The On-line Casanova

There’s a certain feeling you get when you know you’re about to be the new guy somewhere—kindergarten, a job, prison, a dating site—a sense of both exhilaration and fantasy. I can be anybody. The conundrum? This stands in direct opposition to the bunk advice you’ve somehow accepted since birth: “Be yourself.”

I first experienced this conundrum when I was seven years old, snooping around my parents’ bedroom one morning. I was looking to get in trouble. I figured if Mom or Dad caught me rifling through their sock drawers—or better yet, stealing something—there would be no possible way they could send me to Oyster Summer Camp, a place I’d never been nor wanted to be.

On the night stand I spotted two crisp $1.95 paperbacks: Marathon Man and All The President’s Men. Both had pictures, the hallmark of any book worth stealing. The ones in All The President’s Men were a yawn, though: dull black-and-whites of guys who looked like my father. (It made sense; he actually knew several of the key players in the Watergate scandal.) But the pictures in Marathon Man were different. There were only two, in color, part of the same thick ad insert—a cheery blonde woman on one side; a rugged blonde man on the other. Both were smoking. The man’s eyes bored into my own. It took me a few seconds to sound out his caption. “The doctor said I should quit or smoke True. I smoke True.”

So would I.

How stupid of me! Why be frightened of camp when I could be this guy? The confidence. The strength. Look at him puffing away, alone in a locker room (I didn’t question the location), in plaid slacks, a wide-collared yellow golf shirt…Good God. I turned to my parent’s full length mirror. He and I were wearing the exact same outfit. Substitute my bowl cut for his Robert Redford part-with-sideburns, add a swarthy tan, lose the Micronauts action figure for a pack of smokes—it was almost terrifying. I was this guy. The wall between fantasy and reality came crumbling down. Today I would swagger into Oyster Summer camp and inform every single person I met: “The doctor said I should quit or smoke True. I smoke True.”

And I did.

There’s no need to bore you with the details. Short answer: I never took up smoking. But the humiliation of being expelled from Oyster Summer Camp that very first day taught me a valuable lesson. If I am ever to succeed at being both anybody and myself, I can’t do it alone. Athletes have coaches. Luke had Obi Wan. I need my own mentor. It’s time to stop being a dilettante and fully embrace my life as a dating site imposter—for your good. Every new dating site presents the same conundrum, after all.

Luckily, I’ve found such a guru. Or rather, he found me. He calls himself the On-line Casanova, and already he’s given me incredible advice on how to date women on-line. For example, on Valentine’s Day he sent me a personalized message, detailing “six killer email mistakes we’ve both made.” Here’s a sampling:

Number 3: Your photo sucks.

I’m not saying YOU suck, just that YOUR PHOTOS suck. It doesn’t matter how great your email is, if your picture makes you look like a sack of crap, you aren’t getting a response. Before you start worrying about your looks, there are two things you need to know…

First, a bad photo will make the hottest guy look ugly. Second, the right photo can make you look great. One great photo will make or break your online dating results.

Repeat after me “I will get a professional to take a headshot photo of me.”

Done and done. I have the appointment made. Next week, I’ll be all the more ready to tackle a new dating site, this time with fresh ammo. I didn’t even have a photo, but he’s right: If I had, it would have sucked. And I have no doubt the On-line Casanova’s uncanny insight will make me an even better dater in the months to come.

Perhaps one day, when I work up the courage, I’ll ask him if he smokes True.

Love, President’s-Day-Style: Let us all pause for a moment of violence

I don’t know how the Primaries have been for you, but for me and my stable of imaginary singles they’ve been entirely analogous to filling out the “About My Date” portion of the Match.com personality profile, and just as thrilling. Whose hair would we want to run our fingers through? Obama’s close, dashing, product-rich ’fro? (You can practically see the hope bursting from every follicle.) Clinton’s saucy but regal blonde coiffure? (Rapunzel! Rapunzel!) McCain’s vast, silky whiteness—a phrase that neatly describes both his comb-over and voter base? The choices are as myriad as they are titillating. And don’t get us started on body type, faith, or ethnicity. Given the impending split with our current President, there’s only one trait we all agree on: Yes, we are picky about his/her education.

On a different political note, there’s never been a better time to find love on partisan dating sites. MarlboroughRove and KarlboroughRed, my two alter-egos on RepublicanPeopleMeet, have had to fight off the eager right-wing ladies with a proverbial tire iron. Neither has even posted a photo. Sadly, both are gay and unable or unwilling to admit it, but I’m hopeful they’ll eventually find each other. RuPaulRonPaul on DemocratPassions, proudly out of the closet since adolescence, has had only slightly less luck finding a date. It turns out not all Lefties are interested in carrying a torch for the infamous Howard Dean “scream,” but the compatible ones still are.

All told, I can’t remember a more erotic or sexually-charged Presidential race. Granted, I’ve only been old enough to vote since Michael Dukakis versus George H. W. Bush. (Just mentioning the word “erotic” in the same paragraph as those two names is enough to make me reconsider celibacy.) For that virgin election I took the road less traveled and voted for Lyndon LaRouche, a colorful psychopath who was later convicted of conspiracy to commit mail fraud. The vote was accidental. I don’t mean that I was a misguided LaRouche supporter; I literally couldn’t figure out how to work the machine. You think Florida’s hanging chads were a problem? Democracy has never known a wilier or more baffling foe than the Washington DC voting booth, circa 1988. Zit-faced neophytes like me stood no chance. It’s a blessing that DC votes still don’t count—nor should they.

But I digress. The truth is, I’m just pissed about having to work on President’s Day. I’d much rather be at home fighting with my wife about politics. Either that or dating her on-line.

Making Flippy Floppy

Today, friends, I bring the love. The revolution will not be televised. The revolution will not be emailed, texted, IM’d, winked, poked, podcast, or You-Tubed. Forget the “Internets.” Get up out of your chairs. Leave your desks. Pump up the jams. Dance. Jig. Shake your booty like you mean it. So what if you’re alone? Or in public? It’s Valentine’s Day, people! Free your ass and your mind will follow.

Good. Now that you’ve gotten that out of your systems, return to your monitors.

If you’ve read any or all of my previous posts,* you know that I usually bring the snark. Digs, asides, mockery, jokes… all aimed at poking fun at our competition. But as the old adage goes: “You only hurt the ones you love.” In keeping with that sentiment—and in the grand, poetic tradition of this glorious, glorious holiday—I’m taking a break from snark. I’ve composed a little something sincere for all my favorite dating sites out there, and I offer it in admiration, respect, and above all, you-know-what.

A Suite of Six Valentine’s Day Haikus

 

Be our Valentine,
eHarmony. Better yet:
Friends with benefits

Thinking out loud here—
We could play Spin the Bottle
With PlentyofFish

Now the hard part. Rules.
Tongue? No tongue? OkCupid?
A test would help. Thanks.

Match, Nerve, True, jDate:
We’re all in this together
Romance is tricky!

Just ask Yahoo. Right?
They’ve consistently got, like
A zillion users

Last: You “Adult” sites—
Sexy does not mean Porno.
Keep it clean, darn it

HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY FROM URADIATE!

 

*Please read them now. I promise not to mention them until the next post.

 

Cupid is as Cupid doesn’t

Zoinks. As it turns out, I haven’t had the time to join any new dating sites during this hectic Valentine’s season. I’ve barely had time to eat. In the last twenty-four hours alone, I’ve drowned in a figurative tidal wave of emails from the sites I already belong to. LonghairZany4, we’ve got a match for you…TextbookAgoraphobic2 – we have 35 new members in New York that you’re looking for… New users near Yonkers for both JaneDoe3.141592 and SweetCherryPi. My in-box is nearing its capacity. I’ve started to confuse my many aliases. Perhaps sweetest of all I’ve learned: AxisOfEvelKnievel666, we have your Valentine!

Could it be true? Yes, if I existed. Chances would even improve if I upgraded to Gold Membership on Nerve.com. For only one installment of $139.94, AxisOfEvelKnievel666 would be guaranteed TOP billing in others’ searches, FULL access to members’ recorded video intros, and friendly 24/7 Phone Support, among numerous other perks. But why wait or fork over the dough? Should I decide to try “hotter love, more pleasure, and more fantasy,” Nerve.com’s conspicuous link to Passion.com all but ensures I’ll hook up with someone as “sexually forward” as I am by day’s end—and at no cost. From a fiduciary standpoint, even my wife is on board.

Curiously, some sites seem to be downplaying Valentine’s Day. Perhaps this is shrewd reverse psychology. Match.com has stuck to its Spartan, no-nonsense “Your Matches” announcements—firing off the same number of 81% compatibles as they have every Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. I keep waiting for them to stop treating this week just like any other, ironically re-piquing my interest in their site. (To their credit, I did receive a stern admonition: “FootInMouthDisease12, Get more attention with a profile makeover!”)

Other sites have been downright alarmist. Engage.com worries that “the V word” might cue “the screeching violins from Psycho.” The V word? True, as far as Engage.com is concerned, I am a skittish forty-something woman looking only for gossip and matchmaking, not love. Still, why play upon my fears? They also recommended that I “get gorgeous” and throw a party for my nonexistent friends on the 14^th, which I have yet to organize—thereby adding to my already considerable anxiety. I have nothing to wear, either.

The most amazing part of all this? It’s still only February 13^th. Who knows what surprises tomorrow will bring? I, for one (or thirty-seven, counting all my phony identities), can’t wait.

No good screed goes unpunished

If you’re worried about National Breakup Day, don’t be. According to Budweiser.com, that isn’t until June 2nd, anyway. A far more depressing holiday is upon us. Why even bother to acknowledge it? Feelings always get hurt; hearts inevitably get broken. It purports to celebrate the transcendent, but it’s really nothing more than a lame excuse for oddball florists, kooky bookstores, and specialty confectioners to slough off overpriced merchandise while we turn to dismal introspection—particularly if we’re single. (I’m not. Whew!)

You know it; I know it. I’m talking about February 7th, Charles Dickens Day.

Did you know that Dickens had OCD? Or that he broke up with every girlfriend he ever had, which wasn’t many? Or that he often fainted at readings? Or that he was an insomniac who roamed the streets of London alone at night? No, that kind of stuff always gets overlooked on February 7th. How convenient. What a freak he was. Thank God Valentine’s Day is right around the corner and we can forget all about him.

In honor of the run-up to glorious, glorious Valentine’s Day, I’ve gone on a virtual tear—pun intended—to join every dating site possible. If you’re familiar with my three previous posts (starting with “Fake my wife, please”) you’ve shared in my experiences as an imposter on the sites that claim to offer the perfect dating algorithm. But I’ve since taken compulsive fraud to a new and exciting level. I aim to debunk niche sites, static sites, “mug shot” sites (beyond just InmatesForYou.com)… any site will do, so long as it doesn’t tell you exactly who to date after an excruciating compatibility test.

Here are some future posts to watch out for, and the sites I’ll address in them:

• “The Devil wears schmatte” (jDate.com)
• “Eat, drink, and be married” (AshleyMadison.com)
• “Hanky-Pancreas” (SeniorFriendFinder.com)
• “Bark at the goon” (DateMyPet.com)
• “Let’s meat and say we didn’t” (VeggieDate.com)
• “If you pay pre-nups, you get monkeys” (DivorcedPeopleMeet.com)
• “I’ve weighted for you all my life” (Big&BeautifulPeopleMeet.com)
• “Bait me” (PlentyOfFish.com)
• “Almost Heinous” (MusicMate.com)
• “False” (True.com)
• “That’s a wallet in my pants. And, yes, I am happy to see you.” (SugarDaddy.com)

Get ready to have as much fun living vicariously as I’ve had falsifying my identity. And look for more Valentine’s Day posts, too!

Communication breakdown, it’s always the same

 

(Disclaimer: I swear I did not make this up. One of the emails below has been edited for length. Its content and formatting, however, have not been altered in any way.)

Alas, I fear my quest to find the perfect dating algorithm is doomed. They say the third time is a charm? Ha! Fie upon them, whoever “they” are. The third time has reduced me to a low-rent Don Quixote, forever tilting at compatibility test windmills.

Cowed by eHarmony’s puzzling hostility toward my wife, and ultimately frustrated with NoMoreDates.com’s “X” factor (though confident in my team-building skills should I pursue a career in HR at, say, Blue Shield), I’d just about given up. Then I read John Tierney’s most recent science column in The New York Times: “Hitting It Off, Thanks to Algorithms of Love.”

In it, Tierney probes the heated rivalry between researchers at Chemistry.com and eHarmony. It reads like a suspense novel. Chemistry.com lashes out at eHarmony for refusing to match gay couples. eHarmony reports Chemistry.com to the Better Business Bureau on the grounds that Chemistry.com’s “science of attraction” is, in fact, unscientific. Chemistry.com retools its advertising and attacks eHarmony for rejecting certain applicants. eHarmony credits its own science for the rejections, but refuses to reveal the details of its dating algorithm to the greater scientific community. Neither site has published any research for peer review.

Learning all this, I felt reinvigorated. Surely, there must be hope. Sniping at one’s competition, tattling on them to the government, hyping unverifiable data…these are the hallmarks of scientific progress. U-S-A! U-S-A! So I turned to a site that seemed to trump them both—ButterfliesAgain.com. Its founder, Dr. Joel Block, boasts a compatibility test (with the starkly efficient name of “Compatibility Test”) so effective that he hasn’t even bothered to get into the dating game himself. He simply licenses the test to other dating sites.

I sent him the following email:

Dear Dr. Block,

If you don’t mind my asking, how much do you borrow from the FIRO-B and CPI-260 assessment systems in your test? I look forward to hearing from you.

Thanks & best,

Daniel Ehrenhaft

To which he replied:

ButterfliesAgain.com is a short, powerful and engaging COMPATIBILITY TEST that takes the guesswork out of romantic couplings. It is yours at NO COST.

Get the edge over your rivals! Consider this:

• The test will NOT cost you anything.
• The test will bring in significant income by raising subscriber volume.
• The test will raise your site’s ranking in comparison to other sites.
• A portion of our test-derived income will be used to promote your site.

The ButterfliesAgain Compatibility Test has been thoroughly scientifically evaluated with stellar results. It’s only credible rival is the E-Harmony test, and it is more engaging, with real-life vignettes, and 4 times as fast (Mine: 15-20 minutes, E-Harmony’s: 75 minutes)

In addition, I am available to bring my love/sex expertise to your site for consulting, answering subscriber questions and other promotional activities to be discussed, if desired. My new dating book will be out in the fall, and it is preceded by 16 titles on love and sex written during my 30 year career specializing in relationship issues.

This is your opportunity to become #1.

Sincerely,

Joel Block, Ph.D., ABPP

My first thought was: Hmm. Why did he send this from an email address belonging to somebody named Cori Kaplan? After that came the usual flood of emotion: anger, denial, grief… My fingers were poised over the keyboard—

But then I stopped myself. If I responded to him in my overwrought state, would I appear too clingy? Clearly there was no spark between Dr. Block and me. Somehow we’d misread each other. He wanted to change me; I’d posed questions he didn’t want to answer. Did I have a right to be upset? He hadn’t even had the guts to address me by name! No “Dear Daniel,” not even a “Dear dehrenhaft.” Okay… I’m not assigning blame. It wasn’t me; it wasn’t him; our relationship simply wasn’t meant to be. That pesky “X” factor had reared its head. Best not to walk away mad or ask what might have been. Best just to cherish the brief e-time we shared.

And Dr. Block did teach me something. It’s time to hang up my spurs. If there is a perfect dating algorithm, nobody is eager to say much about it, other than that scientists have evaluated it, often “with stellar results.” Beyond that, it remains a mystery. Could it be that none exists?

In my next post, I’ll address a cheerier subject: National Breakup Day.

More wacky psychographic tales from the world of on-line dating

If you read my previous post, you know that eHarmony didn’t paint the rosiest picture of my wife, or at least my fraudulent interpretation of her. I began to wonder if we were compatible at all. Well, now I can rest easy. I’ve finally found a site that has assuaged my doubts, and can perhaps assuage yours. Not only can I say with near certainty that my wife and I are meant to be together (more on the “near” later), but I’m better equipped to work harmoniously with employees at Applied Biosystems, FEMA, Red Bull, Clorox, Dollywood, and the Calgary Airport—for the same exact reasons.

The site is NoMoreDates.com. As their name implies, they are not interested in setting up two people for a fling. They take long-term relationships very seriously—and in their own words, “good matching is good measurement.” Toward this end, they use the FIRO-B® (Fundamental Interpersonal Relations Orientation-Behavior™) and CPI 260® (California Psychological Inventory™) assessment systems to determine if a person (i.e.; “me”) is fit to form a life partnership with another person (i.e.; “my wife”).

For nearly forty years, corporate executives have used the FIRO-B® and CPI 260® to analyze their employees’ personalities. Both have proven effective in determining root causes of workplace tension. Management is then able to intercede and help smooth the road. Positions are shifted; jobs restructured; promotions and demotions made. Everyone goes home happy.

It’s no wonder, then, that NoMoreDates.com chose to apply the FIRO-B® and the CPI 260® to on-line dating. Nor is it any wonder that they chose not to alter the criteria. They didn’t change a single word. To put it another way: In order to determine compatibility with my wife on NoMoreDates.com, I had to submit to the same two tests, verbatim, that I would have if I worked in Accounts Payable at ExxonMobile and were caught giving the finger to my boss. The same would be true if I worked for Rolls Royce, Coors, or the U.S. Forest Service.

If this all sounds terribly clinical, have no fears. NoMoreDates.com does bring the love with the following equation: “Chemistry + Compatibility + Conscious Preferences + X = Happy and Lasting Relationship.” The first three factors are determined by the FIRO-B® and CPI 260®. The fourth factor, the X, is defined by NoMoreDates.com as follows: “The unknown—chance, fate, timing, etc. We can’t predict it and we won’t try to.”

And that’s where the “near” comes in. Fate is capricious, after all, when it comes to romance. Or for that matter, when it comes to a productive work environment at TD Waterhouse.

Fake my wife, please

It takes a certain brand of patience to tolerate a spouse on the front lines of on-line dating. Consider my wife. There are only so many times she can catch me on BondageDating.net or GaySinglesOnline.com and buy the “It’s important for me to familiarize myself with the competition” excuse. Yet she never so much as raises a spatula in anger. I credit this to her emotional stability—specifically, to the fact that she is relaxed, even, unwavering, constant, certain, together, cool, detached, and tranquil.

“Wow,” you might say. “That’s quite a list of adjectives. How do you know they’re all accurate?” Simple. I impersonated her on eHarmony, a dating site that requires its applicants fill out an extraordinarily long questionnaire—the kind, say, the Mossad would use to identify chinks in a potential recruit’s psychological armor—to better understand her personality type.

This isn’t to say that my wife is a saint. Far from it. From what I’ve seen of her eHarmony dating profile, some people think she’s too controlled—unflappable, even. Doesn’t she feel anything? And when it comes to her extraversion…sheesh. At first I didn’t even want to believe “extraversion” was a word, as my spell-check kept fighting with me, but maybe I was just in denial. According to the results, my wife refuses to open up. She never contributes as much as she can. There is just so much inside her that goes untapped. Why, damn it, why!?

Worst of all, perhaps, she flirts with impulses but never fully gives in to them. Many people view this as craven. “Oh, she’ll play on a Saturday,” they’ll say, “but she’ll never blow off an entire week to follow her bliss.” I know it’s true; eHarmony told me so, and the questionnaire took me over an hour to complete. The poor woman! Doesn’t she understand the vital importance of following her bliss? If only she could be more like my phony avatar on LonelyHousewives.com…why, she’d be out this very moment, blowing wads of cash on a certain passionate stranger,* the one her absentee husband could never be.

I can only thank God she’s so emotionally stable. In addition to the other nine adjectives.

*I’m actually the passionate stranger, too.

New Year’s Resolution ’08: Ask for your help

Friends, it’s that time of year again. We have stuffed ourselves silly with chocolate “bon-bons.” We have showered our loved ones with gifts, and have been duly showered in return—with travel steamers, six-packs of white tube socks, perhaps a self-help book on CD (“Narrated by Christopher Walken!”). Some of us have even gone so far as to prepare lists of New Year’s resolutions.

Mine:

1) Write fewer lists

2) Pretend to be a better listener

3) Vanquish my enemies

4) Be a more sportsmanlike ping-pong player

5) Exercise less

6) Ridicule Vegans

7) Make my mark as a world-class Yenta

I’ve pretty much already accomplished numbers 5-6, inclusive, so I’m not feeling terribly anxious about self-improvement. It’s number seven that’s gnawing at me like a collie on an old baseball mitt. Sure, I had some luck on the subway (see previous post). But how to set up my downstairs neighbor and that tall guy I always see buying Parliaments by the carton at Walgreen’s? They both smile and say hello to near-strangers! They’re both underweight! Most telling: They own the same iPhone sheath—the one with the Yankees’ logo. I know they’d be perfect for each other… if only I could facilitate some sort of “accidental” meeting. Thoughts? Ideas? Please respond, or share stories of your own failed matchmaking, in order to make me feel better about myself. (My greatest failure: the time I set up a sweet but agoraphobic ex-girlfriend [we're no longer in touch] with a travel writer who was later indicted for tax fraud.) Help.

Love on the MTA

You, too, can be a one-stop subway matchmaker—in at Bergen, out at Jay Street—with a newly-formed couple under your belt.

Sound impossible? Maybe. But during this holiday season, it’s easier than you think to play Santa the Yenta, and to spread the swift gift of love throughout the city’s jam-packed, unfriendly, and often fetid subway cars.

I know, because it happened to me.

Riding the F train from Brooklyn to Manhattan this morning (the “F” does indeed stand for “Fetid” between the hours of 7 and 9 am), I spotted two classic Brooklyn commuters—a guy and a girl in their twenties—waifish, good-looking, wool caps, sneakers, jeans, shoulder bags, iPods, and the obligatory New Yorker magazines shielding their faces.

Subway etiquette demands, of course, that no one stare at a stranger for longer than two seconds. This is doubly true if you are mashed up against each other. Tapping another person’s shoulder or striking up a conversation is forbidden except in the most extreme circumstances. (“I think you dropped your Blackberry,” or “Your umbrella is poking me in a sensitive area.”) But jammed alongside these two youngsters from behind, I couldn’t help but notice…they were reading the exact same article: Stairway to Here, Sasha Frere-Jones’ review of the December 10 Led Zeppelin reunion.

Neither knew what the other was doing. They couldn’t; they were avoiding all eye-contact. So I took a risk. I broke one of the cardinal rules of Subway etiquette; I patted the guy on the shoulder. He turned around with a suspicious frown, and I nodded my head towards the woman’s New Yorker.

“Check it out,” I whispered, “You’re reading the same article.”

The frown remained. But seeing as my lips were about five centimeters from the woman’s right ear, she couldn’t help but overhear. Then I saw a smile spread on both their faces. And as her eyes wandered over to his magazine, she asked, “Did you read the review in The Times?”

“Totally,” he gushed.

“Best rock review ever, right?” she asked.

At that point, I might as well have turned invisible. Perfect! I walked out of that car feeling like Jolly Old St. Nick himself. (Odd, as I am a thin Jew.) It didn’t matter. All I could think was: Maybe they’ll exchange numbers. Maybe they’ll ride all the way to Columbus Circle together, chatting about all the Zeppelin reunion reviews they’ve read, and make a date for later—

At that moment, I realized I’d exited at the wrong stop. I hadn’t even made it to the right borough. The next train didn’t come for another twenty minutes. It smelled like an outhouse. I didn’t care. Nor should you. Make the “F” train stand for “Friendly,” people. Make the “R” train stand for “Romance.” The “L” for “Love!” ‘Tis the season!

Also, try not to offend anyone or get arrested.