As revealed in a previous post, Christian and Ellen recently went on a third date. Already vague and unsettling hints have been given, Reader, that what passed that fateful night was not the giddy stuff of romantic comedy endings. But the time has come to give a full airing to the unhappy lot of all who participated in said date. Those of you with small children may wish to have them leave the room, for what follows is a macabre tale of online dating gone awry.
Christian was already bracing himself for the presents before the date. A few days prior Ellen, hearing tell of Christian’s newly spruced up bachelor pad, had babbled excitedly that she couldn’t wait to give him a housewarming gift. Under the best of circumstances, Christian doesn’t really like presents and especially not from a woman he’s just started dating and who already pushed his limits giving him chocolates on their first date.
But some liberty, Reader, to explore Christian’s soft spot for late bloomers: These are women who didn’t get much in the way of male attention in high school or even college, and consequently haven’t had their hearts hardened in the crucible of modern dating. While their more vivacious counterparts were out having their hearts broken for the first time by teenage Lotharios, our Late Bloomers were sitting at home on Saturday nights, wondering what it would be like to kiss a boy.
Ellen was decidedly of the latter camp. In their twenties, these doe-eyed creatures finally grow comfortable enough in their own skin to jump into the dating pool, though they spend most of their twenties playing catch-up. For that reason, Christian harbors a tendency to forgive any rookie mistakes a Late Bloomer might make.
It was in this same spirit that he put on a brave face and accepted Ellen’s proffered gifts – a book he had talked excitedly about on their first date and some scented candles.
As the date progressed, Christian began to feel more and more stifled by Ellen’s mental picture of him as a famous journalist, which no sober dose of realism about his actual meager place in the media landscape could disabuse. The worst part was how Ellen very obviously had sky high expectations for this date and equally obviously got upset when things went began to unravel. Perhaps she even had entertained hopes based on the supposed added significance, in some pop cultural circles, of the third date. Of her fevered imaginings, no more must be said on a family blog such as this one.
Christian, having recently recovered from swine flu, wasn’t in his usual boisterous spirits and had trouble thinking of discussion topics and the conversation began to falter. Try as he might, his foggy mental state noticeably diminished his usually quick wit. Then the kiss of death: Ellen started apologizing for boring him! Not just once, but several different times! This was the last straw. Christian values self-confidence in a woman, and while he could overlook many of the insecurities Late Bloomers hold, this was simply too egregious. He couldn’t wait to end this date, beat a hasty retreat on the 6 train, and drown his sorrows in a bottle of Nyquil.
Waking to the smell of scented candles wafting in his room, the grisly events of the previous night seemed as a dream upon waking. But this was no dream and Christian knew what had to be done.
Christian is nothing if not a consummate gentleman, and knew exactly how to handle this delicate situation with tact and grace. There was a way, his good breeding told him, to say all that need be said while still sparing everyone’s emotions as much as possible.
Unfortunately, no matter how pitiful his begging and pleading, Marissa de Bergerac refused to write a break-up email for him. Thus a heavy task fell to our hero’s shoulders, one he loathes to perform even more than getting dumped himself.
For dumping a girl, especially one who is stuck on him, reminds Christian of squishing a bug. It makes him feel dirty and queasy and cruel and leaves a greasy residue on his hands. But he had motive and opportunity…now to select the means.
A bolt to the forehead is always popular with the ladies.
A succinct and firm message is best, Christian thinks, with no room for equivocation or dithering. So Reader, he composed just such an email to Ellen and with the ritual deletion of her phone number accomplished, our blogging about Match girls has reached an end.
This shall be Christian’s final entry. “Love is a battlefield,” intoned one of the great philosophers of the twentieth century. For lo these many years our hero has battled on the fields of the heart through the drama, the melodrama, and all that lies between, the words of that illuminato still echo with truth. Christian can think of no more fitting coda to this blog.
Everybody gets got once in a while, even your humble chronicler. Dr. K got him. Christian emailed her two days after they went out and she gave zilch back. Not even a peep. Just brushed our hero off like an unwanted flake of dandruff.
Some of the young ones who read this blog got all wide eyed when they read about Dr. K’s hard-hearted ways and whispered “Dang K, that was cold, ice cold.” But the old hands – the ones that have played this game for a while and know what time it is – just clucked their tongues and said “You shoulda watched your six, Christian, you shoulda watched your six.”
How did it come to this? Marissa de Bergerac in love with Ellen, Ellen longing for Christian, Christian pining away for Dr. K, all embroiled in a passionate internet love quadrilateral. (Um, it’s not a quadrilateral since Dr. K doesn’t even like me. A series of disjointed lines is the metaphor I prefer.)
Ellen is coming on far too strong for Christian’s taste (more to follow on their third date in a subsequent post). What kind of sick prankster wired us this way? he wants to know. Ellen has done nothing except signal her unwavering interest in him yet Christian finds himself weirded out by her overtures. The more someone shows they like us, the more repulsed by them we are, he thinks. And other girls respond best when you show no interest in them at all.
Plus Dr. K is probably typing away on her own confessional blog right now that Christian seemed like a cool guy….too bad he came on so strong.
Let’s say you meet a bird out at a wine bar. You have a few laughs, you imbibe a few beverages, you eat a few gourmet chocolates. You think you might like to get to know this Ellen broad a bit.
Your co-blogger, on the other hand, is in love with Ellen. Loves her to death. Read her post about the first date if you don’t believe me.
Anyways, for the last week I have been fending off de Bergerac’s constant prying into my interactions with Ellen. De Bergerac clammors unceasingly for forwards of emails and recaps of our phone conversations. ”She’s so amazing!” MdB pants. “I loooovve her!”
So, time to take out Ellen on Date Number Deux, this time without de Bergerac tagging along. We hit another wine bar, and get cozy in a corner seat while I try not too think about Dr. K too much.
We talk, we drink wine and. I have to admit Ellen’s unabashed interest in me, which I found so charming on our first date, feels a little unsettling this time around. Funny how the mind works…someone gives loud and clear signals that she’s into me and instead of being flattered and happy, I’m weirded out.
Bottom line, the date goes ok, but I’m nowhere near as excited about Ellen as I was before. Meeting a woman like Dr. K really is life changing….
One dame from de Bergerac’s hand-culled selection of ladies remained: Dr. K (note: not a real doctor).
It must be admitted that Christian had a heightened interest in Dr. K. For one thing, in an effort to alleviate the pangs of guilt he had felt when first chatting up Marissa’s other finds, he had taken over the email correspondence with Dr. K much earlier. And damned if the girl couldn’t write a saucy missive. So smitten was Christian by this verbal siren he began to think there might be something to de Bergerac’s so-called “email chemistry” after all.
Christian set out for the Spot nattily attired in the boot cut jeans and navy pinstriped sport coat (buttoning the first two buttons of course but not the third – unthinkable!) The shoes were shined, the button-down crispy, and the looks movie-star like, with just a daub of the signature scent.
Our hero caught his first glimpse of Dr. K walking into the Spot: Blond hair, scarlet pea coat, long legs, rather a bit of a dolly. Christian quickly found himself beguiled by Dr. K’s charms. It wasn’t just the high cheekbones and silken tresses either, the girl was whip smart and had a penchant for clever wordplay. This tall and slender beauty knew her world affairs, knew her politics and wasn’t shy about showing off her brainy hotness. It ain’t trickin’ if you got it!
As the pair chatted gaily away, Christian marveled at how similar Dr. K’s thought process was to his own. At one point, Dr. K spoke of paying $60 per month to ride the subway.
Christian thinks: Huh. $60/month is just about how much a train pass costs using the commuter benefits program at work. How cool would it be to meet a girl who understands that $89 multiplied by her marginal tax rate, ballparked at 30%, is around $60. But better not say that out loud or she might think I’m a complete weirdo.
Christian says: Don’t you use the train enough to buy the monthly pass?
Dr. K : [bites lower lip] Sure, but I buy it through a pre-tax program at work, so it only costs me $60 if you think in terms of after-tax dollars.
Christian: [swoon]
Christian, with his tongue hanging somewhere around his ankles, asked Dr. K about her perspective on Match dating. She replied with an outlook that sounded remarkably similar to Christian’s original theory that dating was all a random numbers game that could only be solved by meeting a bunch of new people and finding one that clicks.
The bewitched Christian was getting a heady dose of his own medicine. How the worm has turned, he thought, next thing you know she’ll start talking about height requirements. He wanted to grab Dr. K by the lapels, shake her vigorously and scream “What about those reams – and I do mean reams - of correspondence we exchanged? Did it mean nothing to you, Dr. K?”
Still, whether from email chemistry or cosmic forces of which we know nothing, Dr. K was leaning forward and touching Christian’s knee with a gleam in her eye. By the end of the evening, Christian knew he wanted more clever conversation, more laughter, and more candlelight romancing with this delectable companion.
Oh, and the way Dr. K squeezed his hand for an extra beat after they kissed goodnight, it must be confessed, made his heart go all a-flutter.
There’s been a small supply chain management issue with our posts. The street price of blogs is on the rise and commenters are starting to get that crazy look in they eyes. Don’t hate though, your narrator Christian has been laid up on the H1N1 tip. For reals for reals posts are on the way.
Hand over that Nyquil stash, young'un. Don't make Omar come take it hissef.
So stay tuned, because we’ll be giving the real talk about flakes, mistakes, and babycakes this week. You know how we roll son, strong.
There's been a temporary interruption in the co-op's blog post supply
So don’t say nuffin and keep it locked right here, ’cause the re-up is on the way.
Brother maintains various romantic liasons in different dialing prefixes
I thought I had churned over the ethical implications of this blog enough before we started the project. Like other any blogger who puts personal information on the internet, I knew risks existed. After all, oversharing on the internet has already forced a huge shake-up in how we think about things like privacy and manners, one that is still very much ongoing.
But now I’ve met a real live girl that I actually like, and there could be more to follow. Considering these match girls are real people who could potentially be hurt if they learned the truth, is it really ok for our little funhouse to include them without their permission? And if one of the girls actually works out and dates me seriously, she’ll eventually have to read this blog. How will she react when she does? Best case is exasperation mixed with grudging admiration, but I wouln’t blame her for being furious with me.
I’m feeling the full brunt of the Macbeth dilemma, with no way to extricate myself from a previous rash decision. Being honest with Ellen now will get me nowhere, except possibly slapped in the face if she’s the dramatic type. Nope, I’ve got no choice but to try to see the whole thing through and hope for the best, since, as the Scot says, “Returning were as tedious as go o’er.”
Time to put my own conscience back on the shelf where it’s been gathering dust since 1999. There’s no better option than to see where things go with the girls and let sleeping blogs lie.
Bloody, bold and resolute!
P.S. Even though you voted for me to keep Ellen dangling like the participle in the above blog entry (can you spot it?) I decided to text her anyways this morning. I do like her, after all.
My original plan of going to the bar alone, hovering tableside in the groucho marx mask and typing furiously away on a laptop was foiled early on. All it takes is one stroll down a new york city sidewalk, to realize there’s barely room for actual people to move, never mind an actual person with an actual oversized, laptop bag stuffed with disguises. So with resignation, I tucked a tiny note pad and pen into my back pocket, as my friend Duffy and I ventured out for some surrogate dating.
The plan: Christian and Ellen are to meet at a bar called the Auction House at 8:30pm.
What actually happened: I arrive at the bar at 8:20pm. A life-sized tootsie roll smoking on the front stoop informs me that it’s closed for a private Halloween party. Well done, Christian. Haven’t you ever heard of calling in advance for reservations??
There’s still 10 minutes till date-time, and Ellen will be early, that’s just the kind of girl she is. On the one hand, I don’t want to loiter and blow our cover. On the other hand, I am dying to see her up close. I pull up her match photo on my cell phone, “Isn’t she beautiful?” I say, “And she rates herself as average… She’s beautiful and she doesn’t even know it which is even more beautiful…” I am swooning so hard- like a girl at the window eagerly awaiting her prom date- that I barely notice when Duffy punches me square in the arm. “What?” I look up from my phone and there she is; my prom date in dark jeans, a khaki jacket, and gold hoop earrings, looking even more beautiful in person than she does in her mini match.com picture…
She walks past us without a second look, and I assuage my disappointment by reminding myself that we haven’t actually met, and she isn’t actually my date.
When Christian finally arrives to find the original bar closed, we follow the couple into Cavatappo, the city’s tiniest wine bar (see diagram below), narrow enough for easy listening and mirrored walls perfect for secret spying. I couldn’t have planned it better myself.
“She really is beautiful,” Duffy says, staring at Ellen’s reflection in the mirror. “And the back of Christian’s head looks good too… I’m so glad he’s cut his hair. Remember that awful haircut he had in college?”
Despite the fact that I gave him that awful haircut, Duffy is right. The back of Christian really does look good; dark jeans, light blue button down, and a pair of shoes that out-fancy anything I’ve got in my closet. And his head has vastly improved since he put the moratorium on my drunken haircuts. As I listen to him tell stories of his travels, books he’s read, the off-beat wine experiments he conducts, and how his big-time writing-job has evolved at the expense of his passion for creative writing, it’s clear that while I brought Ellen here, it is Christian who is really making the magic happen.
Ellen pulls something out of her purse and places it on the table. 3 packages of pastilles chocolates wrapped in a red bow. I gasp. “Those are my favorite chocolates!!” I shriek with envy. But tonight they are “Christian’s favorites” and Ellen was thoughtful enough to remember that- a fact that “Christian” wrote in one of the match emails very early on… “Look at her” Duffy coos. “She really likes him!” And it’s obvious; she does.
As the date continues, Duffy and I head out to the patio where we can giggle properly over this wild success. Shortly thereafter I see through the window Ellen grab her jacket. I panic. I can’t believe she’s leaving! After weeks of corresponding, I’m just not ready to let her go. I want to say hello, I want to ask her about her movie. I want to listen to her quiet laugh and eat those chocolates with her over red wine.
Ellen walks out first, then Christian. I stand up to face them. It’s now or never.
“Hey, sorry to interrupt, but did you go to Boston College?” I ask Christian. His face blanks and goes absolutely pale. He musters a nod and seems to be signaling “I’m going to kill you” with the squint in his eyes, but in the midst of my adrenaline rush, I decide to ignore it.
“I think you were in my philosophy class freshman year, with Professor Bollert, maybe?”
“Uh, yeah.” he says without even opening his mouth, the sound just eeks through a clenched jaw.
“Oh, I didn’t mean to be rude,” I turn and offer my hand to Ellen. “I’m Marissa nice to meet you.” She doesn’t seem at all put off by the way I’ve accosted her date. Instead she smiles.
“I’m Ellen.” I fight the urge to say, ‘I know.’ Then I remember Christian, who by this point seems to be on the cusp on an aneurism. Reluctantly, I let go of Ellen’s hand and realize I need to get him out of the situation fast or we’re going to blow the whole thing.
“Ah you don’t remember me do you?” I say, letting him off the hook.
“No.” he says firmly, and they start to walk away. I can barely believe that after weeks of trading stories, those 10 seconds of Ellen were all I got. Like everything beautiful, it passes so quickly.
“By the way,” I yell after them, “I love those chocolates. I grew up on those!” Ellen and Christian turn back to face me, and I’m glad for one last opportunity to see her face. I catch her eye and smile.
“Well, they’re all mine,” Christian yells back, as he takes Ellen’s arm and they walk off down the street.
“The term ‘big things’ can mean many, um, things. As long as they’re big, that is.” -One of the weirdest bloggers ever, no relation to de Bergerac
So Big Things: I went on a date with Ellen last night. but it wasn’t live blogged as we had promised. Sorry Internets!! I know you were all looking forward to it just like a little boy who’s been promised that his unreliable divorced dad will come to his big soccer game and looks forward to the game, thinking this will finally be the time his dad can see him play and be proud of him, then carries the team by scoring three goals only to find out his dad had something “last minute” come up and couldn’t make it OR SO I’VE BEEN TOLD!
But rest assured, blogosphere, Marissa de Bergerac was never far from my side, discreetly taking notes and trying not to stare too much.
A little bit unnerving: Ellen was already smitten with me/Marissa even before we met in person. The reams – and I do mean reams - of correspondance with MdB leading up to our date had Ellen crushing on MdB big time - cue my flood of guilt and generally weird feelings about the whole ruse. Still, it was undeniably refreshing to spend time with someone who was genuinely excited about meeting me, instead of the usual “You have 120 minutes to prove you’re not a loser and complete waste of my time” vibe most of the match girls broadcast.
She made a very strong impression: sweet, good-looking and a good conversationalist. For whatever reason, it stuck out that she called me by my first name more than most people do, as in “Christian, why is that stranger trying to eavesdrop on our conversation?” She also presented me with chocolates tied up in a little bow! I was equally charmed and weirded out by this. MdB will reveal more on why this happened later this afternoon.
Even though we were at a wine bar, Ellen ordered a beer, unmistakeably signaling that she was an a self-assured, independent thinker unafraid of bold and unconventional choices, at least according to the deluge of overanalysis from a certain adjacent table Ellen unknowingly triggered with her choice of beverage. Even though I scoffed at MdB’s interpretation, later events would prove her correct. Everyone gets lucky sometimes.
Other highlights: we later adjourned to a nearby piano bar and she sang me a song! Good voice, too. I was mentally penciling her in to sing with me playing the piano (not without more guilt though, as the ex and I did quite a bit of this in the old days). Also, on a bathroom break I had a quick phone call conversation with a breathless MdB, spewing advice like a 13-year-old at a slumber party.
But by Jove, MdB, you’ve done it! As promised, you’ve found a cool girl that I will definitely see again.
After the date, Marissa clamored for me to text Ellen right away saying what a great time I had, we should go out again, and other sops of feminine reassurance. All wrong, I argued. Sure, women say they want to be called/texted right away, but women are emotional creatures. Their prostrations to the contrary, deep down they long for the sturm und drang of not hearing from a love interest for a few days.
Having argued ourselves to an impasse, we leave it to you, ’sphere.
Last night I went on a moderately successful date with Annie the Lady Doctor, subject of a large crush from Marissa. “She’s so funny and quick on email,” MdB gushed to me last week.
“How do you know she’s quick?” I asked. ” For all you know, she could be spending hours writing, polishing and anguishing over how to be funny…like someone else I can think of.”
Match is not a Showcase Showdown. Let’s repeat that: Match is not a Showcase Showdown. What implications does that have for the would-be romancer? It means he isn’t force to throw away one bird in hand for another sight-unseen. Instead, he can bide his time, preserve his options and see what develops.
Things went pretty well last night. Thanks to a wrinkle in the young lady’s schedule, it ended up being a dinner date – gasp! Oddly, it took 15 minutes or so for us to warm up to each other but then she started growing on me as the evening progressed. She was definitely shyer in person than her bold, sassy profile would suggest – but I bet if she has an online confessional blog somewhere on the webs she’s probably saying the same about me. Maybe not using the word sassy.
I expected to be bothered by Annie the Lady Doctor’s short stature, but she carried her 5′2″ well and I thought she was pretty cute. Since I share her “former overachiever adjusting to life as a more or less average person” neurosis, we had a lot to talk about. Bottom line, Annie was an intelligent, kind and charming young lady – and those don’t grow on trees! So I’ll certainly consider her a promising candidate, but if it doesn’t work out I’m sure Marissa will be ready to swoop in on her.
Back before this blogging experiment began, Christian went on what he dubbed “The Matchathon:” a four-dates-in-three-days haze that severely taxed his stamina, patience, wallet and ability to metabolize alcohol.
The Matchathon was simply too much dating crammed into too small a space. Even the system of notecards Christian devised to track personal details couldn’t keep the girls from running together in his head (although he managed not mix up any of their names – no mean feat!)
Left with nothing but a low-grade hangover and a bunch of numbers to delete from his phone, Christian decided to shelve the Matchathon concept as hopelessly flawed.
Yet, because he is a hopeless romantic and a poor scheduler, Christian will give the Matchathon one more shot this week, with dates each night leading up to Thursday’s live blogging extravaganza. There he will try to tune out the sight of de Bergerac in her trench coat and felt hat typing away furiously on the laptop.
