by David M. Howell
©2004 (From the collection of short stories: “Not In Your Life”)
Through the weathered metal screen, lightning flashed on the black southern horizon. Somewhere over South Bend or Elkhart, Indiana a storm was raging. I sat on my father’s lap watching this magnificent performance too far off to hear the crescendos and thought how lucky the people were who lived under the lightning to be in the front row. My father and I relegated to the edge of the arena could only catch glimpses of nature’s grand symphony.
I was all of seven at the time putting my father at just 36 years old. A young man. And here he sat at his bedroom window with its chipping white lead-based paint explaining the phenomena of lightning to a child.
Storms have always held a special fascination for me. My mother tells the story of my birth on a blizzard so fierce my father couldn’t get out of the driveway to take her to the hospital. I was born at home. This very home. In this very room. Whether snow or rain, I can sit and watch them with equal enthusiasm. There’s an energy to a storm as it spills the contents of its life accenting and modifying the landscape beneath it. Not unlike birds over freshly washed cars or patio furniture.
Storms were a part of my father’s life. He worked a full-time job and managed the growing acreage of our farm. Along the way he and my mother raised seven children. It seemed that there was always something growing in and around our house.
My brother Tom and I would follow him to the remote corners of the fields. We’d sit atop fifty pound bags of 12-24-12 fertilizer and sacks of orange-coated seed stacked neatly in the bed of the beige GMC pickup as our father relentlessly passed over the freshly turned soil. Dust kicked up as if to get out of the way of his John Deere tractor and four-row planter. Corn in one field, soybeans in another. He was his own storm leaving the barren ground renewed with life and purpose. That’s what he did. That’s what he was good at. He planted seeds and then nurtured the crop into something of substance.
He did that with his children as well. Across my family there are three teachers, an engineer, a paralegal, a state trooper and a writer. That’s a good harvest and skillful crop rotation.
****
The phone rang just before eight on the morning of June 3rd. It was my sister, Kathy.
“Dad’s Dead,” she said. Two words that differ only by a single vowel now separated our father from the rest of our lives.
You don’t think much about who you are until such moments. I, of course, asked the necessary questions. When, how. who knows, who should I call? But the real question I wanted to ask but couldn’t was, why?
My father had lived exactly 75 years and one month the morning he died. But to me, he will always be that young, 36-year old man. He will always be there with a silly comment or the opposing view of a contrarian. He will always seem to have the right answers. Even though we’ve grown apart and our worlds are so different. I know that the fears and struggles he experienced as he looked out that window so long ago are the same fears and struggles I face today. On this moving sidewalk of life, all of us get on and off at different times but while we’re on board, we see the same things, share similar experiences. It’s our vantage point that shades our perspectives.
I gathered myself up, called my mother and listened with the absent mind of a child. There are some things in life you hear but don’t totally comprehend. Like the far off lightening, I could see the storm but could not feel the storm. The reality of the last 40- minutes had not percolated to my consciousness. I talked to my mother as if I was gathering facts for ad copy.
Heading east the Skyway out of Chicago on an hour later I contemplated the why. We are creatures of superstitions. We live our lives through myths, metaphors and allegories. Everything has to mean something. The Titanic was built by professionals. The Ark by armatures. We constantly look for parallels and connections often at the risk of ignoring the coincidence of any given situation.
It’s our superstitions that give us permission to fool ourselves. They provide comforting answers to the question of “why?” This self-imposed structure give us the latitude to move on. Breathing room in the confined claustrophobic isolation of our emotions.
This is the reason babies are born all wrinkly and pudgy. So they can be molded. Shaped and crafted into an individual with programmed superstitions and beliefs that act like water wings when we wade to the deep end of life. It has to be a labor of love because who would spend all that time and energy perfecting something that’s only going to disagree with you later. A sculptor can take confidence in that his work will never argue a political or religious philosophy. It won’t break curfew or listen to “that music.” It just sits there as a demonstration of skill and ability.
My father was such an artisan. With his own hands he molded and transformed seven of us from infant piles of people stuff into blocks of solid independent sometimes secure human beings.
****
At my folk’s house I sat with my mother and youngest sister, JoAnn as the morning events were retold. Mom waking on cue to make the morning coffee while dad slept in. When it was time for him to join her in the kitchen she crept up the stairs to wake him.
When she couldn’t she called my sister who was there before the first police car could arrive. We talked about “things” when my brother Tom was going to get in from Houston. When Kathy would be there. What arrangements needed to be made. All the while I stood at the kitchen counter waiting for my dad to come into the room, sit in his favorite chair and tell us what to do.
It was all so surreal. You can imagine yourself dealing with life issues but when you face them they become the dark storm clouds standing at the edge of reality. The only shelter available is memories—those moments etched into our soul. Like visiting a familiar place, they act as havens of reflection. We uses them to direct us in times of stress, when making difficult decisions, they confirm we’re doing the right thing.
Memories aren’t all institutional. Some are just postcards of our life. Fond reminders that we’re not alone. That we’ve shared something, a moment, a laugh or even a tear. These are the escape hatches I lurch to now. Remembering my father playing kick-the-can with us one August evening. Firing up the bright lights of his Super 8 camera to capture the excitement of Christmas morning. Or just watching him pass the picture window of our tiny living room as he pulled up the driveway returning from work hoping he brought home some Wrigley’s Spearmint gum. Memories are the paint on life’s canvas.
The phone kept ringing distracting my mother from our conversation driving her back the event that now stood as a directional change in our lives. TJ, JoAnn’s son was just learning to walk so he alternated between crawling and stumbling away. Both of which drew her attention to the management of the next generation. Left alone, I sought refuge in my dad’s workshop.
He’d spend hours here in the basement fixing, building or just tinkering with things. The palm-oiled tools now rested long in cobwebs. They have sat idle for some years. Though inanimate, they longed for the leathery grasp of his well-exercised hands. They will never be used with such precision ever again. And yet proof of their experience is not in the worn smooth handles or scared workbench, but in the bookshelves, cabinets and very soul of the house. You cannot take the craftsman out of a creation. There is the soul.
It was here amid these oxidized implements of creation that I came to realize the gift that my father carved into the landscape of his life. Us.
What greater achievement can one man claim then to have given life. With diligence and patience he sat unselfishly tooling our beliefs and behavior, slowly crafting each one of us into the work of art we are today.
There are no monuments that can compare to my brothers or sisters. They are the legacy of a life’s achievement without equal.
As I sat on my father’s lap watching that distant July storm I was really sitting on his workbench. He wasn’t explaining the lightning, he was cultivating a passion for knowledge. I was just one of seven do-it-yourself projects he worked tirelessly on throughout his life.
The last time I saw my father was at my brother Jim’s wedding a month earlier. We gathered around the hotel dinning room to have breakfast as a family. It’s been at almost thirty years since we all sat together. There were thirteen of us with extended families creating a three-generation timeline. My father joked with us all. Smiling, his inner smile, at the masterful display of his workmanship. I’m sure, watching us interact, he felt the same tug of pride as Michelangelo when looking up at the completed Sistine Chapel or as Mozart when he heard an allegro played for the first time.
Thinking back on it, I now understand there is no “why.” In the search for answers we conjure the “why” to avoid the answer we already know. Because. We experience death because we experience life. They are inseparable. None of us are getting out of this alive. Death is a stage, like pregnancy before birth only the gestation period is longer. Yet we seek to explain it in order to comfort ourselves. To appease the superstitions. We ask why to understand the mark drawn in the sands of time. Because solves the unsolvable. It’s every child’s answer when escape is futile.
“Why can’t I hear the thunder?” I ask from my father’s lap.
“Because the storm is far away.”
“Will it come here?” I ask in anticipation.
“No…not this time.”
“Why?”
“Because,” my father said not taking his eye off the horizon. “Storms are random…but eventually, one will find you. That’s nature’s way.”
Leaving the workshop, I headed back upstairs. My sister Kathy and her daughter Erica have arrived.
Half way up the stairs I passed the bows and arrows that my father once used as sport. He’d set up bales of straw in the yard and taught Tom and I how to shoot. The now unstrung bows made me think again, why? But this time my father answered me. Because, I heard my father whisper. That’s nature’s way.
I knew he’d planted into the texture of my soul the ability to weather this storm. I’m thankful to harbor the spirit of such a craftsman.
Monday, September 13, 2004
Gift Card of the Magi
by David M. Howell
©2004 (From the collection of short stories: “Not In Your Life”)
The impending Valentine’s Day haunted me like the gallows of an innocent man. There was no escaping my fate, I was going to have to venture out into the great unwashed and search for a gift that was itself insignificant, yet steeped in sentiment.
Was I buying love? All I was really doing was making a financial outlay for services rendered or purchasing future affection. Giving a gift wasn’t that much different than paying a prostitute. Well, except for the sentiment. Like underbody coating or Simonizing, sentiment isn’t something you install it’s embedded deep in the fibers. Neither seltzer water nor modern dry cleaning can get it out.
Looking into my dark closet reveals past sentinels of relationships. Hanging as if at attention are the gifts so tenderly given by past SO’s. They linger with the scent of sentimentality. A soft, button-down, flannel shirt kept prisoner forever condemned to a life of solitude until the eventful day when it is delivered to the Salvation Army. Schmaltz its only offence.
The Super Bowl reminded all of America that diamonds are forever. I guess it’s because once given you’re forever paying for their emotional value. Though my ex-wife absconded with her engagement ring, I still feel the anguish of giving something so precious to someone who only cherished it for it’s perceived financial value. These artificially induced precious stones carry more baggage than the cargo plane that delivered them. If you give a woman a diamond you’d better be prepared for what it signifies. You’re trapped. There’s no turning back. She can add 40 pounds and stop waxing her mustache hair, but you’re trapped like an unsuspecting dolphin in a tuna net. Like cigarettes, diamonds should come with a label: WARNING—may cause permanent damage leaving you helplessly emasculated and at the mercy of the wearer.
So I ruled out a diamond anything immediately. Not because I didn’t want to express feelings toward Gwen but precisely because I wanted to do that when I was ready and not let a piece of carbon do the talking for me.
Taking in the crisp February air, I walked up a crowded Michigan Avenue to meet some buddies for lunch. Leaping out like a hungry puma was Victoria Secret. With windows dressed in virtually undressed mannequins these scantily clad vixens—with nipples erect—revealed to the world lacy red scrapes of clothing that would be considered risqué on TV, but perfectly acceptable for the window shopping public.
I could picture Gwen wearing something as shear and revealing as the faceless mannequin. But here again, what was the message? That our relationship was based on sex? Well, it was. The dating only seemed to be foreplay to the real reason we saw each other. An intimate gift, especially from Victoria Secret could only reinforce this conclusion. Which then begs the question if our relationship is so shallow, why are we dating? I toyed with the idea of just arranging sexual encounters that could even replace one or two of my weekly gym workouts. On the surface this seemed like a healthy consideration. But then the only real difference between Gwen and a treadmill would be the handles.
I pulled open the side door to Flapjaws and stepped out of the cold into the cacophony of the crowded lunchtime bar. Like a fortress in the center the dark wood of the bar took the majority of the space. Surrounding the bar like lost children were two and four top tables all crowded with loose menus, condiments and fliers for upcoming events. Chuck and Val were already at the table when I arrived.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Hey,” we greeted ourselves like men as I pulled out my chair.
“Chuck here thinks the religious right is secretly part of the Ku Klux Klan…” Val said before I could even unwrap my scarf. Val was every woman’s catch. Tall, athletic with dark hair and deep blue eyes. In fact, he’d married right out of college to a writer he’d met at a small market ad agency. Vaughnda was a whimsical companion to his moody nature. They had three wonderful kids and were actually living comfortably in suburban Chicago. Together they’d pursued and wrangled in the American dream.
“Are you kidding, of course they are…just listen to them, though I can’t believe anyone would. Look at all the idiots who followed Wallace in ’63 when he tried to bar blacks from the University of Alabama! How stupid is that, and yet people rallied to him. The religious right is just a bunch of ancient segregationalisit looking for a cause. Gay rights gives them a reason to live. What they ought to be concerned that their own clergy is behind the pulpit buggering little boys.”
“Too easy, man. You can’t blame the religious fanatics for the Catholic priests.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “But the problem with marriage in America today isn’t gay rights, it’s divorce.”
Chuck nodded, “The army of god seems to foster a don’t ask don’t tell policy.”
Chuck and Sylvia had married a few months after me. Though instead of lasting only 8 months, they we’re now on their 8th year. Living downtown, both had built successful careers. Chuck as an advertising account executive, Sylvia in the financial industry. They talked about having kids, but the reality is the clock had run out a year ago. They were content with their lifestyle and would probably fulfill the fantasy of retiring early to a warm climate.
“Well, accept to tell on others,” I said stopping to order a burger, rare as you dare. “Hey, what are you guys doing for Valentine’s Day?”
“What, the committed bachelor having trouble?” Chuck said always looking to poke fun at the fact that I was the only one among us single and without kids.
“Not trouble so much as what’s the big deal.”
“Oh, it’s a big deal,” Val assured the table. “Vaughnda expects something that sparkles every year. Last year I told her we’d just dropped some major coin on Beatrice’s braces. And they were “sparkling” enough.” He even made the little quote sign around sparkling. “Whoa, she was pissed…”
“I remember that, Val,” Chuck added. “You ended up getting her a broach or something…”
“…a locket. I put a picture of the kids in it and Beatrice smiling through her mouth full of tinsel.”
“My point is Valentine’s Day gifts seem to carry more weight than say a birthday present or Mother’s Day…”
“What do you know about shopping for Mother’s Day gifts? Huh, ya brie eatin’, single bastard,” Val said in the bad Scottish brogue of Willy from the Simpsons. “Mother’s Day is the mother of gift holidays. Hell, Valentine’s Day is just a rehearsal compared to the thought and preparation you gotta put into a Mother’s Day gift.”
“Yeah, yeah. Val’s right. But sounds like you got a dilemma, buddy.” Chuck could read the concern on my face.
“Well, I don’t want to imply anything…you know by giving too much of a gift or too personal of a gift.”
“You’ve got a problem there, my friend,” Chuck leaned back in his chair as his burger arrived. “Too much gift and you’re bachelorhood is dead. Too little and your relationship is iced.”
This was useless. These guys were so far removed from dating they were more like spent chess pieces restricted to watch the game from the sidelines. They had their mates. Compared to marriage, dating was just a long job interview with heavy petting. There was nothing I was going to learn from them.
Like a heroine addict fresh from rehab my senses were filled with the glaring retail assault that plied my flanks as I walked back to my office. Signs and banners screamed, “Tell her you love her” from every window. But what if it wasn’t love? What if we just had a very strong mutual attraction? And why would that be bad? I just had lunch with my only two friends who were still in their original marriages. Even I was divorced which meant I’d played the game and to some degree won a hand. But in the end left more money on table than I’d started with. I think that’s what was actually creating my dilemma. I know the sentimental value of a Valentines and could no longer just give a gift-wrapped time bomb of emotional baggage.
Back in my office I surfed online for ideas that wouldn’t imply commitment and at the same time satisfied the relationship. The first thing I Googled was “The Vermont Teddy Bear.” How did this idea ever catch on? Sure I could see it for a sick child….
“Eddy, Philbert, your conjoined life is about to end. When the doctors finish, you’ll be separated.” The boys’ mother consoled stroking the soft curls of their heads. “You’ll sleep in your own beds and sit in your own chairs. And to keep you company, your dad and I got you these cute Teddy Bears.”
“Look, they’re sown together at the buttocks…just like you,” their dad would say.
“Holy crap…we’re ten…we want a PlayStation!”
No, this was not an adult gift. Teddy Bears are the last bastion of the unimaginative.
Then I remembered an article on a day spa in town. “This Valentines, give her soothing hands.” That’s exactly what I wanted to do, pay some other guy to give my SO pleasure. Oh sure, Gwen would enjoy the day and she’d thank me for the gift, but in the end, a day spa was nothing more than small appliance for the soul. I could just as well give her a mini-vac. It’s good around the house, takes care of small jobs leaving you feeling good about yourself. And it’s a lot cheaper to recharge its batteries than to recharge your own at a day spa. In the end, the mini-vac is more practical and makes clean up after the mudpack a cinch.
The other absurd aspect of this bombardment was the huge savings all the retailers were touting. Save $100, save $75 dollars, buy now and save an additional $150. If I did math the same way retailers did I’d be broke in no time. Saving always screamed that you’re paying too much in the first place. It’s like shouting, hey, we couldn’t get any one to buy this crap at the original price, so we’re lowering the price by $50…if that doesn’t work we’ll lower it some more until you buy it. Here’s a bold idea, offer the merchandise at the lower price in the first place and maybe you’ll sell more, faster. Retail is just a legalized shell game.
That’s about the time it hit me. The only thing that had any real value was a gift card. A gift card is worth exactly what you pay for it. There’s no discount attached, no hidden charges. And it would always retain its value. Best of all a gift card was carte blanche to get whatever you want. Store discounts didn’t matter because the gift card had value. It was cash in a plastic form.
I was excited about the idea. I could give Gwen anything she wanted. Well, up to a pre-determined value. But wasn’t that the whole gift idea anyway? Office gifts exchanges set limits…nothing over $25 dollars. Husbands and wives set limits—let’s not spend too much on each other this year…we’re saving to carpet the garage. (Another practical use for the mini-vac.) A gift card was a ticket to shop—what woman could refuse that? The only thing that remained was the amount. I wanted to say I care about you, but not you’re all I care about. There had to be away to put a dollar value on that.
$50 just sounded cheap. $100, better but expected. $150 seemed to say I like you, but you’re only good for sex. $200 now that feels right. It says “honey, you have value to me.” If I dropped 200 bucks on a nice sweater, shoes or a skirt, it would be received well…provide the color, style and size were right. You risk a lot shopping for clothes for a woman. Too big and she thinks you’re telling her she’s fat. Too small and it says, lose some weight. But a gift card says I want you to have something that’s just right for you.
With my head high, I felt a tinge of pride having found the perfect Valentine’s gift. Now all that remained was where to get the gift card. My options were endless. Even Victoria’s Secret had a gift card. Gwen could pick out her own dainty under things. Of course then I’d seem lazy because I could have gotten something sexy. It wouldn’t have mattered what it was, women never wear the lacy crap guys get them. It all goes into box on the back shelf of their walk-in closet. It’s a nice thought, she feels sexy, but would never be caught dead in anything so derisory. Sure, some women might humor their SO by wearing it once but then it retreats to the back of the closet. Victoria’s Secret was not a secret women kept.
I ran down the list of possible retailers and all presented their own set of drawbacks. All except one. Borders. Gwen knew how to read…or at least I think she does. I’ve never actually seen her with a book, but she had a few in her apartment. At restaurants, she could order off a menu that didn’t have pictures. (Thanks Denny’s for helping the illiterate enjoy a meal.) But I’m not sure what she’d like to read. She’d have to pick something out. It works! A Border’s gift card it would be.
I picked out a shirt-size box at the Hallmark store along with a cute gift card—Be an organ donor, give your heart to someone this Valentine’s—and some wrapping paper. Stuffing the box with newspaper, it made a lightweight yet generous gift. Now all that was left was the presentation.
Valentine’s Day was on a Saturday, perfect. I picked up a bottle of her favorite Shiraz, ordered in some sushi and lit every candle in my condo. The warm glow of the candles created a romantic atmosphere. Perhaps too romantic. I didn’t want to give her the wrong impression. This was to be a nice evening not a proposal. I quickly switched the CD’s from Sinatra to Coldplay, Zwan and Foo Fighters.
Gwen stopped by after having drinks with some girl friends. The dim glow of the living room told her everything.
“David?” she said as if expecting me not to be home.
“Hey, Gwen…” I stepped into the hall. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
She held a shopping bag with tissue paper overflowing the top.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she said with a hug. She set her bag down gently and I took her coat.
Conversation flowed slower than the Shiraz. Finally, I jumped up to retrieve her gift. In the thin glow of the candles the red hearts of the wrapping paper become pools of blood. I suddenly began to think this wasn’t a good idea. What was I thinking, a gift card… How impersonal. How thoughtless. I wanted to take the gift back, but it was too late. Gwen was already inspecting the package. With an anticipatory smile she read the unimaginative card.
She handed me the shopping bag.
“Happy Valentine’s,” we said in unison.
She ripped open the paper as I pulled at the tissue. The bag revealed a wrapped shoebox. Did she get me the Nike’s I’d been eyeing on Michigan Avenue?
I tore at the paper…it was indeed a Nike box. Gwen had her box open and was plowing through the crinkled newspaper. She found the envelope. My Nike box was too light to be shoes, I opened it to find packing peanuts, thousand of them. With one hand, I plunged into the white sea of weightlessness. There was an envelope at the bottom. I pulled it out spilling peanuts on the hardwood floor just as Gwen opened here envelope and pulled out the gift card.
“Oh, Borders…I love that store…” she said.
I opened the envelope from the shoe box. Inside was a $150 Home Depot gift card. I looked up at her.
“I need the shoebox back for bills,” she said.
The sex was great.
©2004 (From the collection of short stories: “Not In Your Life”)
The impending Valentine’s Day haunted me like the gallows of an innocent man. There was no escaping my fate, I was going to have to venture out into the great unwashed and search for a gift that was itself insignificant, yet steeped in sentiment.
Was I buying love? All I was really doing was making a financial outlay for services rendered or purchasing future affection. Giving a gift wasn’t that much different than paying a prostitute. Well, except for the sentiment. Like underbody coating or Simonizing, sentiment isn’t something you install it’s embedded deep in the fibers. Neither seltzer water nor modern dry cleaning can get it out.
Looking into my dark closet reveals past sentinels of relationships. Hanging as if at attention are the gifts so tenderly given by past SO’s. They linger with the scent of sentimentality. A soft, button-down, flannel shirt kept prisoner forever condemned to a life of solitude until the eventful day when it is delivered to the Salvation Army. Schmaltz its only offence.
The Super Bowl reminded all of America that diamonds are forever. I guess it’s because once given you’re forever paying for their emotional value. Though my ex-wife absconded with her engagement ring, I still feel the anguish of giving something so precious to someone who only cherished it for it’s perceived financial value. These artificially induced precious stones carry more baggage than the cargo plane that delivered them. If you give a woman a diamond you’d better be prepared for what it signifies. You’re trapped. There’s no turning back. She can add 40 pounds and stop waxing her mustache hair, but you’re trapped like an unsuspecting dolphin in a tuna net. Like cigarettes, diamonds should come with a label: WARNING—may cause permanent damage leaving you helplessly emasculated and at the mercy of the wearer.
So I ruled out a diamond anything immediately. Not because I didn’t want to express feelings toward Gwen but precisely because I wanted to do that when I was ready and not let a piece of carbon do the talking for me.
Taking in the crisp February air, I walked up a crowded Michigan Avenue to meet some buddies for lunch. Leaping out like a hungry puma was Victoria Secret. With windows dressed in virtually undressed mannequins these scantily clad vixens—with nipples erect—revealed to the world lacy red scrapes of clothing that would be considered risqué on TV, but perfectly acceptable for the window shopping public.
I could picture Gwen wearing something as shear and revealing as the faceless mannequin. But here again, what was the message? That our relationship was based on sex? Well, it was. The dating only seemed to be foreplay to the real reason we saw each other. An intimate gift, especially from Victoria Secret could only reinforce this conclusion. Which then begs the question if our relationship is so shallow, why are we dating? I toyed with the idea of just arranging sexual encounters that could even replace one or two of my weekly gym workouts. On the surface this seemed like a healthy consideration. But then the only real difference between Gwen and a treadmill would be the handles.
I pulled open the side door to Flapjaws and stepped out of the cold into the cacophony of the crowded lunchtime bar. Like a fortress in the center the dark wood of the bar took the majority of the space. Surrounding the bar like lost children were two and four top tables all crowded with loose menus, condiments and fliers for upcoming events. Chuck and Val were already at the table when I arrived.
“Hey.”
“Hey.”
“Hey,” we greeted ourselves like men as I pulled out my chair.
“Chuck here thinks the religious right is secretly part of the Ku Klux Klan…” Val said before I could even unwrap my scarf. Val was every woman’s catch. Tall, athletic with dark hair and deep blue eyes. In fact, he’d married right out of college to a writer he’d met at a small market ad agency. Vaughnda was a whimsical companion to his moody nature. They had three wonderful kids and were actually living comfortably in suburban Chicago. Together they’d pursued and wrangled in the American dream.
“Are you kidding, of course they are…just listen to them, though I can’t believe anyone would. Look at all the idiots who followed Wallace in ’63 when he tried to bar blacks from the University of Alabama! How stupid is that, and yet people rallied to him. The religious right is just a bunch of ancient segregationalisit looking for a cause. Gay rights gives them a reason to live. What they ought to be concerned that their own clergy is behind the pulpit buggering little boys.”
“Too easy, man. You can’t blame the religious fanatics for the Catholic priests.”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “But the problem with marriage in America today isn’t gay rights, it’s divorce.”
Chuck nodded, “The army of god seems to foster a don’t ask don’t tell policy.”
Chuck and Sylvia had married a few months after me. Though instead of lasting only 8 months, they we’re now on their 8th year. Living downtown, both had built successful careers. Chuck as an advertising account executive, Sylvia in the financial industry. They talked about having kids, but the reality is the clock had run out a year ago. They were content with their lifestyle and would probably fulfill the fantasy of retiring early to a warm climate.
“Well, accept to tell on others,” I said stopping to order a burger, rare as you dare. “Hey, what are you guys doing for Valentine’s Day?”
“What, the committed bachelor having trouble?” Chuck said always looking to poke fun at the fact that I was the only one among us single and without kids.
“Not trouble so much as what’s the big deal.”
“Oh, it’s a big deal,” Val assured the table. “Vaughnda expects something that sparkles every year. Last year I told her we’d just dropped some major coin on Beatrice’s braces. And they were “sparkling” enough.” He even made the little quote sign around sparkling. “Whoa, she was pissed…”
“I remember that, Val,” Chuck added. “You ended up getting her a broach or something…”
“…a locket. I put a picture of the kids in it and Beatrice smiling through her mouth full of tinsel.”
“My point is Valentine’s Day gifts seem to carry more weight than say a birthday present or Mother’s Day…”
“What do you know about shopping for Mother’s Day gifts? Huh, ya brie eatin’, single bastard,” Val said in the bad Scottish brogue of Willy from the Simpsons. “Mother’s Day is the mother of gift holidays. Hell, Valentine’s Day is just a rehearsal compared to the thought and preparation you gotta put into a Mother’s Day gift.”
“Yeah, yeah. Val’s right. But sounds like you got a dilemma, buddy.” Chuck could read the concern on my face.
“Well, I don’t want to imply anything…you know by giving too much of a gift or too personal of a gift.”
“You’ve got a problem there, my friend,” Chuck leaned back in his chair as his burger arrived. “Too much gift and you’re bachelorhood is dead. Too little and your relationship is iced.”
This was useless. These guys were so far removed from dating they were more like spent chess pieces restricted to watch the game from the sidelines. They had their mates. Compared to marriage, dating was just a long job interview with heavy petting. There was nothing I was going to learn from them.
Like a heroine addict fresh from rehab my senses were filled with the glaring retail assault that plied my flanks as I walked back to my office. Signs and banners screamed, “Tell her you love her” from every window. But what if it wasn’t love? What if we just had a very strong mutual attraction? And why would that be bad? I just had lunch with my only two friends who were still in their original marriages. Even I was divorced which meant I’d played the game and to some degree won a hand. But in the end left more money on table than I’d started with. I think that’s what was actually creating my dilemma. I know the sentimental value of a Valentines and could no longer just give a gift-wrapped time bomb of emotional baggage.
Back in my office I surfed online for ideas that wouldn’t imply commitment and at the same time satisfied the relationship. The first thing I Googled was “The Vermont Teddy Bear.” How did this idea ever catch on? Sure I could see it for a sick child….
“Eddy, Philbert, your conjoined life is about to end. When the doctors finish, you’ll be separated.” The boys’ mother consoled stroking the soft curls of their heads. “You’ll sleep in your own beds and sit in your own chairs. And to keep you company, your dad and I got you these cute Teddy Bears.”
“Look, they’re sown together at the buttocks…just like you,” their dad would say.
“Holy crap…we’re ten…we want a PlayStation!”
No, this was not an adult gift. Teddy Bears are the last bastion of the unimaginative.
Then I remembered an article on a day spa in town. “This Valentines, give her soothing hands.” That’s exactly what I wanted to do, pay some other guy to give my SO pleasure. Oh sure, Gwen would enjoy the day and she’d thank me for the gift, but in the end, a day spa was nothing more than small appliance for the soul. I could just as well give her a mini-vac. It’s good around the house, takes care of small jobs leaving you feeling good about yourself. And it’s a lot cheaper to recharge its batteries than to recharge your own at a day spa. In the end, the mini-vac is more practical and makes clean up after the mudpack a cinch.
The other absurd aspect of this bombardment was the huge savings all the retailers were touting. Save $100, save $75 dollars, buy now and save an additional $150. If I did math the same way retailers did I’d be broke in no time. Saving always screamed that you’re paying too much in the first place. It’s like shouting, hey, we couldn’t get any one to buy this crap at the original price, so we’re lowering the price by $50…if that doesn’t work we’ll lower it some more until you buy it. Here’s a bold idea, offer the merchandise at the lower price in the first place and maybe you’ll sell more, faster. Retail is just a legalized shell game.
That’s about the time it hit me. The only thing that had any real value was a gift card. A gift card is worth exactly what you pay for it. There’s no discount attached, no hidden charges. And it would always retain its value. Best of all a gift card was carte blanche to get whatever you want. Store discounts didn’t matter because the gift card had value. It was cash in a plastic form.
I was excited about the idea. I could give Gwen anything she wanted. Well, up to a pre-determined value. But wasn’t that the whole gift idea anyway? Office gifts exchanges set limits…nothing over $25 dollars. Husbands and wives set limits—let’s not spend too much on each other this year…we’re saving to carpet the garage. (Another practical use for the mini-vac.) A gift card was a ticket to shop—what woman could refuse that? The only thing that remained was the amount. I wanted to say I care about you, but not you’re all I care about. There had to be away to put a dollar value on that.
$50 just sounded cheap. $100, better but expected. $150 seemed to say I like you, but you’re only good for sex. $200 now that feels right. It says “honey, you have value to me.” If I dropped 200 bucks on a nice sweater, shoes or a skirt, it would be received well…provide the color, style and size were right. You risk a lot shopping for clothes for a woman. Too big and she thinks you’re telling her she’s fat. Too small and it says, lose some weight. But a gift card says I want you to have something that’s just right for you.
With my head high, I felt a tinge of pride having found the perfect Valentine’s gift. Now all that remained was where to get the gift card. My options were endless. Even Victoria’s Secret had a gift card. Gwen could pick out her own dainty under things. Of course then I’d seem lazy because I could have gotten something sexy. It wouldn’t have mattered what it was, women never wear the lacy crap guys get them. It all goes into box on the back shelf of their walk-in closet. It’s a nice thought, she feels sexy, but would never be caught dead in anything so derisory. Sure, some women might humor their SO by wearing it once but then it retreats to the back of the closet. Victoria’s Secret was not a secret women kept.
I ran down the list of possible retailers and all presented their own set of drawbacks. All except one. Borders. Gwen knew how to read…or at least I think she does. I’ve never actually seen her with a book, but she had a few in her apartment. At restaurants, she could order off a menu that didn’t have pictures. (Thanks Denny’s for helping the illiterate enjoy a meal.) But I’m not sure what she’d like to read. She’d have to pick something out. It works! A Border’s gift card it would be.
I picked out a shirt-size box at the Hallmark store along with a cute gift card—Be an organ donor, give your heart to someone this Valentine’s—and some wrapping paper. Stuffing the box with newspaper, it made a lightweight yet generous gift. Now all that was left was the presentation.
Valentine’s Day was on a Saturday, perfect. I picked up a bottle of her favorite Shiraz, ordered in some sushi and lit every candle in my condo. The warm glow of the candles created a romantic atmosphere. Perhaps too romantic. I didn’t want to give her the wrong impression. This was to be a nice evening not a proposal. I quickly switched the CD’s from Sinatra to Coldplay, Zwan and Foo Fighters.
Gwen stopped by after having drinks with some girl friends. The dim glow of the living room told her everything.
“David?” she said as if expecting me not to be home.
“Hey, Gwen…” I stepped into the hall. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
She held a shopping bag with tissue paper overflowing the top.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” she said with a hug. She set her bag down gently and I took her coat.
Conversation flowed slower than the Shiraz. Finally, I jumped up to retrieve her gift. In the thin glow of the candles the red hearts of the wrapping paper become pools of blood. I suddenly began to think this wasn’t a good idea. What was I thinking, a gift card… How impersonal. How thoughtless. I wanted to take the gift back, but it was too late. Gwen was already inspecting the package. With an anticipatory smile she read the unimaginative card.
She handed me the shopping bag.
“Happy Valentine’s,” we said in unison.
She ripped open the paper as I pulled at the tissue. The bag revealed a wrapped shoebox. Did she get me the Nike’s I’d been eyeing on Michigan Avenue?
I tore at the paper…it was indeed a Nike box. Gwen had her box open and was plowing through the crinkled newspaper. She found the envelope. My Nike box was too light to be shoes, I opened it to find packing peanuts, thousand of them. With one hand, I plunged into the white sea of weightlessness. There was an envelope at the bottom. I pulled it out spilling peanuts on the hardwood floor just as Gwen opened here envelope and pulled out the gift card.
“Oh, Borders…I love that store…” she said.
I opened the envelope from the shoe box. Inside was a $150 Home Depot gift card. I looked up at her.
“I need the shoebox back for bills,” she said.
The sex was great.
Sunday, September 12, 2004
Matchme.com
©2003 (From the collection of short stories: “Not In Your Life”)
What’s going on out there? Many of my friends, now entering the single scene for the second or third time, have repeatedly asked me this question. Having written on dating after divorce (see “Soul Mate Survivor” 1999) I thought it was time to revisit the subject to see how the Internet has changed things. It was eye opening.
When I first started exploring the dating scene after divorce seven years ago, the Internet was too new and many of the dating sites were raw and unrefined. Today, dating services seem antiquated, personals come across as desperate and the only people my friends can introduce me to are their baby sitters. Online dating seems to be the answer.
So who’s on line? What are they looking for? And how easy is it really to meet your future SO?
I was about to find out. Now, for privacy reasons, I’ve changed all of the names, including the service I joined. What’s unchanged are the profiles, my inquiries and the responses they generated.
For a mere 26 bucks, I joined Matchme.com with all the anticipation of a schoolboy expecting to be picked first for a dodge ball team. This was going to be great, women who have outlined their wants and needs matched up to my wants and needs. I registered as: citykidchicago. Now, I know I’m going to get a lot of hits because of this article. Probably some death threats as well. But dating is risky in this day and age. And writing about it even riskier.
Here’s the study. I approached this like a party scene. If a woman—or in this case here profile—caught my eye, I responded. Like the party scenario, I tried to introduce myself in the least, non-threatening way. Innocent, just testing the waters, kind of messages. I sent out 30 introductions. I only heard back from 5 women. That means that at the Matchme.com party, 25 women rudely turned their backs and walked away without saying a word. Ouch, now that made me feel rejected. That is until I started actually getting responses. For sake of space and time, I will focus only on those who responded. First, here’s me:
MATCHME: citykidchicago
Laughing Matters
Second City grad, dabbled in standup, I've made a career out of comedy and writing. Quirky, funny I'm always looking for the subtle differences in things. There's comedy everywhere and I choose to see the humor in life. I'm comfortable with long walks, biking and camping. Basically, outdoor activities are my preference, but I can and do dress up for charity events and romantic evenings out. I love Celtic music and can often be found at the Irish Oak taking in a weekend band. I'm looking for someone who lives for the now and isn't afraid of life. I'm sensitive, caring and enjoy a good conversation as much as I do just quite contemplation. Life's entertaining, let's go have some fun.
Here’s who I’m looking for:
Who are you?
You love life and laughing. You are capable of seeing the lighter side of things and don't take yourself too seriously. Spontaneity is a way of life. You have a common sense about you. Saturday mornings can mean anything from a drive to the country to quite coffee in a cafe. From biking along the lakefront to just curling up and talking. You're well read but not necessarily contemporary fiction, you love history and non-fiction. A good conversation fascinates you. You do your own thing and at the same time appreciate the company of your SO. You're not afraid of intimacy while at the same time respect yourself and your partner. You appreciate honesty and expect the same in return.
Yeah, pedestrian, but my intent was to be broad and at the same time honest about what I enjoy and appreciate. Now there’s also a questionnaire that covers a variety of points too numerous to mention. Salary, political and religious views, kids/no kids, height, body style. The kind of standard stuff that you can either see or take in within a short conversation at a party. There’s also a picture. Yep, I put one up. Not necessarily the most flattering, but not that bad either. It was a wintertime pool party at Corner Pocket (on Halsted—great bar, fun people). I was sporting a beard at the time (now gone) and am dressed casually. I could have used a shot of me in a tux accepting a creative award for writing taken two months later, but that seemed pretentious.
I decided to let Matchme.com’s “connect” service pick the most likely matches. I got 12 pages of ten matches each—pretty impressive for a 10-mile radius of my ZIP code. The service also gave me a percentage of match, the highest being 100% and dropping off to around 82%. Since I was putting a picture out there I decided to only answer those who had the courage to do the same.
What follows then are the top people I selected as a good match. I have not altered their profiles. Misspellings, run-on sentences and grammar are all left as I found them.
My first page of 10 revealed one very cute smile.
MATCHME: singular614:
Make me laugh
I love to laugh until my belly aches. I'm appropiate almost all of the time, but once in a while the sillyrebellious side can sneak out and do the unexpected. So, don't be surprised, just go with it and it'll be a lot of fun. I'm a mix between the East and the West, motion and rest, impulsive and reflective. I'm sincere and true to myself and try to do the right thing and be a good person. So, if you like the versatility and the range and not afraid to be a bit outside of the box, we should talk.
Who are you?
I know that my soulmate and Prince Charming is out there, he's just a little "directionally challenged" and hasn't found me yet. He is in touch with his feelings and not afraid to communicate them. He wellcomes changes but his integrity does not falter. He communicates with an intend to understand rather than dissect and analyze. Etc..
I decided “singular614” would be my first response. She certainly sounded like fun and from her picture, she was really cute. Yeah, this is a woman I want to meet.
REPLY: singular614
Your smile caught me. When I read your profile and realized you were all about the comedy, well I couldn’t resist. I’ve re-directed myself and am setting a course for a dialogue with you. I look forward to hearing from you.
David
All that was left was to hit the send key. My cursor hovered. I questioned myself. What are you doing? Is this really the way to meet women? There was only one way to find out. With a gentle push of my index finger I introduced myself to singular614. I anxiously waited for a reply. That was in May, at this writing in mid-July, I have yet to receive a response from singular614. Maybe her bellyache turned into something more severe.
But I wasn’t going to sit around and wait, I moved on to a delightful head of curls.
MATCHME: brbcdr
Independence Dame
Been a little cranky for a few years since that house fell on my sister. But, I am finally getting over it. I have been told by various men that I am very independent. And that I work and travel a lot. I live and work in the city, and am always up to something. I love my job and in my free time I love to cook, garden, spend time with friends, yoga and running and of course, the ultimate, shopping. I am not looking for a man to lean on, but, rather, someone who adds another dimension to my already happy life.
Who are you?
It's pretty important to me that you are not an ex-convict or on a current crime spree. Employed is generally a good thing too. Very important that you do not take yourself too seriously. I am seeking a male that is energetic, not needy, likes to spend time together but also independent. Someone who has his own life and interests, but would not mind adding something to them. Most importantly, I would like to meet someone who truly sees, appreciates and enjoys the funny and ironic sides of life.
She was a 100% match. I could do no better. brbcdr felt right. She was going to be the one.
REPLY: brbcdr
I have to admit you sound funny and energetic as well as independent. My only concern, how do you qualify “employed?” I’m a freelance writer…I only know I’m employed when the residual checks arrive. Other than that, no real criminal record to speak of, although I was considering a career in politics at one time…I’d love to hear from you…especially if I can buy your vote.
David
Not sidesplitting comedy, but it was charming. I was demonstrating a sense of humor. Little did I know I was opening the back door to some demonic charm school.
Two days later:
REPLY: citykidchicago
I went to your profile and the only thing funny I found was your picture. Why did you see us as a match anyway? Never mind, I jusst a soon not here from you again.
Ouch, I think I’ve just been rejected by a Manson Family member. Dignity prevented me from sending a follow up response, though I was itching to tell her that I saw us as a match because I was in dire need of some bitch to hen peck me for the rest of my life. I’d say the house fell on the wrong sister.
So much for the 100% matches. Maybe if I let my standards slip a notch to 99% I’d meet a normal woman who could appreciate a quick smile and witty repartee.
MATCHME: pstheresmore
More about the laughs
I love to laugh and have a very positive attitude about life. I am divorced with no children and work downtown. I love everything about the city - the restaurants, the culture (museums, galleries, opera etc), sporting events (I am a big baseball fan), outdoor dining, summer festivals and the lakefront. I enjoy good food and wine, trying new restaurants and new types of food. I try to stay healthy and work out 3/4 times per week, but I don't let it consume my life. I have a great sense of humor, can take it as well as I give it out. People say I am pretty easy to get along with and am usually smiling or laughing. Life is too short not to enjoy to the fullest - and I try to incorporate that philosophy into my life.
Who are you?
Someone who makes me laugh and knows how to treat a woman. Someone who makes the effort to take care of himself physically, yet can still have a good time. Someone who is comfortable dressing up to go to dinner, yet can throw on a pair of jeans to go to a ballgame. This person should also have a good sense of humor, like to have a good time and share my positive attitude about life.
She mentioned laughing or humor five times. Could this be the woman of my dreams? Judging by her picture, she’s very attractive and she seems like someone I could just hang with indefinitely.
REPLY: pstheresmore
It sounds like there’s a lot more! I really enjoyed reading your profile. I think if nothing else, we could begin a humorous email dialogue and see what evolves. I look forward to hearing from you as much as I look forward to hearing your laughter.
David
I didn’t have to wait long. But it wasn’t laughter I heard. Late in the afternoon I got this response.
REPLY: citykidchicago
Are you some kind of psycho? I read your profile and you didn’t mention a thing about baseball. How you could imagine that we could ever be a match is beyond me. Although, you did miss my laughter…when I looked at your picture.
Pandora lives! I’m starting to really develop a complex here. I’m now beginning to appreciate the rudeness of the majority of women who didn’t respond because they saved me from the agony of total, in your face rejection. It’s almost like I’ve selected abused women whose only goal is to inflict cruelty on all of mankind. The poor dumb bastard who ends up with one of these women has few choices beyond suicide. I mean, I’m really depressed about this. I’d rather join a holy order of celibate monks than respond to one more Internet Medusa.
I call my friend Cathy for a little pep talk.
“You’re not ugly, will you stop,” she says while preparing power point presentation for one of her marketing clients. “I have your picture in my office, from that time we took the boat cruise? Remember, the architectural thing-am-a-giggy?”
“That was fun…”
“Yeah, and you looked hot. David, listen these women are all psychos. Why else are they looking for their perfect Adonis online? Because they’ve pissed off all the men they’ve met in person.”
“Yeah, but they can’t all be bad…can they?”
“Listen, you want a woman to talk nicely to you, you want some one to appreciate who you are, to laugh at all your jokes?”
“Ideally…”
“Then call an escort service. You’ll spend less money ‘cause you won’t be blowing it on women who just want to see how much they can dig you for. And the sex will be better.”
“How do you know…”
“Would you hire an beautician to rewire your house? No, you want things done right you go to a specialist. Online dating is for shut-ins.”
Cathy always had a way of putting things succinctly. But I had the idea for this article and so pressed on.
This time I randomly selected someone by their picture. Superficial, yeah, but I learned from studying psychology that the universal rule isn’t “do unto others as you would have done on to you” but rather, “do on to others as you have had done on to you.” It was my turn to pick someone based solely on looks. And at the very top of the third page was a very attractive candidate.
Matchme: CiceroSiren
Open To Possibilities
I am open-minded, warm, friendly and compassionate. I'm a great listener and a loyal friend-always there for the important people in my life. I like witty conversation and challenging my mind and have a great sense of humor. I enjoy biking along the lakefront, going to movies (especially independent films), listening to live music, yoga and working out. I also enjoy eating at ethnic restaurants and I love to travel (last year I went to Hudson Bay and Equador and also spent a week skiing in Van Couver). My goal is to visit every county in the world at least once. I also like relaxing at home with a good book or a movie from Blockbuster. I grew up in Chicago and Los Angeles and also spent a semester living abroad in London during law school. If the opportunity presented itself I would love to live abroad again. I enjoy my work but I am willing to make room in my life for a relationship.
Who are you?
Someone who is adventurous, high-spirited, energetic and has a great sense of humor. He is also athletic, open-minded, intelligent and able to communicate his thoughts and feelings. He enjoys his work and his hobbies and has a positive attitude toward life. Someone who genuinely cares about other people and who is willing to make a relationship a priority in his life.
Though I didn’t believe she would ever actually visit every “county” in the world, she sounded interesting. Okay, she didn’t sound all that interesting but she at least didn’t sound like they type of woman who would be rude. She’s open minded…she was a goddamn lawyer. They’re never rude. She would at least respond politely.
REPLY: CiceroSiren
I have to admit, what caught my eye was your perfect smile. Going further to read your profile, I was intrigued by a woman of adventure. Well, this could be a fun escapade. I would like to get to know you better. I look forward to hearing from you.
David
I had decided that by ending every email with my name I was at least attempting to establish trust. By giving a prospect my name, I was revealing a little bit more about myself. Turns out, this had nothing to do about trust.
A reply arrived three days later.
REPLY: citykidchicago
Are you some down and out actor? Second City? Standup comedy? A writer? Your picture looks like your waiting tables somewhere. I deal with deadbeats everyday as a lawyer, I haven’t got time to date one. And your bald…where do you get off emailing me?
This from a lawyer? Hey, CiceroSiren, listen, take that huge paycheck you’re earning and run out and buy a dictionary! And while you’re at it, your grammar could use a bit of polishing. Something tells me you’re going to be spending a lot of time in divorce court pleading your own case. Look, I may be bald, but I’m not malicious. I’ll bet you run up to cripples and make fun of their wheelchairs.
One more chance…I decided to find one more person. Like Sodom and Gomorrah, I was determined to find one decent woman. She was out there I scrolled down the page.
I discovered Emily about half way down. She was only a 98% match but, well I’m a sucker for her name and I loved her photograph.
emily773
Are you up for the challenge?
I know who I am, what I want, and who I am looking for but that doesn't make expressing it any easier in this...hmmmm... uninspired online form. Friends describe me as sharp as a tack, quick on my feet, a charmer with an attitude...but, I get away with it because of my great smile and heart of gold. Actually, I consider myself grounded and passionate. I love the outdoors - hiking, camping, biking and spending time at the lakefront. I am a sort of twisted romantic...give me “When Harry Met Sally,” a glass of Merlot and a box of Raisenetts and I am in heaven. But leave it to Monty Python to bring out my devilish and slightly quirky sense of humor.
How she describes her ideal match
Two important attributes of any date of mine must be intelligence and a sense of humor. We have varied interests but similar ideals. I am a true blue liberal and appreciate others with a penchant for a progressive and flexible worlview. If you think I am the wittiest person you've ever met, we'll get along just fine. Back on the subject of ideals...I enjoy meeting people who are kind, compassionate toward others, somewhat silly, passionate and persuasive, but not rigid in their opinions. I am looking for a partner in crime...a challenge...a spark.
I rolled the dice again. With fingers crossed, I typed my introduction.
REPLY: emily773
You want a sense of humor, you want intelligence? I think I can handle that…but are you up for the challenge?
You’re also looking for kind and compassionate toward others? Let’s see, just this morning I rerouted the floods in Texas, planted a forest of trees devastated in the Colorado fires and still had time to attend a wine tasting on the off-chance I have an opportunity to impress a date with my vino skills. As far as “are you the wittiest person I’ve ever met?” Well, let’s meet and find out.
David
All right, this has got to get better. I can’t strike out all the time. My friends love me…they don’t think I’m a hideous freak. Oh sure, I catch them laughing behind my back but that’s usually because I’ve sat in something.
Several days later, I got an email from matchme.com. I had a response from emily773. I just felt this was right. I said all the right things. I just had a good feeling about her. Besides, I just love the name. Sure that’s no excuse for a lasting relationship, but come on, how could anyone named Emily be cruel?
REPLY: citykidchicago
You think you’re funny? People died in Texas and Colorado. That’s not funny. Yuck. It’s insensitive idiots like you that ruin the internet for everyone else. And shave, you look like a wooly mamoth.
Two things Emily, start watching Leno, Letterman or the Daily Show, and borrow CiceroSiren’s goddamn dictionary.
That’s it. I stopped checking the available women that matchme.com said I was a match with. 12 pages of ten women each and I barely got to page three. I’m curious, is this just Chicago arrogance or has this distemper infected the entire country? I’m tempted to try other ZIP codes but I’m not sure if I can handle rejection from Ohio or Nebraska. I closed out the account and figured I was better off meeting women the old fashion way…I grabbed a copy of the Chicago Reader and turned to the escort ads.
What’s going on out there? Many of my friends, now entering the single scene for the second or third time, have repeatedly asked me this question. Having written on dating after divorce (see “Soul Mate Survivor” 1999) I thought it was time to revisit the subject to see how the Internet has changed things. It was eye opening.
When I first started exploring the dating scene after divorce seven years ago, the Internet was too new and many of the dating sites were raw and unrefined. Today, dating services seem antiquated, personals come across as desperate and the only people my friends can introduce me to are their baby sitters. Online dating seems to be the answer.
So who’s on line? What are they looking for? And how easy is it really to meet your future SO?
I was about to find out. Now, for privacy reasons, I’ve changed all of the names, including the service I joined. What’s unchanged are the profiles, my inquiries and the responses they generated.
For a mere 26 bucks, I joined Matchme.com with all the anticipation of a schoolboy expecting to be picked first for a dodge ball team. This was going to be great, women who have outlined their wants and needs matched up to my wants and needs. I registered as: citykidchicago. Now, I know I’m going to get a lot of hits because of this article. Probably some death threats as well. But dating is risky in this day and age. And writing about it even riskier.
Here’s the study. I approached this like a party scene. If a woman—or in this case here profile—caught my eye, I responded. Like the party scenario, I tried to introduce myself in the least, non-threatening way. Innocent, just testing the waters, kind of messages. I sent out 30 introductions. I only heard back from 5 women. That means that at the Matchme.com party, 25 women rudely turned their backs and walked away without saying a word. Ouch, now that made me feel rejected. That is until I started actually getting responses. For sake of space and time, I will focus only on those who responded. First, here’s me:
MATCHME: citykidchicago
Laughing Matters
Second City grad, dabbled in standup, I've made a career out of comedy and writing. Quirky, funny I'm always looking for the subtle differences in things. There's comedy everywhere and I choose to see the humor in life. I'm comfortable with long walks, biking and camping. Basically, outdoor activities are my preference, but I can and do dress up for charity events and romantic evenings out. I love Celtic music and can often be found at the Irish Oak taking in a weekend band. I'm looking for someone who lives for the now and isn't afraid of life. I'm sensitive, caring and enjoy a good conversation as much as I do just quite contemplation. Life's entertaining, let's go have some fun.
Here’s who I’m looking for:
Who are you?
You love life and laughing. You are capable of seeing the lighter side of things and don't take yourself too seriously. Spontaneity is a way of life. You have a common sense about you. Saturday mornings can mean anything from a drive to the country to quite coffee in a cafe. From biking along the lakefront to just curling up and talking. You're well read but not necessarily contemporary fiction, you love history and non-fiction. A good conversation fascinates you. You do your own thing and at the same time appreciate the company of your SO. You're not afraid of intimacy while at the same time respect yourself and your partner. You appreciate honesty and expect the same in return.
Yeah, pedestrian, but my intent was to be broad and at the same time honest about what I enjoy and appreciate. Now there’s also a questionnaire that covers a variety of points too numerous to mention. Salary, political and religious views, kids/no kids, height, body style. The kind of standard stuff that you can either see or take in within a short conversation at a party. There’s also a picture. Yep, I put one up. Not necessarily the most flattering, but not that bad either. It was a wintertime pool party at Corner Pocket (on Halsted—great bar, fun people). I was sporting a beard at the time (now gone) and am dressed casually. I could have used a shot of me in a tux accepting a creative award for writing taken two months later, but that seemed pretentious.
I decided to let Matchme.com’s “connect” service pick the most likely matches. I got 12 pages of ten matches each—pretty impressive for a 10-mile radius of my ZIP code. The service also gave me a percentage of match, the highest being 100% and dropping off to around 82%. Since I was putting a picture out there I decided to only answer those who had the courage to do the same.
What follows then are the top people I selected as a good match. I have not altered their profiles. Misspellings, run-on sentences and grammar are all left as I found them.
My first page of 10 revealed one very cute smile.
MATCHME: singular614:
Make me laugh
I love to laugh until my belly aches. I'm appropiate almost all of the time, but once in a while the sillyrebellious side can sneak out and do the unexpected. So, don't be surprised, just go with it and it'll be a lot of fun. I'm a mix between the East and the West, motion and rest, impulsive and reflective. I'm sincere and true to myself and try to do the right thing and be a good person. So, if you like the versatility and the range and not afraid to be a bit outside of the box, we should talk.
Who are you?
I know that my soulmate and Prince Charming is out there, he's just a little "directionally challenged" and hasn't found me yet. He is in touch with his feelings and not afraid to communicate them. He wellcomes changes but his integrity does not falter. He communicates with an intend to understand rather than dissect and analyze. Etc..
I decided “singular614” would be my first response. She certainly sounded like fun and from her picture, she was really cute. Yeah, this is a woman I want to meet.
REPLY: singular614
Your smile caught me. When I read your profile and realized you were all about the comedy, well I couldn’t resist. I’ve re-directed myself and am setting a course for a dialogue with you. I look forward to hearing from you.
David
All that was left was to hit the send key. My cursor hovered. I questioned myself. What are you doing? Is this really the way to meet women? There was only one way to find out. With a gentle push of my index finger I introduced myself to singular614. I anxiously waited for a reply. That was in May, at this writing in mid-July, I have yet to receive a response from singular614. Maybe her bellyache turned into something more severe.
But I wasn’t going to sit around and wait, I moved on to a delightful head of curls.
MATCHME: brbcdr
Independence Dame
Been a little cranky for a few years since that house fell on my sister. But, I am finally getting over it. I have been told by various men that I am very independent. And that I work and travel a lot. I live and work in the city, and am always up to something. I love my job and in my free time I love to cook, garden, spend time with friends, yoga and running and of course, the ultimate, shopping. I am not looking for a man to lean on, but, rather, someone who adds another dimension to my already happy life.
Who are you?
It's pretty important to me that you are not an ex-convict or on a current crime spree. Employed is generally a good thing too. Very important that you do not take yourself too seriously. I am seeking a male that is energetic, not needy, likes to spend time together but also independent. Someone who has his own life and interests, but would not mind adding something to them. Most importantly, I would like to meet someone who truly sees, appreciates and enjoys the funny and ironic sides of life.
She was a 100% match. I could do no better. brbcdr felt right. She was going to be the one.
REPLY: brbcdr
I have to admit you sound funny and energetic as well as independent. My only concern, how do you qualify “employed?” I’m a freelance writer…I only know I’m employed when the residual checks arrive. Other than that, no real criminal record to speak of, although I was considering a career in politics at one time…I’d love to hear from you…especially if I can buy your vote.
David
Not sidesplitting comedy, but it was charming. I was demonstrating a sense of humor. Little did I know I was opening the back door to some demonic charm school.
Two days later:
REPLY: citykidchicago
I went to your profile and the only thing funny I found was your picture. Why did you see us as a match anyway? Never mind, I jusst a soon not here from you again.
Ouch, I think I’ve just been rejected by a Manson Family member. Dignity prevented me from sending a follow up response, though I was itching to tell her that I saw us as a match because I was in dire need of some bitch to hen peck me for the rest of my life. I’d say the house fell on the wrong sister.
So much for the 100% matches. Maybe if I let my standards slip a notch to 99% I’d meet a normal woman who could appreciate a quick smile and witty repartee.
MATCHME: pstheresmore
More about the laughs
I love to laugh and have a very positive attitude about life. I am divorced with no children and work downtown. I love everything about the city - the restaurants, the culture (museums, galleries, opera etc), sporting events (I am a big baseball fan), outdoor dining, summer festivals and the lakefront. I enjoy good food and wine, trying new restaurants and new types of food. I try to stay healthy and work out 3/4 times per week, but I don't let it consume my life. I have a great sense of humor, can take it as well as I give it out. People say I am pretty easy to get along with and am usually smiling or laughing. Life is too short not to enjoy to the fullest - and I try to incorporate that philosophy into my life.
Who are you?
Someone who makes me laugh and knows how to treat a woman. Someone who makes the effort to take care of himself physically, yet can still have a good time. Someone who is comfortable dressing up to go to dinner, yet can throw on a pair of jeans to go to a ballgame. This person should also have a good sense of humor, like to have a good time and share my positive attitude about life.
She mentioned laughing or humor five times. Could this be the woman of my dreams? Judging by her picture, she’s very attractive and she seems like someone I could just hang with indefinitely.
REPLY: pstheresmore
It sounds like there’s a lot more! I really enjoyed reading your profile. I think if nothing else, we could begin a humorous email dialogue and see what evolves. I look forward to hearing from you as much as I look forward to hearing your laughter.
David
I didn’t have to wait long. But it wasn’t laughter I heard. Late in the afternoon I got this response.
REPLY: citykidchicago
Are you some kind of psycho? I read your profile and you didn’t mention a thing about baseball. How you could imagine that we could ever be a match is beyond me. Although, you did miss my laughter…when I looked at your picture.
Pandora lives! I’m starting to really develop a complex here. I’m now beginning to appreciate the rudeness of the majority of women who didn’t respond because they saved me from the agony of total, in your face rejection. It’s almost like I’ve selected abused women whose only goal is to inflict cruelty on all of mankind. The poor dumb bastard who ends up with one of these women has few choices beyond suicide. I mean, I’m really depressed about this. I’d rather join a holy order of celibate monks than respond to one more Internet Medusa.
I call my friend Cathy for a little pep talk.
“You’re not ugly, will you stop,” she says while preparing power point presentation for one of her marketing clients. “I have your picture in my office, from that time we took the boat cruise? Remember, the architectural thing-am-a-giggy?”
“That was fun…”
“Yeah, and you looked hot. David, listen these women are all psychos. Why else are they looking for their perfect Adonis online? Because they’ve pissed off all the men they’ve met in person.”
“Yeah, but they can’t all be bad…can they?”
“Listen, you want a woman to talk nicely to you, you want some one to appreciate who you are, to laugh at all your jokes?”
“Ideally…”
“Then call an escort service. You’ll spend less money ‘cause you won’t be blowing it on women who just want to see how much they can dig you for. And the sex will be better.”
“How do you know…”
“Would you hire an beautician to rewire your house? No, you want things done right you go to a specialist. Online dating is for shut-ins.”
Cathy always had a way of putting things succinctly. But I had the idea for this article and so pressed on.
This time I randomly selected someone by their picture. Superficial, yeah, but I learned from studying psychology that the universal rule isn’t “do unto others as you would have done on to you” but rather, “do on to others as you have had done on to you.” It was my turn to pick someone based solely on looks. And at the very top of the third page was a very attractive candidate.
Matchme: CiceroSiren
Open To Possibilities
I am open-minded, warm, friendly and compassionate. I'm a great listener and a loyal friend-always there for the important people in my life. I like witty conversation and challenging my mind and have a great sense of humor. I enjoy biking along the lakefront, going to movies (especially independent films), listening to live music, yoga and working out. I also enjoy eating at ethnic restaurants and I love to travel (last year I went to Hudson Bay and Equador and also spent a week skiing in Van Couver). My goal is to visit every county in the world at least once. I also like relaxing at home with a good book or a movie from Blockbuster. I grew up in Chicago and Los Angeles and also spent a semester living abroad in London during law school. If the opportunity presented itself I would love to live abroad again. I enjoy my work but I am willing to make room in my life for a relationship.
Who are you?
Someone who is adventurous, high-spirited, energetic and has a great sense of humor. He is also athletic, open-minded, intelligent and able to communicate his thoughts and feelings. He enjoys his work and his hobbies and has a positive attitude toward life. Someone who genuinely cares about other people and who is willing to make a relationship a priority in his life.
Though I didn’t believe she would ever actually visit every “county” in the world, she sounded interesting. Okay, she didn’t sound all that interesting but she at least didn’t sound like they type of woman who would be rude. She’s open minded…she was a goddamn lawyer. They’re never rude. She would at least respond politely.
REPLY: CiceroSiren
I have to admit, what caught my eye was your perfect smile. Going further to read your profile, I was intrigued by a woman of adventure. Well, this could be a fun escapade. I would like to get to know you better. I look forward to hearing from you.
David
I had decided that by ending every email with my name I was at least attempting to establish trust. By giving a prospect my name, I was revealing a little bit more about myself. Turns out, this had nothing to do about trust.
A reply arrived three days later.
REPLY: citykidchicago
Are you some down and out actor? Second City? Standup comedy? A writer? Your picture looks like your waiting tables somewhere. I deal with deadbeats everyday as a lawyer, I haven’t got time to date one. And your bald…where do you get off emailing me?
This from a lawyer? Hey, CiceroSiren, listen, take that huge paycheck you’re earning and run out and buy a dictionary! And while you’re at it, your grammar could use a bit of polishing. Something tells me you’re going to be spending a lot of time in divorce court pleading your own case. Look, I may be bald, but I’m not malicious. I’ll bet you run up to cripples and make fun of their wheelchairs.
One more chance…I decided to find one more person. Like Sodom and Gomorrah, I was determined to find one decent woman. She was out there I scrolled down the page.
I discovered Emily about half way down. She was only a 98% match but, well I’m a sucker for her name and I loved her photograph.
emily773
Are you up for the challenge?
I know who I am, what I want, and who I am looking for but that doesn't make expressing it any easier in this...hmmmm... uninspired online form. Friends describe me as sharp as a tack, quick on my feet, a charmer with an attitude...but, I get away with it because of my great smile and heart of gold. Actually, I consider myself grounded and passionate. I love the outdoors - hiking, camping, biking and spending time at the lakefront. I am a sort of twisted romantic...give me “When Harry Met Sally,” a glass of Merlot and a box of Raisenetts and I am in heaven. But leave it to Monty Python to bring out my devilish and slightly quirky sense of humor.
How she describes her ideal match
Two important attributes of any date of mine must be intelligence and a sense of humor. We have varied interests but similar ideals. I am a true blue liberal and appreciate others with a penchant for a progressive and flexible worlview. If you think I am the wittiest person you've ever met, we'll get along just fine. Back on the subject of ideals...I enjoy meeting people who are kind, compassionate toward others, somewhat silly, passionate and persuasive, but not rigid in their opinions. I am looking for a partner in crime...a challenge...a spark.
I rolled the dice again. With fingers crossed, I typed my introduction.
REPLY: emily773
You want a sense of humor, you want intelligence? I think I can handle that…but are you up for the challenge?
You’re also looking for kind and compassionate toward others? Let’s see, just this morning I rerouted the floods in Texas, planted a forest of trees devastated in the Colorado fires and still had time to attend a wine tasting on the off-chance I have an opportunity to impress a date with my vino skills. As far as “are you the wittiest person I’ve ever met?” Well, let’s meet and find out.
David
All right, this has got to get better. I can’t strike out all the time. My friends love me…they don’t think I’m a hideous freak. Oh sure, I catch them laughing behind my back but that’s usually because I’ve sat in something.
Several days later, I got an email from matchme.com. I had a response from emily773. I just felt this was right. I said all the right things. I just had a good feeling about her. Besides, I just love the name. Sure that’s no excuse for a lasting relationship, but come on, how could anyone named Emily be cruel?
REPLY: citykidchicago
You think you’re funny? People died in Texas and Colorado. That’s not funny. Yuck. It’s insensitive idiots like you that ruin the internet for everyone else. And shave, you look like a wooly mamoth.
Two things Emily, start watching Leno, Letterman or the Daily Show, and borrow CiceroSiren’s goddamn dictionary.
That’s it. I stopped checking the available women that matchme.com said I was a match with. 12 pages of ten women each and I barely got to page three. I’m curious, is this just Chicago arrogance or has this distemper infected the entire country? I’m tempted to try other ZIP codes but I’m not sure if I can handle rejection from Ohio or Nebraska. I closed out the account and figured I was better off meeting women the old fashion way…I grabbed a copy of the Chicago Reader and turned to the escort ads.
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