D e s e r t E x p o s u r e
February 2010
Looking for Love in All the Wrong Pages
One woman's adventures seeking romance through the classifieds.
By Gaye Rock
Valentine's Day is always a time to reflect upon relationships, past and present: how we got to where we are now. I am no exception to that rule, and have had some lively and unusual dating experiences in the past.
I was divorced and newly single after 10 years of marriage, out of practice with dating and hungry for companionship. After two years of healing and seclusion, it seemed that I would have to look "outside the box" in order to find a date. Our hometown newspaper had just begun to run a "Looking for Love" section, so, on the advice of friends, I decided to give it a try.
The dating pages advertised "Available" and "Seeking" sections (nothing like starting with the basics), separated into male and female categories. A typical ad read, "SWM, 35, slim, likes long romantic walks on the beach, seeks SWF with job." I began to see that reading between the lines was as important as what was actually stated in the ads. What was really being said in this ad was, "I have no money, I don't like to spend the money that I do have, I want you to support me, and I'm skinny because I have no money to eat." A woman's ad might read, "DWF, 30, husky, likes nights at home and family time, seeks professional SWM, trim and classy." Translation: fat, lazy, cheap, wants a movie-star meal ticket. You see how these things go: You gotta read between the lines.
I boldly answered my first ad: a male nurse named Guy. He said he was a weightlifter, and because of his health education he never drank or used drugs. He sounded really intelligent over the phone, said he had pulled a muscle in his back and so he was on worker's comp. We had maybe half a dozen phone conversations before I agreed to meet him. We knew some people in common, and I decided I could safely go to his apartment. As soon as I got there, though, I realized my mistake. The guy was a carrot-topped 98-pound weakling. His first words were, "Joint? Shot of Jack Daniels?" He had ordered a pizza, so I had no choice but to stay and eat a slice. But the nail in the coffin was his vision of the future: He wanted to move to the wild hills of North Carolina and raise three kids hillbilly-style. At that point, mid-slice, I stood up, said we very obviously had little in common, and sprinted for the door.
I decided that I would "practice" dating on the sorry individuals from the newspaper so that I would know how to behave when Mr. Right reared his handsome head. I was quite fortunate for a very long time, too. I congratulated myself on my safety acumen, meeting the men only at public places and driving there myself. I did bend the rules if someone I knew actually knew the person.
One such character was Mike, who was an acquaintance of my workmate. Since safety wasn't an issue, I had him pick me up at my apartment. He sounded fairly intelligent on the phone, and had a keen interest in music, which seemed like a plus at the time. When he arrived at my house, he looked through my CD collection. One selection caught his eye: the Brandenburg Concertos by Bach, conducted by Leonard Bernstein. He had spent long phone conversations confessing his love for classical music, so I was unsurprised when he selected this particular CD. He then turned to me and said excitedly, "I love the way Brandenburg does Bach!" Oh, this was going to be a long night. I generously gave him points, though, for trying to impress.
The date went from bad to worse as he announced we were going to a Thai restaurant. I had explained over the phone in great detail my distaste for Oriental food, but he insisted; I was trying to be polite, so we went anyway. So there we were, me with my bowl of fried rice ("Aren't you going to order anything else?") and him with his five plates of unidentifiable-God-knows-what. He droned on and on about himself as I forced the grains of rice down my throat. I heard all about his job, his boss, his workmates you get the picture.
Finally, mercifully, the meal came to an end — or so I thought. He insisted I try the lychee nuts for dessert. I politely said I was full, no thank you. He again said, "No, you HAVE to try the lychee nuts!" "No thank you, I don't care for them," said I. At that point, he pounded on the table, summoned the waiter, and said, "She wants to try the lychee nuts." I saw no escape from this restaurant nightmare, and the waiter brought the offensive items.
Have you ever SEEN a lychee nut? They're gooey white versions of soft acorn-looking things, sweeter than your Grandma Betty and sitting in about four inches of sloppy white goop. Mike was practically salivating at this point in anticipation of what I would do with them. He enthusiastically cried, "Taste it, taste it!" Gingerly, I picked one up with a fork. The goop dripped from the fork, and I was reminded of the eyeball display at Halloween — you know, the one where you have to feel items while blindfolded. I nibbled the outer edge, and almost spat it across the table at him, it was so awful. "Aren't they great?" he asked cheerfully. "No, I really don't care for them," I said as I choked one down. He replied, "I can't believe you ordered them if you weren't going to eat them. Now I have to pay for that!"
The night got longer. My only hope was that he would call it a night. Between his controlling behavior and his deadly boring repartee, I certainly was ready to go home. Alas, it was not to be. There was a band he wanted to go see, and I was his captive (as if you could argue with this guy!), so we went to the club where they were playing. He made a beeline for the only table where you couldn't see the band, so THAT was a lie, and once again monopolized the conversation, this time with a blow-by-blow description of how his wife died of cancer. Mind you, this was our first meeting! This was shouted over top of a screaming rock band.
Finally, I got him up and out of there, but the Bad Date of the Year didn't end there. When we got to my apartment, he asked if he could use the bathroom. Well, what can you say — no? This gained him entry to my place. By this time it was 12:30 a.m., and I had to work the next day. He came out of the bathroom and said, "Pop one of your Star Trek movies in and let's watch it." I was pretty much fed up at this point, so I physically shoved him at the door, and that was that. He even had the nerve to try to sucker his face to mine. He is still referred to in my family as "Lychee Nuts."