the stuff they think they’re looking for , on Eddie Kosko or Pete Rose, irrespective of team or season. He thinks that being fit, having a sense of humor, being “professional,” enjoying “fine dining” and being “real” is what he wants from a woman and therefore what he thinks a woman wants from him. Most of the time, guys think those buzzwords have meaning. Most of the time, they don’t.
My friend Ellen, just leaving her fifties, is one of the exceptions. She teaches French in one of the city’s prep schools and, after a full cycle of vaccines in being Life Coached through A Course in Miracles , The Artist’s Way and the complete works of Deepak Chopra, she feels she is entitled to a man who has retired on six figures and looks great in a tux.
Okay, maybe she’s not my friend. That entitlement thing kind of ruined my respect for her. I can’t write a book pitched to The Real Housewives of Anywhere because of the overwhelming need some women have for the right men to make them the right women.
The good news is that, mostly, men don’t really want the card, they want a card, and most women are exactly the same way. We’re all pretty much looking for someone nice and someone sensible whose baggage can be wedged into the overhead compartment.
I say it’s good news because I got extra points I wasn’t counting on when I wrote that craigslist ad. My weight was less important than the experts say it is. * My subsistence as a writer/dog walker/adjunct professor was something of an asset because it meant I could stay out late or meet for lunch on Bayard Street. Sometimes a Mr. Extension 6651 got to flatter himself for daring to date someone so kicky.
I exchanged a few emails with a guy named Moshe. He, too, was a drifting professor, although he didn’t tell me whether this meant he adjuncted around or had a full-time position at one of the Drop-Out Factory colleges—for-profits in which anyone with a loan can pretend, until they get their first homework assignment, they’re going to get a degree.
I couldn’t tell whether he had acne or acne scarring or something he could brag about like rosacea; I am certain, however, that his open-at-the collar shirt was polyester. His hair was dishwater, as were his eyes.
As was the rest of his complexion.
Nonetheless, it seemed worth scratching at his surface since we both taught international students and we both lived in Brooklyn. He was into “interesting desserts,” whatever that meant, which prodded me to explain I was being pretty rigorous about sticking to my diet.
Then he asked what I thought of his photo. Why do these guys always want to know what I think when they send their photo?
I thought he looked like a mouth-breather. I thought it was possible that he became a professor because he’d been turned down by parking cop school. I thought he looked like a guy who had a wankerchief and couldn’t get off if it wasn’t right there.
I thought he looked like a guy who always had his Wanky Blankie with him.
“Nice smile,” I responded.
“How much weight do you want to lose?” he shot back.
Whoa , cowschlump! I thought as I sat back in my chair. He was quickly running through my collection of polite clichés. I needed at least a day to formulate a response.
“Dunno,” I finally wrote.
In less than five minutes I had an invitation. “Do you want to have coffee at Junior’s tonight?”
I had dogs to walk, I told him. Maybe another night.
How many dogs?
If I had told him I couldn’t go because I had to breathe, he’d have asked how many breaths. I deleted the email, figuring he’d get it that our brief exchange wasn’t progressing.
Clue: If he wants to know if you think he’s cute, he’s not going away.
Heading into the next weekend I got another email asking if we were going to get together or not. I hate being the dumper almost as much as being the dumpee but had had a few days to recover my niceness.
“I seem to be busier than I
My friend Ellen, just leaving her fifties, is one of the exceptions. She teaches French in one of the city’s prep schools and, after a full cycle of vaccines in being Life Coached through A Course in Miracles , The Artist’s Way and the complete works of Deepak Chopra, she feels she is entitled to a man who has retired on six figures and looks great in a tux.
Okay, maybe she’s not my friend. That entitlement thing kind of ruined my respect for her. I can’t write a book pitched to The Real Housewives of Anywhere because of the overwhelming need some women have for the right men to make them the right women.
The good news is that, mostly, men don’t really want the card, they want a card, and most women are exactly the same way. We’re all pretty much looking for someone nice and someone sensible whose baggage can be wedged into the overhead compartment.
I say it’s good news because I got extra points I wasn’t counting on when I wrote that craigslist ad. My weight was less important than the experts say it is. * My subsistence as a writer/dog walker/adjunct professor was something of an asset because it meant I could stay out late or meet for lunch on Bayard Street. Sometimes a Mr. Extension 6651 got to flatter himself for daring to date someone so kicky.
I exchanged a few emails with a guy named Moshe. He, too, was a drifting professor, although he didn’t tell me whether this meant he adjuncted around or had a full-time position at one of the Drop-Out Factory colleges—for-profits in which anyone with a loan can pretend, until they get their first homework assignment, they’re going to get a degree.
I couldn’t tell whether he had acne or acne scarring or something he could brag about like rosacea; I am certain, however, that his open-at-the collar shirt was polyester. His hair was dishwater, as were his eyes.
As was the rest of his complexion.
Nonetheless, it seemed worth scratching at his surface since we both taught international students and we both lived in Brooklyn. He was into “interesting desserts,” whatever that meant, which prodded me to explain I was being pretty rigorous about sticking to my diet.
Then he asked what I thought of his photo. Why do these guys always want to know what I think when they send their photo?
I thought he looked like a mouth-breather. I thought it was possible that he became a professor because he’d been turned down by parking cop school. I thought he looked like a guy who had a wankerchief and couldn’t get off if it wasn’t right there.
I thought he looked like a guy who always had his Wanky Blankie with him.
“Nice smile,” I responded.
“How much weight do you want to lose?” he shot back.
Whoa , cowschlump! I thought as I sat back in my chair. He was quickly running through my collection of polite clichés. I needed at least a day to formulate a response.
“Dunno,” I finally wrote.
In less than five minutes I had an invitation. “Do you want to have coffee at Junior’s tonight?”
I had dogs to walk, I told him. Maybe another night.
How many dogs?
If I had told him I couldn’t go because I had to breathe, he’d have asked how many breaths. I deleted the email, figuring he’d get it that our brief exchange wasn’t progressing.
Clue: If he wants to know if you think he’s cute, he’s not going away.
Heading into the next weekend I got another email asking if we were going to get together or not. I hate being the dumper almost as much as being the dumpee but had had a few days to recover my niceness.
“I seem to be busier than I
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