Internet Dates From Hell Part 2

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 a.n.a.lysis, 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.

After responding with a detailed profile, I sensed sincerity on his part and therefore concluded that we had a lot in common, so I took his number and gave him a call. We had a great phone conversation, in which we discussed his love of opera, ballroom dancing, travel, scuba, and exotic cuisine. He also talked about the yearly renaissance fairs in which he actively partic.i.p.ated. "Hmmm," I thought, "he's an intellectual and an M.D., and a lover of the arts and medicine. Adding to my intrigue, he mentioned that he treats his women well (although I didn't know if I liked the plural form "women"). He stated that he loved to pamper his lady. It sounded too good to be true. I asked him how he pampered his lady, and he responded that he liked to give ma.s.sages, brush her hair, do her housework, etc. This time, Old Man Reason was knocking on the doors of my perception. Knocking may be an understatement; he was downright banging this time. If only I had invited him in.

We planned to meet at the famous Russian Tea Room in Midtown Manhattan. Although I thought I would be the early one, he arrived first. When I asked him how long he had been waiting, he demurely responded, "Twenty minutes, not long at all, my queen." I didn't know which was more bizarre-the way he responded or the way he was dressed. Covered in leather from head to toe, he painted more a picture of a motorcycle club member than a behavioral psychiatrist. Jacket, pants, boots, and even a leather s.h.i.+rt was a bit over the top! I wondered whether his socks were made of leather, too, and where was that silly Village People hat that would complete this look? I didn't need to look for the Harley; I knew it was outside somewhere. Or was it?

It didn't take long for me to confirm that Angelo was indeed an M.D. because I was a nurse before becoming a teacher and I knew medical terminology. We discussed psychiatry and different medications for disorders. We compared notes regarding great sites for wreck and reef diving. We even discussed the best places for Turkish cuisine. He also confided in me concerning his previous girlfriend, who had a borderline personality disorder. After a while, I decided to ask him why he was dressed in full leather garb. He responded, "I'm going to a ball."

"Don't you need to wear a tuxedo to a ball?" I asked.

"No, I am going to a 'black and blue ball' downtown later."

I asked him what a black and blue ball was. He told me that it was a fetish party for people who liked to be told what to do. I asked him where in my profile it remotely indicated that I might be interested in that sort of activity. His response was that since I was a teacher he thought that I would be great at disciplining him! Hence, the leather wardrobe! I then proceeded to ask him what motivated him to be subservient or dominated by the objects of his affection. I discovered, during over an hour of painstaking digging, that his mother was overly domineering. Consequently, in his frantic search for a match, he only looked for women in authority, be it anyone from kindergarten teachers to CEOs of major corporations.

His good old mom was anything but a woman of real authority; her idea of discipline was sensory deprivation. For something as menial as breaking a gla.s.s or tracking dirt into the house, Angelo and his sister were locked in a dark closet for minutes on end. For something more heinous, like failing an arithmetic exam or wetting the bed, the tub water would be drawn with exceedingly hot water and the children would be forced to sit in it for inordinate amounts of time. G.o.d forbid they broke her cardinal rule, which was talking back to any adult or challenging an adult's authority in any way. Angelo's mother would march them down to the bas.e.m.e.nt where two three-foot speakers and a lone chair sat. Once seated, operas from Verdi and a.s.sorted other famous conductors were played at unhealthy levels of volume. This could go on for hours, depending on good old mom's demeanor. To this day, I think about Angelo and the extremely appropriate occupation he has chosen, and I hope that by helping others, he may find a way to help himself. It was at this point that he decided to don a pair of sungla.s.ses, which solved the mystery concerning what I thought was a watch on his left wrist. The letters "S.M.S.O.A." were clearly visible on the stainless steel bracelet on his left wrist. What made matters worse was that beneath the bracelet the same letters were tattooed across the inside of his wrist. He noticed me staring at both bracelet and tattoo, and offered the meaning of the acronym. He explained that the letters stand for the Sadom.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.t Society of America.

After all of that, it is hard to believe that he asked me if I would like to accompany him to the S&M party that night. I never even addressed his question nor offered an answer. I politely excused myself to the ladies' room to plan an escape. No sooner was I in one of the stalls than I instinctively looked at the ladies' room window, which was too small for me to escape through. The most mature and humane thing to do was to be honest and tell him that he had made an error. I was not m.a.s.o.c.h.i.s.tic, s.a.d.i.s.tic, or any other "-istic" he was looking for. Much to my surprise, after all this delaying, when I returned to the table, Angelo had vanished!

I received a strange voice mail that went as follows: "Hi, Trisha. Sorry I had to run, but if you change your mind and would like to have your place cleaned, give me a call."

Although for a second I actually thought my place certainly needed a good cleaning, my common sense quickly resurfaced. I decided to do it myself, thank you very much.

Here is a suggestion: Tell your Internet date that the first encounter can only be forty-five minutes long, due to a previous appointment that you had forgotten. It could be a handy way to escape this type of date from h.e.l.l. On the other hand, if the date goes positively, this will entice the person to call for another date at another time in the near future where more time can be spent.

I had met a few people in between the dates up to this point who were either not what they portrayed themselves to be or not interesting enough to read and write about. The whole process was just fascinating. Each and every person opens up a new world to explore. Dating a myriad of men is like a smorgasbord. It was extremely entertaining, and it made for a much more interesting life than a grade school teacher would normally be exposed to. When would this searching end? Would I ever find contentment with a "normal man?" Since I had encountered a majority of unique individuals, would I be bored with a "regular guy?" I was always drawn to exotic men, either exotic-looking or from another culture. Although I have dated American men, it is the exotic men who intrigue me. When I am out with a man from another country, I feel like I am away in that country. In my teaching career I have three months of vacation every summer, and I have used this opportunity to travel extensively around the globe. I have more pa.s.sport stamps than a seasoned diplomat. There is nothing I enjoy more than seeing the world. I am simply seeking an intelligent man with whom I can travel, learn from, be inspired by, and inspire. Why is it so difficult?

7.

If He Still Lives at Home with His Parents, Don't Bother.

January 1999.

As I mentioned before, deception comes in many shapes and sizes. It's important to note at this junction that a person may not be purposefully deceptive if he is indeed deluded by grandeur. Obviously, each person has a different sense of the reality that surrounds him or her. Homes (like shapes and sizes) can be viewed differently by different people.

Todd's e-mail seemed humble. Although he mentioned that he worked at a local power plant as a "troubleshooter," his schedule was flexible. As a thirty-five-year-old, he claimed to own two homes, rent an apartment, enjoy hunting and fis.h.i.+ng in the Poconos, and restore old Broncos from the eighties. He also noted that he found me very attractive and thought I resembled a young Catherine Deneuve. Periodically I would get compared to Stevie Nicks from Fleetwood Mac or the French actress Emanuelle Beart. Both, I took as a compliment.

At first blush, Todd seemed as rugged and outdoorsy as any of the previous candidates. Deception, however, loomed largely, later on in our brief relations.h.i.+p. Todd looked very attractive in the photo he attached to the e-mail. He looked like a darker version of the Marlboro man, without the mustache.

The first phone call went well. Because of the first, we spoke a few times the next day. The only thing that bothered me throughout the duration of these four phone calls was his insistence on talking about his mother. I don't know why it bothered me, but it did. In my home we were brought up to respect our mother. Very infrequently, if at all, have I ever heard one of my brothers speak badly about our mother. As a matter of fact, when the matriarchal topic arises in conversation, my brothers are quite positive with their a.s.sessment about our mother. So why would this bother me? I finally decided to meet Todd at the Tick Tock Diner on 34th that I used to frequent (by the way, it makes the best Greek salads).

After two dates, I was mildly intrigued. The third date, however, did not go as well. We found ourselves en route to Home Depot. As an avid apartment dweller for the past two years, I rarely found myself at home centers. My shopping haunts were more on the department store level, so this kind of store, too, was new to me. Before I knew it, we were in the window dressing section, in an aisle full of vertical, Venetian, and even beautiful mahogany wooden blinds. Instead of consulting me on fabric or color or window treatments in general, Todd excused himself politely and phoned his mother. Although he was a good eight to ten feet away from me, I could hear every word he spoke. Occasionally, he glanced in my direction to see if I was listening. During those instances I pretended to fidget with the bolts of vertical blind fabric. His words included, "But, Ma, the dimensions of a window is height and width. Just measure the width of the sill and the length of one of the sides of the window. Come on, it's not that difficult. Call me back!" "Isn't that nice," I thought. "His mother is helping him redecorate his apartment." I wished we were all that lucky. He returned somewhat red-faced, apologizing politely. I said nothing. We exchanged smiles and browsed through the variety of blinds available. Less than five minutes later, his cell phone rang again. "Ma, again, just measure the width and the length! It doesn't have to be perfect, just give me a rough idea of the opening."

He looked over at me with head tilted to one side and smiled wryly. Ironically, an announcement over the PA system reported that a little lost boy had been found and was eagerly awaiting his mother at the courtesy desk. I couldn't help but make the a.s.sociation regarding Todd. Nevertheless, I mentally plodded onward, trying to stay positive.

A week after the "Home Depot incident," I found myself in a late-eighties semi-restored Bronco on the way to the Poconos. Todd alerted me that he had a lunch planned at his country home. He talked so much about this home that he led me to believe this was a quaint, warm, vacation getaway. Just then his mother called for the third time, and we hadn't gone ten miles. "Yes, Mother, no need to remind me who owns the home. I know you and Dad purchased the home before I was born. You don't have to remind me."

Todd admitted at that point that he didn't own the home; it was his parents'. Alright, a little white lie wasn't going to interfere with this date. However, with a hundred miles to go, I estimated that his mother would call at least six more times. She actually called seven!

We finally pulled into a small rural town, one and half hours from New York City. What bothered me was the rusted sign attached to an even more rusted pole adjacent to the dirt road where we turned left. What confused me even more were the twenty or more rusted mailboxes under the Etonia town limits sign. As we pulled up the driveway of the development, I saw structures behind a group of trees. It looked as though someone was shooting a movie there.

I asked Todd, "Is there a doc.u.mentary being filmed here?"

He responded, "What do you mean?"

"What's with all the trailers?"

"Those aren't trailers. Those are country homes."

For the next ten minutes I observed the most bizarre campground I have ever witnessed-not that I am a great camper or anything. These were not quaint homes! They were trailers, d.a.m.n it! No matter how hard some of the families tried to decorate the outside of these "homes," the decorations still appeared contrived to me. My jaw ached. I must have had my mouth agape for ten minutes. When I finally mustered enough nerve to look at Todd, he was red-faced and appeared irked. His silence was deafening. At that moment, I felt that the appropriate thing to do was to apologize for my astonishment. No sooner could I mouth the words, then I was completely overwhelmed by not one, not two, but six enormous plastic pink flamingoes posed to drink from some nonexistent oasis in front of a metallic-type home. These trailers looked more like s.p.a.ces.h.i.+ps than did the rectangular-type box homes that we had pa.s.sed over a quarter of a mile before. My consternation increased dramatically from this point onward. What would be beyond these otherworldly looking homes?

After what seemed like forever, we finally approached Todd's "vacation home." There were no flamingoes here, but just used car parts strewn everywhere, including tires painted white, with enormous weeds growing out of the middle.

Wildlife seemed to be hopping from one truck part to the next, and I hoped it was only squirrels. My jaw began to ache in conjunction with the migraine I was developing. As if in a dream, Todd appeared at the front door of the trailer. I didn't even recall him turning the engine off, leaving the vehicle, and walking the fifty or so feet through the waist-high gra.s.s (d.a.m.n daydreaming again!). The gra.s.s looked as though it hadn't been cut since the previous fall. When I saw him gesticulating to me to get out of the car and come into the house, I wanted to run (in the opposite direction). G.o.d knows what was in that thing! All I could imagine was a variety of fis.h.i.+ng rods and reels, hunting equipment, old newspapers, dirty dishes, and a television that dated back to the fifties. What I encountered next was far worse (if you can believe it).

Dodging at least a dozen of what appeared to be Sunday newspapers (yellowed from the sun and elements) and two extremely large transmission yokes, I finally made it to the front door. Todd was busy straightening up as I walked into the kitchen. I was right! There were dirty dishes, old newspapers, and open tackle boxes, and shotgun sh.e.l.ls graced the kitchen table. As if things weren't bad enough, then I noticed, above the sink, a cat's hatch built into the kitchen window. In the corner of the kitchen were two litter boxes filled beyond comprehension. The stench was overwhelming to the point that I quietly gagged. It was incomprehensible why Todd didn't go right to the litter boxes first, rather than removing the empty beer bottles on what appeared to be an old lineman's spool. Doing the best I could to not look at the litter box, I proceeded down the hallway and found a trailer full of mango and avocado-colored leather furniture (definitely sixties), stuffed animals (and I don't mean teddy bears), and that fifties television avec rabbit ears. I went to inquire about the squirrel and racc.o.o.n on smaller spool end tables, but Todd was nowhere to be found. It was at that moment I saw on the wall a certificate of completion from the Jarrett Taxidermy School of Greater New York. Great, another Norman Bates, right out of the movie Psycho.

"Trish, I'll be out in a minute. I am having trouble finding the plunger. If these toilets aren't flushed at least once a week up here in the winter, the line freezes." That was it. I was having trouble breathing, my throat began to close, and hives appeared all over my hands and arms. I had forgotten to remember in all of the confusion that I am highly allergic to cats. I decided to make a dash for the door. To h.e.l.l with Norman's plunger and his psycho madness! I was out of there! I made it in seconds to the car, despite the auto parts obstacle course. I was proud of my speed and agility.

I realized my anger and disappointment could not win, for my allergies had beaten them to it. Todd must have heard the door slam, because he was behind me yelling, "What's the matter?"

"Antihistamine," I replied, "I need an antihistamine immediately!"

"You mean aspirin," he responded.

"No, I need an antihistamine." Just then I realized that I keep a variety of remedies for headaches and such in a small vial in my purse.

"Your face looks really swollen. Should we go to a hospital?" Todd inquired.

"No, this antihistamine works instantly and will kick in soon. I'd prefer that we head back to the city."

The hour and a half drive to the George Was.h.i.+ngton Bridge was in utter silence. Blame it on his embarra.s.sment or on a combination of my anger and my allergies, but neither of us talked. Just as we approached the tollbooth, the silence was broken by yet another phone call from his mother. My mind was made up. I fixated on the long line of cars in the cash lanes as we breezed through the easy-pa.s.s lane. In fifteen minutes I would be home.

We crossed the bridge and headed onto the Henry Hudson. The fast journey home came to an abrupt end as the Parkway was completely traffic laden. It was then that Todd began his string of apologies. It was comforting to know that he had some modic.u.m of conscience. He told me that his involvement with Internet dating was his mother's plan, and he had never intended to engage in it. He said that since his father died, he had been extremely shy around females. Since he was an only child and his mother was husbandless, she was reluctant to let him go. When I asked him when his father pa.s.sed, he astounded me with the answer: "when I was sixteen years old."

He proceeded to tell me that for the last nineteen years he had lived in the bas.e.m.e.nt of his mother's home. He worked as a computer tech, specializing in troubleshooting for the power plant. Since his mother feared lifelong loneliness, she agreed to help him find a marriage partner quickly, so they could all be one happy family. Apparently her dream was to have Todd and his family live in the upstairs of the home, while she took the bas.e.m.e.nt apartment. It struck me then that that was why she was so involved in the redecoration of the bas.e.m.e.nt.

Although sorrow was my first emotion for him, and for his mother too, common sense was in the forefront of my thinking. Before we knew it, we were in front of my apartment building. I prayed that he wouldn't ask me for another date. My prayers were answered. He apologized one more time, and mentioned that if I was ever in the Poconos, I should look him up. His strange laugh made me feel uneasy because I wasn't sure if it was sarcastic or sincere. At least I was home, I was safe, and I could breathe again!

8.

If You Can't Stand His Voice on the Phone, It Only Gets Worse in Person.

April 1999.

Obviously the experience in chapter 4 with David from Australia wasn't enough. I needed another dance with accents. Subsequent to my experience with Todd, I removed my profile for a few months. Time off from these experiences was what the doctor ordered. That year's spring was cold and rainy, which allowed me the opportunity to catch up on my reading and educational research. I couldn't remember the last time I curled up with a good novel, or laughed at some educational reformer's diatribe regarding the preschooler's academic disposition. There were two inches of acc.u.mulated dust on my portable rowing machine. So after a couple of months of exercising (I lost ten pounds) and literary pursuit, I felt mentally and physically strong enough to reenter the restricted waters of singles bars and clubs. After two weeks of that nonsense, my fingers again found their way back to the world of the Internet.

There were a couple of definite no's, including one in which a woman requested that I write to her incarcerated brother as a pen pal. Then a neurosurgeon from India who was currently residing in an affluent town in Connecticut answered my ad. He stated that he was 6', thirty-three years old, and the head neurosurgeon of a prestigious university hospital in the metropolitan area. Although Rishy stated he was thirty-three, his photograph indicated a much older man. I chose to overlook the possible age factor, due to his deep sense of spirituality with the written word. I really liked the fact that Rishy responded in conjunction with my interests.

When we finally spoke on the phone, his thick foreign accent made me think of my friend Akbar, the manager of a local Indian cuisine restaurant from which I frequently order takeout. The accent was so familiar that I almost interrupted Rishy with, "Light on the curry, please." Although I was not overwhelmed by his accent at first, it became quickly clear to me that telephone small talk can be totally different from prolonged face-to-face conversations. I thought I could overlook the unpleasant voice, so I decided to give it a go.

To no one's surprise, Rishy appeared in front of my apartment in a brand new Mercedes SL and, wouldn't you know it, it was my favorite color, black on black (although I've been told that black is not a color, but the absence of all color). Wearing a leisure suit with a polo s.h.i.+rt (as if the leisure suit wasn't bad enough), I realized that this man was old enough to be my father. The only thing missing was my father's Old Spice aftershave with the little sailboat on the bottle, although I wished he had some cologne on because he smelled like mothb.a.l.l.s. He asked me where I'd like to go.

I responded, "To Akbar's, of course."

He responded, "Is it Indian? It doesn't have to be, you know."

"I love their Indian food, plus Akbar is a friend of mine." I replied.

No sooner did we sit at an available table, Akbar greeted us and asked if there was anything he could get us from the bar while we waited for our waiter. Without warning, Rishy ordered for the two of us, never asking me what I wanted. Realizing that many foreign men were like this (especially older ones like Rishy), I accepted his traditional gesture. By the time Akbar returned with our drinks, Rishy had told me that he recognized something in Akbar's intonation.

"I am willing to wager he is from New Delhi."

"Why do you say that?" I inquired.

"His inflection is of New Delhi."

Serving us our drinks, Akbar asked Rishy if he was from northern or southern New Delhi. When Rishy responded northern, Akbar promptly sat down at our table. He snapped his fingers twice and our waiter appeared at our table. Akbar ordered the same drink as we were drinking and went as far as ordering our meals. I quietly acquiesced. I thought to myself, "The drink is one thing, but the entree also?" Well, Akbar knew me, so I wasn't apprehensive.

The men downed their drinks in some odd measure of bravado; I was neither impressed nor interested in it. They then promptly ordered more drinks, both by snapping their fingers. Until that point I hadn't touched mine, so I thought it might be due time that I did. I raised the gla.s.s to my lips, smelling it before I tasted it. It was the most awful stench from a liquid I have ever experienced, save the time I inadvertently mistook my uncle's gla.s.s of scotch for an orange soda. Taking the slightest of sips, I immediately put my gla.s.s down, because this was the most potent drink I had ever tasted. All the while the men talked in their native language, which seemed to thicken with every sentence they spoke. By the meal's end, Rishy was so drunk that his speech was incomprehensible. Between the accent and idiomatic traditional expressions, which he now was insistent upon using, I was befuddled. When I interjected at times for clarification purposes, he became angry. I pleaded with him, "No offense, but I have no idea what you are saying." At this time Rishy became irate. The last thing I remember before leaving the restaurant was Akbar calming Rishy down by imploring him loudly to lower his voice. After walking several blocks and pa.s.sing some belligerent homeless drunk, I decided to choose safety and hailed a taxi (if you can believe there is refuge in a New York City cab). I told the driver, who was coincidentally also of Indian descent, to take me to 34th Street and 9th.

He said, "You are on the 34th Street and 7th Avenue."

"I know, I'm just not in the mood for dealing with anymore drunks tonight. Maybe you can answer a few questions for me if you don't mind."

He quickly replied, "Certainly, Miss," so I asked him: "Are you from New Delhi, and if so, from which part, north or south?"

"The south, of course. I drive a cab," He responded.

He proceeded to tell me that those from the north are traditionally affluent. He said he was glad to be from the south, where equality between the s.e.xes reigned. If it wasn't for the poverty level, southern New Delhi would be a beautiful place to live. He finished by saying that in a little over a year he would have enough money so that his family could move to New York. Although he had an accent, not once did I have trouble understanding this man. He spoke the proper English to which I had grown accustomed. After paying him, we said our goodbyes and my spirit was lifted. Little did I think that a southern New Delhi cabbie would raise my spiritual awareness more than Rishy originally intended to. In the elevator of my apartment building, I realized this was the most intelligent conversation I had had in some time. If only Rishy had been half as eloquent as my cabbie friend, then who knows how different that date would have been. It's funny to think of the nerve of that neurosurgeon!

9.

Watch Out for Pathological Liars.

May 1999.

Thirty-year-old Rob contacted me next. He mentioned in his e-mail that he was a Hawaiian-born investment banker. Although his piercing black eyes were quite attractive, there was something deep in those eyes that bothered me. It wasn't until the conversation on the phone that I realized what it was. It began as small talk and chitchat until the topic of birth arose. When he asked me where I was born, I told him in Mineola, New York. He responded with a cute, "If there is a Mini-ola, is there a Maxi-ola?" When it was my turn to question his location of birth, I realized what was in those eyes. As I previously mentioned, deceit can come in any form or fas.h.i.+on. This time it was in his answer. His answer was, "I was born on the island of Kona." I responded, "I beg your pardon-the island of Kona?" "Yes," he answered curtly. It was at this point that I either told him of my recent trip to Hawaii or was about to tell him. No matter which, Rob quickly changed the subject. He wanted to meet me next Thursday evening, since Friday he had to attend a banking conference at the Jacob Javits Center. He suggested that we meet for coffee at a local coffeehouse close to my apartment.

No sooner were we served then I realized his attractiveness superseded his photograph. If nothing else, he was a fine piece of eye candy. Even the way he dressed was impeccable. His designer s.h.i.+rt brilliantly matched his pants and leather loafers. He must have been an athlete because of his muscular physique. I couldn't help but daydream.

Sometimes when something bothers me, I have little control over how it manifests itself. Since this was one of those times, I point-blank asked the question again.

"Where did you say you were born?"

"The island of Kona. I thought we discussed this over the phone."

I inappropriately laughed, to which he reacted: "What's so funny?"

"I'll beg your pardon again, Rob, but I've been to Hawaii several times. Kona is a city on the island of Hawaii."

At that point, Rob's sharp eyes grew dull. He said he had a confession to make. He looked embarra.s.sed. He confessed that he was actually Filipino. Before he could say anything else, I asked him if there were any more confessions. He said, "As a matter of fact, there are. I am not an investment banker; I am a teller-in-training. I am taking a couple of undergrad finance courses at NYU. They happen to be both on Friday nights." He looked at my face for my response and I gave it to him, more in words than in countenance. I said to him, "I don't like to be fibbed to, lied to, or betrayed in any way. It is late. I must be going, good night."

Although I myself never played much baseball, my two older brothers sacrificed a set of knees each to that sport. The principle they always talked about was three strikes and you're out. I knew there were more strikes in Rob's repertoire, but I wasn't going to give him more than three.

10.

If Your Date Obsesses over a Body Part, Chances Are He Has a Fetish.

June 1999.

After the last incident I decided to take another hiatus from Internet dating. For what amounted to only three and a half weeks, my respite was well deserved. As any elementary school teacher knows, the last month of the school year can drag on unmercifully. Between final a.s.sessments (academic and deportment) and every imaginable fund-raiser and year-end party with my colleagues, the last three weeks can feel like months. What seems to compound matters most is the heat. Long Island summers come fast and furious, once the calendar reads June. Those cool, wet May afternoons quickly acquiesce to unbearable humid June mornings where kids seem to melt as fast as jumbo crayons errantly left on a windowsill.

Nothing is more satisfying than handing the final report card to the last kindergartener and subsequently watching her hand the report card to her all-embracing, patient mother. Marked by the little departure tears from most of my students (unlike the separation-anxiety tears for their parents that they displayed in the beginning of the year), June 25 is a noteworthy day for all elementary school teachers. It is on that day that we, like the kids, have mixed emotions. Part of us craves the idea of a ten-week summer vacation, but the other part spells "emptiness," as we pack the last box of chalk away in our closets. The last thing I needed were mixed emotions regarding my social life, too.

Normally the drive to Manhattan from the middle of Long Island during off-peak hours takes approximately sixty minutes, but before I knew it, I was in the elevator to my apartment. How did that happen? I have heard drunks talk about automatic pilot, and I've also read about road hypnosis while driving, but this was something entirely different. My mixed emotions practically erased the entire drive home. Maybe this phenomenon prompted me to revisit my old habit of Internet dating. Let's face it: watching those young mothers near or about my age jubilantly jumping in the schoolyard alongside their children threw my maternal instincts into an emotional tailspin. The older I was getting, the more intense this feeling was growing. I really felt it was time that I had a little jumping bean of my own.