This Christmas (12 page)

After Hunter went to bed, Reilly lit a fire as I placed peppermint tea bags in mugs with candy cane handles. “When do you want to set our New Year’s goals?” Reilly asked, as I returned to the couch. When we were dating, Reilly and I talked about how we were the only two people we knew of who set their New Year’s resolutions in mid-December so they could hit the ground running in January. We both agreed that it was rather silly how people wrote down all of these grand ideas without an action plan to achieve them. We agreed that the holiday season was the perfect time to devise a strategy for realizing our New Year’s goals. But this evening, as I enjoyed the warmth of the fire and tea, I wanted nothing to do with setting goals for the New Year. I wanted to enjoy the present with my new husband.

Reilly went to sleep at 11
P.M
., as he always does, and I went online to troll for men, as I never do.

I filled out my personality profile as Prudence Malone after scanning her photo into the Single in the City site. After answering the basics about my general interests, the site wanted me to write a series of short essays. “My idea of a perfect date,” I said aloud, repeating the question on the questionnaire. I’m not even sure of my idea of the perfect date, much less Prudence’s. “My ideal date would happen spontaneously,” I wrote, without thinking. “Once a guy took me to an absolutely horrible play and at intermission he asked how I liked it. I knew I couldn’t bear another moment of the awful play and decided I’d come clean. I knew that his reaction to my candor would determine the rest of our night. I told him I hated the play and wanted to skip the second act. He said he was relieved because he thought it was awful too. We walked through Central Park talking (though if any man ever suggested we ‘take a walk and have a long chat,’ I would consider him contrived, cliché, and unforgivably cheap) about whatever popped into our heads. We ended up playing a vicious couple of rounds of air hockey (again, invite me out for air hockey and I’d make you swallow the puck), then found this horrendously ‘laid-back’ coffee shop where it took thirty minutes to get our drinks, and we played Scrabble till 3
A.M
.” I sighed nostalgically recalling this date—until I realized it never happened.

“I’m an artist,” I continued, when asked about my lifestyle. “I suppose I’ve always been one, but it wasn’t until last year that I realized this was what I was meant to do. Rather, this was who I was meant to be. I was an accountant, which is a fine way to make a living if you enjoy it, but when you start wondering if you could actually slit your throat with triplicate forms, you know it’s time to get out.” I deleted that last sentence, fearing that my suicidal references might not come off as whimsical and artsy, as I was hoping to portray Prudence. “Life is fun,” I continued. “And I like living!” I deleted that part too. If you like living, you don’t really need to say it. And something about stating it on a general questionnaire seemed too weird. I revised. “I was an accountant, which is a fine way to make a living, but if you get creative on the job, it’ll land you in federal prison.”

“What do I do for fun?” I read aloud. I sat silently for a few moments before I was relieved to remember that the question was directed to Prudence, not me. “Biggest heartbreak?” I read aloud. “Discovering that I married a bottle of gin,” I deleted as soon as I wrote. I thought of Sophie and how she walked out on her marriage, and how Prudence had recently become the person she was always meant to be, and felt a sinking sense of inadequacy. Of cowardice.

I decided to finish my profile later and look at the guys’ photos. There was a forty-two-year-old man kneeling with a football. He wasn’t terrible looking, but I shuddered at the headline, “Strong and Silent Type.” More like a lobotomized Goliath. I always hated guys who described themselves as “silent.” Why not just say, “Dumb” or “Antisocial”? Or better still, “Has nothing to say.”

A grainy headshot of a man tilting his head near a tabby cat read, “I like to cuddle.” I rolled my eyes. At least he didn’t say he likes pussy. I giggled at my departure. I’d become such a bore this last month that it was nice to shock myself with an uncharacteristically crass remark.

One balding guy with a goatee and disturbing smirk was pictured leaning in to what was probably a computer keyboard out of the photo frame. Headline: “Sexy Ladies Apply Here.” In capital letters he wrote, “I am a sexy, real man.” Oh, to be that delusional.

Clyde offered in his headline that he was STD-free. If this was his greatest bragging right, I’d have to pass.

There was Todd, the word butcher. “I’m a celebral kind of guy whose analization of my last relationship is that it was a catapulist for change in my life.” I suppose that means his girlfriend hurled his sorry ass out the door, along with his celery sticks.

Almost as bad as the Terminator of the English language were the wannabe intellectuals—those who try so hard to sound smart that they actually seem like blathering morons. “Insofar as the dynamic of interpersonal relationships, one must always maintain a fatalistic view of the options that disclose themselves,” wrote Tim. What was that even supposed to mean?

One guy featured a photo of himself holding a cardboard sign that read, “Will work for love.” Sweet sentiment. I almost would have gone for it if he weren’t completely naked behind the sign. Another implored, “Break glass in case of emergency.” I guess he was trying to say that if you shattered your computer monitor, he’d be there behind the screen. I’m not sure. The only thing I knew with certainty was that his gimmick wasn’t working.

Steve said that looks weren’t very important and intelligence wasn’t important at all.

Martin said in the first paragraph that he was kind to animals. Shouldn’t this be a given?

Ron tried to show how quirky he was by revealing that he liked to leave the windows open when it rained. His windows, my floors. Not a good combination. Oh, yes, this was about Prudence. I can’t imagine she’d have much tolerance for rain man either.

“I was separated from average children when I was younger,” I read from Kyle.
You were probably a danger to them
. Kyle was pale with a tense-looking neck and stringy moustache. Like the drivers on the New Jersey Turnpike probably couldn’t help craning their necks to see Rudy’s mangled car, I couldn’t help reading Kyle’s profile. “I wrote advanced poetry and sonnets that were beyond the comprehension of even my teachers,” he continued. I laughed aloud.
Poor misunderstood darling
. “I hope my special someone is out there, wherever there may be for you.”
What?!
My
special someone
? Oh, yes, Kyle is such a poet. And
wherever there may be for you
? Like the average children in his school, I do believe my best course of action is to separate myself from Kyle.

“Wow me!” a headline implored.

“Fuck you,” I said to the Donald Trump look-alike, posed leaning on his car. I loved the anonymity of life online. Through the two degrees of separation of our computer screens, I felt free to say exactly what I wanted to these single-digit IQ losers. Never had I been so harsh and judgmental of others. Never had I used such language. Never had I had so much fun.

“Smokin’ hot firefighter looking to spark a flame with a spatial lady,” said twenty-eight-year-old Manny. The man made time to pose in his uniform (bare chested) and yet couldn’t be bothered to check his spelling. And, I’m sorry, if you’re looking to spark a flame, that wouldn’t make you much of a firefighter. You’d be a pyromaniac. Just FYI, there are no flames in space, dip-shit.

Spewing out anger at these men was incredibly uplifting. I felt a tad guilty that in the season of comfort and joy, I was getting my jollies yelling at men who were simply looking for love. Then I got over it and went on to the next profile. Who needed Vilma Veeter? I was unleashing my inner bitch all by myself.

My favorites were the guys who came up with the catchy headlines like “Dragon Slayer Seeking Fair Maiden” “Urban Cowboy Needs Pretty Philly” “Sit on Santa’s Lap” or the best, “Alien Recently Landed on Earth.” Exactly what type of woman would respond to him?

“If I can make one person smile, my day is complete,” wrote Sam, a twenty-nine-year-old fitness instructor. Okay, Sam, it’s time to raise your expectations. Your day is
complete
if you make someone smile?! I was so appalled, I had to write back. And when I was done with Sam, I’d write to the others. I’d urge The Donald wannabe to get rid of his picture with the Miata. Football Guy would need to be told to let go of his past. Sure his days on the Lafayette High School Spartans were glorious, but it was time to grow up and develop a few things to say to women instead of copping out with the “silent-type” crap.

Suddenly my Instant Message alert sounded. It was from an e-mail address I didn’t recognize. As I opened it, I realized that Prudence was getting her first online suitor.

It was a little obtrusive and spooky, but I was enjoying the low-stakes interactions the Internet provided. I was safely hidden behind the safety of a computer terminal and my husband’s ex-wife’s name.

What did that mean? Was he accusing me of being half-assed about my profile? Was he trying to be clever?

There, that’ll show this Dr. Jay fellow that he’s not the only one who can be obscure.

I laughed.

Internet men. You rattle off a few downers and they love you for it. Still, it was nice to chat behind the shield of my terminal.

Good question. Why so crabby during the most wonderful time of the year? I wouldn’t even characterize it as crabby. I was downright furious at people I didn’t even know. Poor Sam would wake up tomorrow morning and read my vicious invective. Why was I feeling threatened by an ex-wife who wasn’t even a presence in my life? Why was I fascinated by how Sophie just walked out on her alcoholic husband? Why was I cursing like Lenny Bruce? Why was I surfing the Internet talking to strange men when I had a wonderful husband sleeping in the next room? To any observer, my life appeared to be more together than it has since Rudy died. I have a great new husband who’s a wonderful father to my son. My career is thriving. I have no financial woes. Why do I feel as though I’m coming apart at the seams?

I thought the Internet was swarming with perverts. I got a guy who likes to talk about my feelings and wants to know about my past relationships.

Okay, here it comes. He’s sporting a fire hose. He regularly pleasures women with five-hour Tantralectric orgasms. He and Hef pal around on his thirty-foot yacht.

Shit! I forgot I was supposed to be Prudence!!!

My heart began to pound so hard I felt the pulsating in my ears. I knew that some men would want to meet me—to meet Prudence, that is—but I hadn’t yet thought out how I’d manage this. I guess if they seem like a good fit, coffee would be an acceptable first date. But this Dr. Jay guy was not a good candidate.

Too nosy.

Too pushy.

He was treating me more like a patient than a prospective girlfriend. I don’t like people who presume they have a right to know intimate details of my life simply because we’ve met. Or in the case of Dr. Jay, simply because we’ve chatted online.

About thirty-six hours ago
, I did not type.
My fantasy man turned into a nightmare. Sophie makes leaving a wretched marriage seem so easy I wondered why I hadn’t done it. My best friend finds Sophie Come Lately endlessly more interesting than she ever found me. And Prudence is finally pursuing the art she’s always dreamt of while I toil away at my passionless career. Put this on top of the fact that I was teetering dangerously on the edge of reason prior to my drunken luncheon, and I think I have every right to be a tad miffed Doctor Know Nothing!

When I looked at my clock, I realized I’d spent far too long chatting with Dr. Jay. It was time to focus. I would spend no more than three minutes with candidates. If they didn’t seem like a good match for Prudence, I wouldn’t waste an extra second on them. I had only ten days until the New Year. It was time to be a mercenary matchmaker.

I decided to call Gwen and see how her night with Prudence and Sophie went. When I got her answering machine, I tried her cell phone. I heard background noise that sounded like a premature celebration of the New Year. It was a wall of laughter. “Oh, hi there,” Gwen said, sounding secretive about talking to me. “I’m out with some friends right now. Can I call you back?”

“Are you with
her
?” I asked.

“That is correct,” Gwen said, in a stilted voice. She’d make a terrible spy.

“What’s she like? Does she seem fabulously happy?” I asked.