so uninterested, it is farcical.
Out of sheer menace and vindictiveness, I pull out my cell phone as if I am getting a call and hold up a finger, like I really have to take this. “Mike, so glad you called, I was just about to call you. No, so far I’m fine but I did leave the house without my medication again and I’m starting to hear the voices. Can you get them to me ASAP before I become a danger to myself and others?” I hang up and look at her, “sorry about that,” I say. I see now that I’ve got her undivided attention.
“Is he coming?” she asks with concern.
“Nah,” I answer while opening my menu. “He can’t make it.”
Megan quickly gets up to leave and immediately I feel like a shit and instantly regret the spontaneous lark, even if it was funny for a brief moment. “Hey, relax,” I say with forced calm. “I was just goofing around.”
“My brother is a schizophrenic,” Megan practically yells at me. “You fucking moron.”
I now feel so bad about the situation that I secretly wish she would turn around and, with an instant smile, say, “Gotcha.” But she doesn’t: she keeps walking right out the door.
As I watch Megan fade from view, I notice that the sexy lady has obviously witnessed the entire fiasco. She gives me a consolation prize smile, loaded with sympathy and humor, and this time, she doesn’t look immediately away.
“I’m never going to get laid,” I say to her, even if she is out of earshot. Whether she understands or not, she returns another beautiful smile. I don’t need a second invitation to go visit her. “I guess that’s your table, huh?” I say to her as I attempt to channel Cary Grant.