INTERNET DATES FROM HELL
INTERNET DATES FROM HELL
Trisha Ventker
www.InternetDatesFromHell.com
iUniverse, Inc.
Bloomington
INTERNET DATES FROM HELL
Copyright © 2011 by Trisha Ventker.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
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Design and Artwork by Gerald Lee
All illustrations Copyright © 2006 by Gerald Lee
The information, ideas and suggestions in this book are not intended as a substitute for professional medical advice. Before following any suggestions contained in this book, you should first consult your personal physician. Neither the author nor the publisher shall be liable or responsible for any loss or damage allegedly arising as a consequence of your use or application of any information or suggestions in this book. The stories that you will read in this book are based on actual encounters that the author has experienced. All specific names, places, and personal information have been changed, and events have been slightly modified for the anonymity and protection of the people involved.
ISBN: 978-1-4620-5256-1 (sc)
ISBN: 978-1-4620-5255-4 (ebk)
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Acknowledgments
Preface
Part I
Internet Dates from Hell
CHAPTER 1
Talk on the Phone At Least Once Before Meeting
CHAPTER 2
Ask for a Recent Photo
CHAPTER 3
Don’t Meet Your Date in a Foreign Country
CHAPTER 4
Don’t Fall for Someone Just for His Accent
CHAPTER 5
Don’t Waste Too Much Time on the First Phone Call
CHAPTER 6
Always Plan Your First Meeting to Be Forty-five Minutes or Less
CHAPTER 7
If He Still Lives at Home with His Parents, Don’t Bother
CHAPTER 8
If You Can’t Stand His Voice on the Phone, It Only Gets Worse in Person
CHAPTER 9
Watch Out for Pathological Liars
CHAPTER 10
If Your Date Obsesses over a Body Part, Chances Are He Has a Fetish
CHAPTER 11
If Your Date Is Flashy or Pretentious, Chances Are He Is Hunting for a Trophy
CHAPTER 12
If Something Smells Fishy, It Usually Is
CHAPTER 13
If It Looks Too Good to Be True, It Usually Is
CHAPTER 14
Be Wary of Someone Too Eager to Travel a Great Distance Right Away
CHAPTER 15
Don’t Date Someone Who Has Never Been in a Relationship
CHAPTER 16
Pay Attention to Red Flags
CHAPTER 17
Long Hair Doesn’t Always Equal a GAP Model
CHAPTER 18
Don’t Date Someone Who Lives at Work
CHAPTER 19
Don’t Date a Biter
CHAPTER 20
It’s a Small World After All
Part II
Hope Prevails
CHAPTER 21
Finally! My Internet Date from Heaven
Part III
Posting a Personal Ad
Part IV
Just for Laughs
A Sampling of Responses
In Closing
To my husband, Tom, whose constant love and belief in me have made this possible.
Acknowledgments
Michael Gerhardt (Pulitzer Prize nominee author)—for marking up the first pages of this book and providing the necessary guidance and assistance so that I could navigate the difficult world of publishing, and also for being my mentor in this wonderful world of writing.
Becky Moran—for believing in me from the very first time I mentioned this project to you.
John Small (brother and adjunct professor of English literature)—for helping me to appear literate and making me look at the style of my writing in a totally different light.
Roger—for being there for me through all of these crazy dates and still being a wise counsel, best friend, and moral supporter.
Carolyn Sikora—for listening to my endless whining about Internet dating and pointing out what’s important in a mate.
Isabella McClancy—for being my ray of sunshine each day at work and for making me feel that I am not as neurotic as I think I am.
Paula Crayon—for always making me laugh out loud and making me be as gutsy as you.
Gerald Lee (artist of the images in the book)—for the amazing talent that you possess and enhancing my book.
Peter Small (brother, aka “Seep”)—for keeping an eye on me and protecting me throughout our childhood.
Patrick Ventker (aka Mr. Fantastic)—for always believing and saying exactly how you feel.
Kristina Leonard-for your constant support and friendship.
Pat and John Small (aka Mom and Dad)—for not freaking out on me after reading this book.
Maxie (my three-pound canine)—for your unconditional love and for keeping my lap warm throughout the endless editing process.
Past Internet Dates—for giving me material and inspiring me to write this book, and for our unforgettable encounters.
Preface
Suppose you are a thirty-year-old single woman living in New York City—the coolest, trendiest city in the world. You would think that this location would offer you the greatest possibilities of meeting the man of your dreams. Well, think again. Even though there are millions of single men living in Manhattan, you really only cross the paths of a few thousand in a lifetime; unless, of course, you change your path and open up endless opportunities. I changed my path, and it truly changed my life.
Take what you want from my story. Whether you are a man or woman, whether you are in a happy relationship or not, whether you simply want a purely entertaining read and have entered the perils of hell in online dating yourself, or whether you are just beginning the journey and need a few tips, my story is a outrageous account of how I became determined to find a mate through Internet dating.
There I was at my parents’ house on the eve of my birthday, ready to celebrate. However, unfortunately, I wasn’t in the mood. The candle on the Carvel ice cream cake was in the shape of the number thirty, and I was still single. Earlier that day, I partook in a series of self-deprecating comments after getting off the scale for the seventh time. “Why can’t I ever get below 158 pounds?” I whined to myself. I wonder what the normal weight is for someone who is 510”. “I’ll never be able to wear those trendy low-rise jeans with this ass!” I mumbled despairingly to myself. Who needs jeans anyway? I can get away with wearing long skirts. Why do most American women, regardless of their shape, rarely feel good about themselves?
My depression was also caused by the fact that I was turning thirty and still had not met a suitable mate. It didn’t help matters that I taught kindergarten in a school in the suburbs where
all males were either under the age often or married custodians. You would think that things might have changed when, only a few months earlier, I had moved to New York City. I thought I would have endless opportunities to date starchy Wall Street suits, hot bohemian artists, Renaissance men, aspiring actors, or Internet start-up moguls. Boy, was I wrong.
Let’s step back in time. Let me explain how I ended up in Manhattan. I had grown tired of the endless strip malls and the same old local hangouts on Long Island, where I had spent my entire life. I was ready for the city—the “city that never sleeps.” Due to the fact that I still worked on Long Island, I needed to be close to the Long Island Rail Road at Penn Station, so my daily commute wouldn’t be horrendous. I called my best friend, Greg, who lived on 34th Street for guidance. Greg told me that it was virtually impossible to find an apartment in the area near Penn Station. Providing I did find one, the rent would be a small fortune. Every weekend, throughout the months of September and October, I scoured apartment buildings on both sides of 34th Street looking for a “For Rent” sign. Not one was in sight. This street separates Chelsea and Hell’s Kitchen. Miracle on 34th Street was filmed there. Even a model, whose name we’ll protect, had her face slashed in front of the Improv in this area, back in the eighties. Although the area was a bit seedy, it was real! For if I were to move to the Big Apple, this area is exactly where I would want to live to get the full experience.
After several weekends of unsuccessful searches, I decided to go visit each apartment building and introduce myself to the doorman. Isn’t it always the doormen who know the latest gossip and juice of the building? And another thing—wouldn’t the doorman know if there were any vacancies on the horizon? Before I entered, I’d put on my charm, brush my long hair, and refresh my lipstick. I even had my own business card to hand to him before leaving. It’s not that teachers normally have business cards; I had actually made them on Broderbund Print Shop for tutoring purposes.
Finally, on the first day of November, when I had nearly given up hope, I received a call from Ralph, the doorman of Greg’s building. He told me that an apartment was available on the 16th floor. This happened to be the same floor on which Greg lived. I thanked Ralph repeatedly after he had given me all the important contact information. I wasted no time and called immediately. Before I knew it, Greg and I were neighbors.
A few weeks later, I was a full-fledged resident of Chelsea, New York. I quickly learned that clubs and bars were not the places to meet a quality, marriage-minded man. Of course, living in one of the largest gay communities in the United States didn’t help matters either. Nonetheless, I didn’t want just any man; I wanted an intelligent, educated, thoughtful, self-sufficient, family-oriented man between the ages of thirty and forty. People may offer women like me a gratuitous “good-luck girl”; however, luck is not something to rely upon in this situation.
I had never experienced great difficulty in meeting men! “The One,” however, simply never materialized. The typical “club type” ranged from twenty-three to thirty years old. Most of these overly confident shortsighted “clubbies” fell short of the mark. One could tell that their intentions were to get their dates comfortably drunk so they could proceed to their apartments for some self-indulgent fun. Many of these men were disappointed when they discovered that women who are determined to find a marriage mate typically drink little or nothing at all. In my experience, determination and alcohol are strange bedfellows, and a strange bedfellow is the last thing a woman like me is looking for.
The gym, like the bar, is not the best place to pursue a mate. To start with, any man who has to check his appearance twice as often as a woman does, begs the question “what the hell is he looking for?” These guys aren’t looking for wives! They’re already married—to themselves. Another problem with these “gymbos” is that a large percentage of them are not heterosexual. Face it: I didn’t have time to convert gay men, nor did I want to! Conversely, the remaining percentage of gymbos seem only to be interested in the feminine loins or rump roasts that these meat markets attract.
Finally, the blind-date scenario. Sometimes setups were simpatico; however, most didn’t run smoothly. The chemistry became forced, despite the shared intentions. How many of you have desperately tried to overlook the eighties throwback wearing jogging pants and gold chains, and claiming a “connection” with you, only to wish you were back home with your cat, Erasure CD, and incense? Or have you ever looked for an errant fork to stick in your ear rather than sit for another five minutes laboriously listening to one more sentence about gigabytes and the latest computer geek technology, while your date’s unsightly excess hair gel drips onto his lavender polo shirt? I’ve held out this long; I’m not about to settle now. This is not how I was brought up by my parents.
I was born and raised on Long Island. My father made his living as a bread salesman, each day driving his truck from one food establishment to another selling baked goods to keep a roof over our heads. My mother was an elementary school teacher, much like myself. Graced with three older brothers (if you call that grace), I was the youngest in the family. I had a relatively normal life. I spent my summers at the town pool, when not riding the waves at Jones Beach. Winters were spent making snowmen, when not traveling with my folks to Disney World or the Poconos. Surviving twelve years of private school, I endured the capricious behavior and the overwhelming imposition of self-guilt by the “ladies of the cloth.” After high school, I tried nursing school, but hated it. Subsequently, I attended both undergraduate and graduate school in education, earning a bachelor’s and a master’s degree. If that was not “interesting” enough—for nothing is more boring than learning from teachers who teach teachers how to teach. The juicy parts of my life occurred much later, especially when I decided to post a personal ad on the Internet. As Dante is warned before he enters the Inferno, “Abandon all hope, ye who enter here!”
Part I
Internet Dates from Hell
1
Talk on the Phone At Least Once Before Meeting
February 1997
I became tired of clubs, bars, setups, and waiting for a “spontaneous meeting,” so I began to surf the Web. In the search box, I entered the word “singles,” and up came hundreds of singles sites! There were singles sites for lovers of cooking, golf enthusiasts, scuba divers, and ski bums. There were sites for Jewish, Christian, Asian, and Russian singles. Next I tried searching the word “dating.” Since I was using AOL, “love@aol” emerged at the top of the list. I clicked on the link and then scrolled through what seemed to be hundreds of ads with photos of both men and women. It looked simple enough, so I posted an ad that day. Since I didn’t have a scanner at the time, I didn’t include a photo. How bad could this be?
The next day I checked my e-mail, and twelve responses to my profile appeared! All of them looked pretty normal. However, the responses were from men much older than I. My request was for men between the ages of thirty and forty. Of the hits I received, some were from the Midwest, a few from Long Island, and several from New York City, but all were without photos. It now made sense. The sooner I attached a photo, the better the responses would be. From that point onward, not only would I attach photos to my ad, but I would also request photos in return.
Although in my spare time I dabbled in photography, where would I get a recent digital photo of myself? Also, how could I attach the photo to my profile? I had no scanner, nor did I know the procedure. This quandary was soon solved by a visit to my best friend and new neighbor, Greg, whom I’ve known for the past twenty years. Greg is not only technically proficient in the latest digital photography but is a self-described “Trekkie” as well.
After an hour-long photo shoot in Greg’s apartment, he downloaded the best photos—a black-and-white head shot, along with a flattering full-body shot. I was satisfied. The moment I attached photos to my ad, the number of responses increased tenfold. In less than twenty-four hours, I had 144
responses in my mailbox! After reading each and every one of them, I came up with five potentials, two maybes, and 137 deletes.
Of the five potentials, the first was a thirty-year-old architect named Chris who lived in the East Village. Chris’s interests included black-and-white photography, golf, cafés, listening to classic rock, and mountain biking. His attached photo was in JPEG format, and he appeared attractive. He had spiky, short blond hair and was standing in front of a famous landmark (the cube on Lafayette Street and St. Mark’s Place). Although the sunglasses bothered me, I was intrigued, so I wrote back.
What ensued was an exchange of e-mails lasting a number of days. As a result, Chris expressed an interest in meeting me and suggested a Starbucks located in the East Village. Racked with anticipation, I lay awake the entire night before the meeting. One good thing about that experience was I realized that putting off calling the plasterer was not an option. A once unsightly tiny crack had overtaken my entire ceiling! I realized that I had to tell the newlyweds who lived in the apartment above me that they had better cool it or they would come through my ceiling! Isn’t love grand? How in the hell did that ugly little nymph find such a good-looking, polite acrobat? Some girls have all the luck.
As I lay awake, my mind wandered. I hope he’ll like me and be attracted to me. I hope he won’t be put off when he sees that I’m not a size two. What would it be like to marry an architect? Most women engage in imprudent daydreaming; it is a fault none of us can overcome when the possibility of romance is in the air. I was planning our walk-in closets without even meeting him! My mind raced on. I was picking our style of home and community! In my case, imprudence is an understatement!
The next day, fearing tardiness, I barreled down Ninth Avenue to Penn Station an hour before our rendezvous. I was in luck—no sooner did I pass through the turnstile when a C train pulled up to the platform. Reveling in my good luck, I realized that I was heading north when I should have been headed south. I got off at the next stop and proceeded up the stairs to street level, bringing me to the corner of Broadway and took the 4 train and headed south. It seemed like an eternity before the little illuminated man instructed the masses to walk. Did you ever wonder why it isn’t an illuminated woman who gives us the “go ahead”? I scuttled down the steps to the southbound E train just in time, and was East Village bound. I got out on 14th Street and briskly walked to my transfer train. As soon as I was comfortably seated, my old nemesis arose again. Damned daydreaming! Now, it was “Josh” if it was a boy and “Karla” if it was a girl! Ironically what brought me out of this next bout of surrealism were advertisements for Internet dating. This particular train car was littered with promos for a matchmaking service only a few blocks east of my destination. After what seemed like eons, I arrived at my stop at Lafayette Street. As I approached street level, I saw the cube (famous landmark), bringing me back to the initial photograph that started this journey. My watch screamed lateness! I briskly arrived at the coffee shop in a fashionably late manner.