The View From Penthouse B

23





The Way of the World


DUE TO THE BUST that was my print ad, and because every wedding anyone attended in this century celebrated the union of people who met in cyberspace, I was finally persuaded to sign up for a three-hour seminar titled Fine, I’ll Go Online.

Might I have paid better attention to the course description? It advised those of us who were “online-dating virgins” to hold off until our workshop, and those who were already “initiated” to bring copies of their profiles. Laptops mandatory. Digital photos encouraged, ready for uploading.

I was pleasantly surprised to find that the course had been limited to twelve and that our leader, Franny Bagby, had been married for the first time at the age of forty-seven to a divorced man she’d met on Match.com. Also helpful: her southern accent, which promoted fraternization, and her memorizing our names within the first ten minutes. “I know y’all are slightly embarrassed to be here, right? I would’ve been, too, before this”—and up on her PowerPoint screen appeared the smiling face of her first example, presumably a no, a pot-bellied man whose bolo tie and handlebar moustache could not have been the lures he had hoped them to be.

“See?” she said. “Not much, am I right?” And then the arrow danced over to what she called the candidate’s “turnoffs.” There were more than I had noticed at first glance. The pine paneling behind him indicating an ugly rec room. The digital camera at his navel indicating this was a self-photo in a mirror. “Like he didn’t have a single friend he could call on to take a decent pitcha,” Franny said.

And still more red flags appeared in the parade of his photos: his arm around two young women in matching dresses. “Why?” Franny pleaded with this image. “Is this to signal that you got yourself a date? Captions, please!” Next photo: him nuzzling a large Persian cat. Next: him toasting the camera with a giant Teutonic beer stein. Next: him, sweaty, at a finish line, arms raised in a most unappetizing fashion. The last of his five photos: him wearing an Elvis T-shirt and fanny pack in front of what was surely Graceland.

Just as we’re feeling squeamish about exploiting this embarrassing profile, Franny squealed, “Ahm not as mean as y’all think! This is the doll-baby ah married!”

What could one say? A smattering of applause helped fill the void.

Smiling fondly, she continued. “This is to demonstrate two thangs: Y’all have to dig deeper. And y’all have to go beyond the goofy words, the bad pictures, and the bad taste. The motorcycle? Borrowed! The two slutty-lookin’ bridesmaids? His daughters! Yup, y’all know what ahm sayin’! Y’all are nodding. Y’all get it. It’s a process. Y’all have to kiss some frogs!”

I looked around. We were ten women and two men, one of whom was hunched over his keyboard, head down, typing nonstop. And just when I was feeling relieved that we didn’t have to tell our life stories or confess what relationship failures had brought us to this moment, Franny passed out paper and pencils, and asked for our ten favorite foods.

“Not sayin’ why, yet,” she said. “Y’all are just going to have to trust me.”

There was a lot of staring off into space and pursing of lips, but not by me. I wrote quickly. “Chicken, olives, artichokes, capers, chocolate, raspberries, cauliflower, coffee, clam chowder, salmon.” Then, as a fallback, I added hazelnut gelato in case beverages didn’t count. With time to spare and in Anthony’s honor, I added, “Red velvet cupcakes.”

I assumed the assignment had to do with likes and dislikes—that which would be attractive to the similarly inclined. But that wasn’t our objective. Franny wanted us to appeal to the senses. Food as usernames sent a subliminal message of comfort and deliciousness. And not to brag, but her username had been—the next slide went up—DeepDishApplePie—with her own photo, hair color, and style different than today’s. “Notice,” she said, arrow circling her face, “A close-up. No group shots. Not me a mile away, posing in front of the Taj Mahal or Fort Sumter. Ahm smiling. Ah look open and welcome if ah say so myself. Now can we discuss why DeepDishApplePie worked?”

When no one volunteered, she asked, “Are y’all thinkin’ No way! ‘Apple pie’ says ‘date your mama’? Because that’s not always the worst association for some guys . . . the lonely ones . . . boys who loved their mamas and on some level want to crawl back into their laps. And ‘dish’? Don’t make me say why that got some friendly inquiries.”

Another classmate asked if Franny’s husband chose her because of her food name. And, by the way, what was his?

“Ahm glad y’all asked because his was awful. Gentlemen take note! It was LuvMeTender69—and y’all know where he got that. Ah do not recommend y’all use your username to suggest you’re lookin’ for sex. A Franny Bagby no-no.”

This was the juncture at which I started to worry that our entire curriculum was based on the star-crossed profiles of LuvMeTender and DeepDish.

“Food favorites?” she persisted. “William?” This classmate was wearing a crisp Izod shirt in tangerine, collar upturned, hair jelled, jeans pressed. I guessed midthirties. Without prompting, he recited, “Nutella, spanakopita, Cobb salad, mangoes, smoothies, arctic char, bacon, champagne, osso bucco, goat cheese.”

“Easy!” crowed Franny. Then to us: “What if y’all went online and saw this handsome fella and his username was ChampagneAndMangoes!” Would you ladies not e-mail him on that alone? And you know why? Because the champagne says I can afford it, and the mangoes say Ripe, juicy, and sweet.”

William said, “Um, sorry, ladies, but not looking on your side of the aisle.”

That seemed momentarily to confuse Franny. She recovered quickly and said, “Then we’re still talkin’ about appealing to men! We are on the same page! Ah love your side of the aisle! And ahm stickin’ with ChampagneAndMangoes!”

There was nowhere else to turn for a male opinion but to Joel, the bearded, ardent notetaker. Every classmate must have been thinking the same thing: Just the person we don’t want to meet online. Just the man, after five minutes over drinks, you’d be plotting your escape route from.

“Joel?” prompted Franny.

He finally looked up, and after a tug or two that loosened some beard hairs, he answered. “You really think ‘mangoes’ appeal to guys? Because I don’t get ‘juicy and delicious’ from that. I get ‘tropical fruit,’ no offense. And it’s kinda anatomical. I don’t want to get graphic in front of the ladies, but it’s not a great image.”

Franny asked, “Can you tell us what kind of username you’d respond to?”

He said, “I don’t care about usernames. I look at the pictures.”

William said, “I totally agree with Joel. If the guy is hot, I don’t care if he calls himself Attila the Hun.”

Clearly sold on her own formula, Franny was not expecting blowback. She asked us to humor her on usernames, then asked for another volunteer. I didn’t raise my hand, but she called on me anyway, noting how fast I’d finished the assignment. I said, “I understand what you’re going for, so I’m leaving out cauliflower and salmon. I’ll just cut to hazelnut gelato and red velvet cupcakes—not that I see myself in either of those.”

“RedVelvetCupcake!” Franny exclaimed. “Bingo! Two down! Who else?”

Another woman, who was typing with only one hand due to a heavily autographed cast on the other, asked if there was a study—a reliable, scientific one based on a large sample—that showed what worked and what didn’t.

Franny said, “Ah know this much. Be positive! Upbeat! Don’t be Debbie Downer!”

We nodded politely. I was already worried about the course evaluation I’d have to fill out and how honest I should be.

The same classmate asked, “What I was thinking of specifically was how much do you have to hint about being a willing sex partner? Because isn’t that really what men want, bottom line?”

Whom to turn to but Joel and William? We waited. William said, “I think Joel would be better for your boy-girl stuff.”

“Could you repeat the question?” Joel asked.

The woman in the cast said, “Like in real life, aren’t men looking for sex, even though the request is in code?”

Franny pressed a button, and a new slide appeared. Gesturing toward the screen she announced, “Ah did my own survey of words that send a wink in that area. Here we go. ‘Passionate’ and ‘affectionate’—those are easy. And these phrases: ‘loves to cuddle’ . . . ‘hold hands’ . . . ‘moonlit walks on the beach’ . . . ‘I’m great at back rubs and foot rubs’ . . . ‘massage your scalp,’ which came up a few times . . . ‘great kisser.’ And there’s one that should only be used if you want sex on the first date: ‘high-octane hormones and high-touch sensuality.’ That’s a direct quote from a JDate profile.”

I must have eeeyewed loud enough to catch Franny’s attention because she turned squarely to me and pointed.

I wished I’d kept my groans internal. I asked as pleasantly as I could, “Isn’t it a little slutty to call yourself ‘passionate’ or ‘craves intimacy’ online for all the world to see? Isn’t that what Craigslist is for? Isn’t that using a dating site as an escort service?” I felt compelled to explain that I was a widow, and even though I was ready to date . . . well, none of this was coming easy.

Franny said, “First of all, God bless. Second of all, you’re here! You came! That’s the headline: Gwen is ready! Everyone? Gwen. Is. Ready!”

When no one echoed her slogan, she tried, “We’re all ready! And y’all know what that means? We’re ready to write our profiles! Get out your pencils and your keyboards.”

A gray-haired woman who hadn’t yet said a word asked, “If you make a joke, should you write LOL after it so they know you have a sense of humor?” Her follow-up: “Should I describe my politics as ‘middle of the road’ so I cast the widest net possible?” Others asked if they should mention their children, their salaries, their allergies.

Oh, it was tedious, twelve people trying to sound appealing but not desperate, trying to appear intelligent, witty, healthy, toned, and open to romantic love and its inevitable activities.

I didn’t employ “passionate,” “affectionate,” or even “friendly.” I announced in three different ways that I was new to this, that I was a widow after a long, faithful marriage. That I was nervous. That friendship would be a good and comfortable place to start.

When it was my turn to share, my short paragraph earned a literal and figurative thumbs-down from everyone except William. I sounded sad was the main complaint. I sounded unready. “Frankly, kinda pathetic,” said Susannah, a recent college grad. “Reluctant,” said another. “Like someone put a gun to your head,” said Joel.

“Make stuff up,” said Franny. “After my first profile got no hits, I added ‘I love to cuddle by a blazing fire and bury my face in your shoulder during a scary movie’ and that same day I got three e-mails.”

I didn’t say “No, thanks” or “Over my dead body.” I conceded that I would tinker a bit and leave out the widowed part since it was already noted under “relationship.”

Franny insisted my profile had to be romance-ready today, now, before I left. No stallin’. No procrastinatin’. So I tried again, describing myself as loyal, creative, smart, independent, honest, dependable, low-maintenance, grammatical, and punctual. Franny wanted me to add “fun” and “have a silly, girlish side,” which would suggest romantic potential.

I compromised. I added “good company” and “quite presentable.”

By noon, everyone else had produced a credit card and membership in at least two websites. I whispered to William across the aisle that I knew someone great for him in real life, then pantomimed pen to paper. Contact info, please.

Franny asked me if I cared to share with the class what I’d just exchanged with William. I said sure, no problem. I’d just told him that I couldn’t officially register for online matchmaking today. Unfortunately, my screen was frozen and I’d left my wallet at home.