looking men are not buying
pasta salad for one, but
Pampers for their 1-year-olds.
My mother's friends for-
warded to my address
mailbags full of invitations to
singles events (a.k.a. dances
of disaster). A cousin from
Toledo, whom I haven't seen
since 1965, clipped an article
on personal ads and sent it to
my mother with the query:
"How are your daughters?"
And before the week was
over came the inevitable.
"Have I got a guy for you!"
shrieked Aunt Gladys in the
shrill voice that has gotten
her evicted from opera houses
and libraries all over the
globe. "What a catch." (I
decided not to tell her that
"catch" is what we self-
sufficient women of the '90s
do only to softballs in the
spring and colds in the
winter.)
"How's that wonderful,
wonderful guy Susan's see-
ing?" Great-Aunt Bella asked
my mom.
"They broke up," my
mother announced gravely.
"I never liked him anyway,"
countered Bella. "But I do
know a very nice boy. He's
my mah-jongg partner's
sister's husband's nephew's
gardener's brother-in-law's
attorney!'
"Gee I responded when my
mom told me, "it would feel
practically incestuous to get
involved with someone to
whom I was intimately con-
nected."
I
eventually
But
capitulated and agreed to a
blind date.
' Bachelor Number One (as
they used to call him on "The
Dating Game") was provided
by my brother's wife. I was
soon to learn why she had
chosen her husband over the
man she described to me as
"brilliant, good-looking, and
fluent in several languges."
Too late did I realize that the
same description fit
Mussolini.
Having arrived 45 minutes
late, Elliot quickly set out to
make up for lost time, skipp-
ing right over the small talk
and launching into a string of
racist remarks he had
prepared for the occasion.
These exhausted, he began to
regale me with tales of his
father's great wealth. I
assumed this vast family for-
tune absolved me of any
obligation to split the check,
and after the waitress picked
it up — along with a much-
too-small tip — I explained
my dire need to get home im-
mediately and go to bed.
Alone.
Next at bat was an attorney,
described by a distant cousin
as a very sweet guy who was

sick of the overly agressive
women in his firm. Aha! A
match made in heaven. Never
mind that I've been accused
of making Bella Abzug seem
meek and Joan Rivers seem
sweet.
Anyway, it quickly became
clear that 87-year-old Aunt
Yetta would have been deem-
ed overly aggressive for Don
the Dishrag, as would any
woman who could breathe on
a mirror and fog it up. After
two interminable hours with
him, I swore off blind dates
forever.
"Forever," coincidentally, is
the approximate length of
time our postal service takes
to deliver a letter, which my
as-yet-unjilted-beau had yet
to receive, judged by the
amorous (but unreturned)
messages he had been leaving
on my answering machine.
But when it comes to swear-
ing off blind dates, "forever"
lasted only until Aunt Claire
got hold of my mother and ex-
tracted my phone number to
pass on to Charlie Goldberg.
(When I get my hands on
Aunt Claire, she is going to
"pass on," period — in a
violent manner.)
Charlie was pleasant
enough on the phone. More
than pleasant, he was nice. I
was excited about the date,
not only because he seemed
like a winner (so did Nixon, at
first) but because I realized
that if I hit it off with Charlie,
I could put a stop to the fix-
up phone calls from cousins
Agnes through Zelda, and
lower AT&T's gross revenues
by 43 percent.
Charlie arrived in head-to-
toe polyester except for the
gold-plated pinky ring and
monogrammed tie tack. His
sartorial taste was surpass-
ed only by his personality. I
quickly learned that he hated
everything I liked, and liked
everything I hated.
Throughout our meal at the
restaurant, I said a silent
prayer. I started with the
words "baruch atah" and end-
ed with the words "and I
mean it, 0 Ruler of the
Universe. If you let me bump
into anyone I know while I'm
with this guy, I'm going to
join Jim Bakker's church and
eat nothing but bread and piz-
za for all eight days of
Passover."
lb diminish my misery, I
ordered a glass of wine, which
I placed to the right of my
plate. My date from hell
ordered a soda, which he plac-
ed on his plate, leaning over
to sip through the drink stir-
rer (look Ma, no hands) each
time he wanted more. I know,
I know, it could have been
worse. He could have started

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87

