INTERNET DATES FROM HELL Read online

  Thankfully, I arrived safely at JFK and had to endure a half-hour lecture from my mom about the losers found on Internet dating Web sites. Simon called me a few times after my adventure in England. He wanted to know if I had decided to take him up on his offer and move to Kent. I told him that I was happy to live in the United States, and he admonished me that I would go down with the rest of the “bloody Americans” and hung up.

  4

  Don’t Fall for Someone Just for His Accent

  February 1998

  You would have thought I would have learned my lesson after the England escapade with Simon the previous year; however, another appealing man wrote to me, but this time the locality was Perth, Australia. It’s funny, for I always had an affinity for the Australian accent. After a number of e-mail exchanges, I offered David my cell phone number, since I wasn’t about to call Australia. Immediately David struck me as funny, witty, and persistent, from our initial telephone conversation. During about three weeks of conversing, I posed very detailed questions about his life in Perth. I even took notes and would occasionally revert to them with additional questions. His Aussie accent sounded like Mel Gibson’s. All I could see (in my narrow-minded, smitten way) was David driving an olive green outback-type jeep, navigating through the tall grasses of the Australian bush country. Exactly what he was pursuing didn’t matter, although I hoped it wasn’t some defenseless koala that had strayed from its litter. In the long run, it would have been better if he had pursued a koala, compared to what he ended up pursuing.

  Included in my ad were my favorite things (koalas, spicy tuna rolls, sunflowers, a fresh box of crayons, log cabins, and beach sunsets). In response to the ad, he hastened to include that his favorites were somewhat similar to mine. He too liked koalas and beach sunsets, since Perth is surrounded by water. However, spicy tuna rolls and crayons elicited question marks. It was only later that I regretfully had the opportunity to qualify my penchants.

  Trying desperately to impress me (and he damn near did impress me), David proceeded to mail a box to me at the address I gave him. Feeling wary about divulging my home address after my experience in Kent, I gave him my brother Peter’s address instead. A few days later, Peter called me to inform me that David had sent me a package via first class mail. I asked Peter to open the box. Since he didn’t know what the box contained, he sounded rather tentative. In fact, he gave me hell for arranging that a package be sent to his address. Being used to digesting tablespoons of hell, I swallowed this one because my brother was right that I should have forewarned him. Regardless of his cynicism, I convinced him to open the package. As he proceeded to cut through the packing tape, he shouted, “You’re crazy. What if there is a bomb or some other device in here?” A few minutes later he told me that David had sent me a stuffed koala bear, a can of tuna fish, a box of jumbo crayons, a tiny Lincoln log cabin (which he carefully glued together for shipping purposes), sunflower seeds, and a postcard of a typical Australian sunset. I thought this was so sweet. Later that day, I picked up the items at Peter’s house. At the bottom of the box, I found a heartfelt letter and photos of David’s children and home. I actually had no idea that he had children, since he had never mentioned them before.

  After much contemplation I decided that didn’t matter, and I would not prejudge a man because he had children. I also decided that I wouldn’t let miles, differences of race, religion, or nationality stand in the way of meeting my soul mate. Shortly thereafter, I called him to thank him for the package, and at that moment, he asked me how daring I was. You should never ask me that, because I take on most challenges. He asked if I would be up for traveling if he sent me a first-class ticket from New York City to Perth, Australia. I told him the England story and explained to him that I would never again go to anyone’s home. He then offered me an alternative plan, suggesting we both fly to a halfway point—Hawaii, for example. I told him I would arrange for accommodations in separate hotels, so if things didn’t work the way I planned, I would have a safe haven to which I could retreat. I thought this was a reasonable plan. He stipulated that if I didn’t like him, then I could be on my merry way and have a free flight to Oahu. I replied, “It’s a deal!”

  Because it was winter break, school was out. Flying to Los Angeles, and then catching a connecting flight to Oahu, all the while enjoying first class, I came to the sudden realization that this could be fun. No sooner did I allow myself latitude and premature levity than that old bugaboo of mine raised its ugly head again; it was that sense of dread and trepidation! Although the fine meals served on the flight distracted me, I wasn’t going to allow my vision to be clouded.

  Overhearing a snobby couple bickering behind me, I pretended to peruse the menu. Dressed from head to toe in ill-fitting Gucci garb, these two cartoon characters were more entertaining than the inane film shown on the flight. I don’t know what was worse—her peach lipstick or his spray-on tan? I am sure that she was with him for nothing more than the size of his wallet. But then again, in today’s world, it’s possible she was the one with the money. I finally engulfed myself in some Céline Dion music available on one of the airline channels and reread the safety card from the seatback pocket (where else would you put that air mask that drops down, other than on your face?). At times like these, my mind wanders into its own Aussie territory. After the announcement to push up the tray tables, I quickly brushed my hair and checked myself in my small pocket mirror. What if he is not attracted to me? What if he likes his women thin? The old self-deprecating thoughts quickly reemerged. We finally landed, and as I exited the airplane, I quickly scanned the crowd for my Aussieman.

  The music stopped, the crowd parted, and there he was, with a bush hat and all. Just kidding. I saw him approach me, and I noticed that he looked at least fifteen years older than his photo. Like Paul (the mistake in chapter 2), David had tried to pull a fast one by sending me an earlier photo of himself. However, this time I wasn’t safely across the street from my apartment building. Although he was attractive, I neither heard bells and whistles nor did I see fireworks. But maybe that was a good sign, based on my past experiences.

  It also appeared that he wasn’t too enthralled with me. I didn’t see his eyes light up once he saw me. Perhaps I too looked older than my photo or he didn’t realize until he saw me in person that I was a few pounds overweight. But he was pleasant nonetheless. Separately we both had arranged our lodging. The hotels were conveniently located across the street from the airport.

  Over the next two days we engaged in several platonic activities such as sightseeing, ocean swimming, and a day trip to Kauai. After swimming, I wondered if he was put off by the sight of my body in a bathing suit. Although he was pleasant and extremely cordial, we both knew the error of our ways. Without saying it, his nonverbal expressions exuded his error. His eyes were aloof, his voice was monotone, and the incessant tapping of his fingernails at the restaurant table communicated a clear disinterest in me. I too began noticing single men my age everywhere I went, and I half-wished I was talking to them instead of David. Although I increasingly felt I was with a brother rather than a potential mate, I became quite comfortable with David.

  After revisiting his original intentions in Internet dating, I discovered why his first and second wives had divorced him. Ironically, it was due to chronic infidelity stemming from his Internet encounters. Talk about clouded vision. After more than a half an hour of David’s lurid tales of sexual fiasco, I noticed a slight tear developing in the corner of his right eye, as the traditional Hawaiian sun shower emerged. I then truly realized that the Internet dating world was an extremely sharp two-edged sword; David cut himself free from two marriages and three children, yet he also continued to cut short any chance of future happiness. As far as I was concerned, the only knife I was interested in was a single-edged knife (a machete, maybe?) that could cut me a path the hell out of there!

  David finally showed his maturity when he shook m
y hand the way men ordinarily do, and apologized to me, yet another innocent victim. Both the revelation of his infidelity and the heartfelt apology cleared the path I needed. Boy was I glad there was no initial spark. We mutually agreed there was not a match there, and we both went our separate ways to enjoy the remainder of our vacations independently.

  During the flight home, I began to question why I kept doing the same thing over and over again. Why do I have a love of adventure and a need for excitement? What makes a man from another country or state any more interesting that the ones who live close by? Why do I risk my health or safety in embarking on these encounters when deep down inside I have doubts? One word comes to mind: hope.

  5

  Don’t Waste Too Much Time on the First Phone Call

  October 1998

  After an eight-month hiatus from Internet dating, I decided to repost my profile and give it another go. Saul, an American Jewish cosmetic surgeon wrote me a lovely letter accompanied by what appeared to be a recent photograph. I say recent because you can never be too sure (right?). He was attractive and bright-eyed, so I felt compelled to give him my phone number. By the time I returned home from work, Saul had called twice. No sooner had I changed into my jeans and T-shirt, than the phone rang. It was Saul. Instinctively, I looked at my kitchen clock, then my answering machine, then back to my kitchen clock, all the while talking to Saul and walking from room to room. He had called three times within the last hour! The first call came forty-eight minutes earlier, the second, only eighteen minutes ago. This unnerved me. I received three phone calls in one hour. Like in the cartoons, I felt a tiny little poke in my lower neck (remember that little red devil with trident in hand, perched on one shoulder, and the angel with the harp on the other?). Well, the poke I felt was not from an angel’s harp!

  I could have easily jumped to conclusions, like I have recently trained myself to do, and categorized Saul as nothing more than a desperate nutcase responding to a photo of me. Magically I heard the angel’s harp all of a sudden in my left ear. So I chose to give him the benefit of the doubt. After all, he was a surgeon. Maybe he was between surgeries or patient rounds and he stole an hour to reach me. That’s normal, right?

  The conversation began in the sweetest of ways. “I hope I am not disturbing you. This is Saul, you remember, right?” How could I not remember, when he had left two messages thirty minutes apart, and no one else had called me that day, which was a dry day for me.

  “Sure, Saul. How are you? I got your messages, and I was just thinking about you.

  “Really, that’s reassuring.”

  Reassuring? I had found a cosmetic surgeon with self-image issues? If so, we had that in common. Maybe he had just chosen the wrong words.

  After an hour and ten minutes of verbal volleyball, I gathered the following information about Saul. He was a forty-one-year-old cosmetic surgeon, educated at NYU, and had recently completed his fellowship at NYU Medical Center. His favorite things were playing and watching hockey, attending the opera, wine collecting, and playing tennis. He resided in Greenpoint, Brooklyn, and was unmarried but had hopes of marriage in the future.

  The phone call flowed so well, I was eager to meet him. I painted this mental picture of him as we spoke. I pictured him somewhere between Ben Affleck and Harrison Ford, with an air of professionalism apparent.

  We planned to meet a few days later outside a café in the West Village, for Sunday brunch. Since our conversation had gone so well (and was inordinately lengthy), I agreed to a meal date as our first meeting. As I approached West Tenth Street and Greenwich, I asked the cab driver to drop me off a block or so before the café. I needed at least a block’s walk to gather my thoughts. Also, during that short stroll, I might catch a glimpse of him from a comfortable distance. As fate would have it, that is exactly what happened! He was exiting his brand-new BMW right outside the bistro! I stopped dead in my tracks. So abruptly, that the woman behind me pushing her child in an open stroller smacked into my Achilles tendons. While we exchanged polite apologies, I somehow lost sight of him. Obviously, he had gone in. With less than half a block to go, the little pitchfork poked me in the neck again. What was wrong with what I just saw? What was it about his physical characteristics that shook me? Was it his legs? Was it his torso? Was it his head? I just couldn’t put my finger on it, but I decided it had something to do with his head.

  Instead of proceeding directly to the restaurant, I crossed the street and found myself in front of the Traveler’s building. I pretended to hail a cab. As cabs came and went, I tried desperately to see through the 8x12 window sashes to confirm my doubts about Saul’s head. Once again, fate was on my side (if only that damn devil would stop poking me in the neck and the angel would start strumming a tune). Saul took the first table just to the right of the entrance, street-side. As he feverishly paged through the wine list, it appeared as if he were wearing a toupee. From my vantage, it looked more like a piece of romaine lettuce than a bad rug. Oh no, I did it again! What the hell—what are a few follicles between friends?

  My hand was still in the air, and a cab pulled up. The cabbie yelled, “Where to, Miss?” I almost broke out laughing. The cabbie had the worst wig I had ever seen. I had to put my hand on my mouth to stop my hysterical laughter. I mustered enough composure to respond, “I changed my mind. I think I’ll walk.” At that point, the cabbie yelled, “What is it? My aftershave ain’t cuttin’ it fer ya?” If only he knew.

  As I approached the restaurant, Saul recognized me, waved through the window, and pointed to my seat. I did everything I could not to stare at his head, although I knew I would have to make eye contact sooner or later.

  In a polite, gentlemanly manner, Saul bolted upright and pulled out my chair before the waiter could do it. He said I was right on time. He added that I was even prettier in person. He took the liberty of ordering two glasses of Santa Margarita Pinot Grigio. Remembering his love of wine, I didn’t argue. Up to this point, I had carefully avoided looking at his head. I realized there was quite a draft and I couldn’t determine its origin. It certainly wasn’t coming from the doorway because this month of October was unusually warm. I looked around and noticed an enormous oscillating fan above our table. Saul seemed pleasant, but still his hair looked funky and I wasn’t sure what it was.

  I ordered eggs Benedict, and Saul ordered bagels with lox. When our dishes arrived, he looked as if he was sweating from nerves. I told him not to be nervous, and he told me that he had an anxiety disorder and felt nervous in new situations. At that moment I looked down at my eggs Benedict and saw that it was covered with black pepper. I even blurted out, “I didn’t put any pepper on the eggs. What the hell is this?” I then looked up, and he excused himself, saying he had to go to the men’s room. As he nervously stood, I could see his hair flaking off into my eggs Benedict! His so-called hair was actually spray paint! I thought those infomercials in the early hours were a hoax! I never thought in a million years that people actually used those products! I honestly could not eat my brunch after seeing his sweaty fake hair flake onto my eggs. What a waste!

  He must have had a little can of touch-up spray-on hair because when he returned from the restroom his head looked back together (whatever that might be). I played with my eggs while he was gone so at least it looked like I had eaten some. I felt really sorry for Saul. He was a nice and accomplished guy, but this “wig in a can” was a real turnoff. I just wanted to go home. I offered to pay, but he wouldn’t allow it. I thanked him and hailed a cab home. He wrote me a few more times and I just kept answering that I was busy. I hope he reads this someday and decides to shave his head instead of wearing that awful spray! Anything is better than that aerosol nonsense.

  If I spent less time daydreaming about possibilities during our first phone conversation and more time studying his recent photograph, I would have determined a touch-up job had been done. Altering photos with a computer is a ploy in Intern
et dating deception.

  6

  Always Plan Your First Meeting to Be Forty-five Minutes or Less

  December 1998

  Less than two months later, another physician responded to my profile. This was Angelo, a five foot eleven inch behavioral psychiatrist who resided in the East Village. He sent a photo. The photo was far more definitive than any I had received to that point. By “definitive” I mean that it was clear, like an old Polaroid, except the date and time appeared in the bottom right-hand corner. Although the image portrayed him as balding, he didn’t attempt to hide it in any way—no spray-on hair. Learning from my mistake of looking but not seeing the image in the photograph, I studied this one carefully. With time and date as a great help, I stopped wondering when the picture was taken and focused on the particulars.

  Unlike the others, which were obviously taken twenty or thirty feet away from the subject, this was a close-up, taken from eight or, at most, ten feet away. Seated on a group of rocks, Angelo was waving to the camera. He was flanked by enormous oak tree trunks (definitely a rural area). I thought he looked rather cute in his denim jacket and black boots. However upon closer analysis, I noticed in the bottom left-hand corner of the photograph what appeared to be the curve of a motorcycle’s rear fender, red light, and New York license plate. Was he into motorcycles? Nonetheless, he looked in good physical condition despite his hair loss, and his smile was inviting. I thought that there was something different about the watch on his left hand. With my knowledge of computer photo imaging (thanks to my friend Greg, whom I mentioned in the preface), I zoomed in to Angelo’s left arm, but it still appeared unclear. If only I knew then what I know now regarding computer imaging.