Five Marriages,
Ski Children And Counting
She never thought she'd be a matchmaker ...
until the matches were made.
T
acing magpies who arranged mar-
here are five marriages
riages in Eastern Europe. In one, a
under my belt, along with
potential
groom is dismayed by the
thousands of serious affairs;
female
prospect
in front of him. "You
hundreds of six-week flings,
said
she
was
young,
but she is over
a dozen one-night stands and a few
40.
You
said
she
was
beautiful, but
intense coffee dates.
she
looks
like
a duck,"
I am a fix-up fanatic who
whispered
the
male suitor.
plays cupid to my close
"You
don't
have
to whis-
friends and colleagues. My
shadchan.
per,"
said
the
five legalized linkings have
"She's also hard of hearing."
produced six offspring, so
It all began innocently.
perhaps, like the fertility doc-
When
I moved to Manhat-
tor in Milan Kundera's The
tan,
I
formed
a writer's
Farewell Party who secretly
workshop
on
Tuesday
injects childless women with
nights at my apartment. As
his own sperm, I am trying
we
ate pop-
SU SAN
to exert my influence over
corn
and cri-
SHA PIRO
the universe.
tiqued
each
Spe cial to
Some have suggested I
other's
poems
start a business, but I have no
The Je wish News
of
lust
and
interest in connecting couples
longing, two
for financial gain. I turned down the
couples
wound
up at the
Long Island plastic surgeon who
altar.
I
was
invited
to the
offered free liposuction if I located a
weddings
and
treated
mate for his 41-year-old sister. Hav-
like a hero — until both
ing been fixed up by my friend Valo-
twosomes moved out of
rie, with Aaron, who is now my hus-
town and quit the work-
band, my preoccupation is payback to
shop.
After that, I had to
the cosmic god of connubial bliss.
be
vigilant
about
Or maybe it's just an erotic obses-
requests
for
membership
sion. Disappointed by many of my
by
those
more
fixated on
friends' independently picked part-
finding
sex
than
fixing
ners, it does provide damage control
stanzas.
for double dates in the future.
Flying solo for 15 years in Manhat-
It can probably all be traced back
tan,
I spent many New Year's Eves as
to my mother who, as an orphan, was
the
only
one kissless. During a partic-
"fixed up" with different family mem-
ularly
broke
and lonely winter, my
bers to take care of her. She became a
close
friend
Claire
sang my praises to
socialite and party-planner whose
Don,
her
co-worker.
He called me
world spun around engagement par-
and
took
me
to
a
lovely,
dim-lit
ties, weddings and bridal showers,
bistro.
Theater,
dancing
and
movie
where making a shidduch was the ulti-
dates
followed.
He
was
a
gentleman
mate mitzvah.
and always treated. Don's sudden
My father, on the other hand, told
appearance at my side seemed like
funny Yiddish stories about the men-
magic.
When he turned out to be a
Susan Shapiro is the author of The
Republican whose life dream was to
Male-to-Female Dictionary (Boulevard
drive a Lamborghini to his estate in
Books) and Internal Medicine (IM
the Hamptons, I decided to return
Press).
the favor. So I passed him on to my
uptown friend Rachel — whom he
married six months later. Again I was
the savior, showered with flowers and
thank-you notes, forever part of the
legacy passed down to grandchildren.
At a late-night soiree I hosted not
long ago at a SoHo loft, my forth
duet met, moved in and soon said, "I
do," too. I was drunk with power. I
became the purveyor of phone and
fax numbers and e-mail addresses,
amassing a Rolodex of romantic
potential, keeping track of entangle-
ments on a regular basis.
After I wed, it was easy to pick
up men, though I made clear my
monogamy, as in, "My
husband and I are hav-
ing people over Satur-
day." It was even easier
to pick up stray
women since, as a hap-
pily married female, I
wasn't competition and
viewed as an expert at
closing the deal.
At first, I made mis-
taken assumptions
based on looks and
lifestyles. After intro- _
ducing a museum cura-
tor, historian and a
famed architect to my
friend Steven, a lin-
guistics professor, he said, "I actually
prefer showgirls." Ann, a 38-year-old
banker, rejected six successful middle-
aged suitors in favor of a struggling
22-year-old painter.
I learned that extracting a basic
type was essential. (I'd told Valorie I
envisioned a tall guy with a sense of
humor and good hair.) But one must
be realistic. As I warned Gerard, my
unattached lawyer, "If she has the
body of Kate Moss, she won't have
the brains of Kate Millet." I noted
that men were often slower to call.
My own betrothed had my number
for seven weeks before he took the
plunge and dialed. Females were faster
I am
a fix-up
fanatic who
plays cupid
to my close
friends.
to throw in the towel. "He said he'd
call Thursday," my editor Carla cried
last Thursday. "Thursday's not over
yet," I said. "If he phones Friday,
what's the big deal?"
I found myself imparting such inti-
macies as height without heels, true
hair color, marital history and years in
therapy with the excuse that this
insider information merely gave clues
on how to continue further. But it
also made me important, the center of
secrets, the love guru.
The hobby has its liabilities. When
I hooked up my kid brother with my
old chum, Elizabeth, she soon called
to say how well they were suited —
in the bedroom. ("Too much infor-
mation!" I yelled.) When he bought
her a ring three months later, it
aroused jealousy, not to mention
awkward triangles. After a marital
spat, when my brother tried to tell
me his side of the story, I said, "She's
a good friend of mine. I can't get in
the middle."
But, of course, I'm always in the
middle. I get the voyeuristic thrill of
dating and mating monthly without
risking rejection, diseases or unwanted
pregnancy. Aaron, who was originally
annoyed at my penchant for procur-
ing passion, thought it was a sign that
I still wanted to be single. Then I
placed several of his available pals on
top priority.
His accountant Kevin has taken
out my comrade Carol five times now.
"Have they slept together yet?" Aaron
asked recently, sharing the rush of
romance with me.
If, once in a while, he berates me
for being a busybody, I remind him of
our first rendezvous. Aaron, a 6-foot-
4, curly-haired comedy writer, came
to my door and said, "Valorie was
right. You are beautiful," a line I sug-
gest all nice single guys use — prefer-
ably on one of my girlfriends. ❑
3/20
1998
79