Mr. Unavailable #134: The Gongs of Doom

Vital Stats: 45, 5’8” (supposedly), dark-haired, goofy-smiled executive recruiter with near-sighted glasses.

First Date: Coffee at Via Della Pace on East 7^th Street.

What Happened: After finishing “Calling in the One” with Eva, I decided to dip my toe back into the dating pool and went back on OKCupid for the first time since the fiasco with #133 with a renewed sense of purpose: I put my real age down and made it clear that I was looking for something long term.

I’d intentionally overlooked #134 on OKCupid, thinking him to be nerdy, but then, out with Nora one night at the MOMA for a Cindy Sherman exhibit, I got out my phone to exhibit my online bachelors, including him. “Oh, he’s cute,” she said. “You should go out with him.”

I’d forgotten his profile said he was 5’8” because in his pictures he looked like he could have been 6’, so when I walked up to him, he was, of course, really 5’6” or 5’7” and I matched his height in my heels. I was not attracted, but he did seem nice—and harmless.

We got a table inside Via Della Pace and ordered coffee. He was a good talker, which immediately put me at ease because that meant I didn’t have to talk much. I discovered all kinds of interesting things about him. He grew up on a horse farm and was a competitive rider in his youth. He got his haircut by a gay guy in east midtown. He owned an industrial espresso machine and had combined two one-bedroom apartments to make his huge two-bedroom apartment.

As he talked, I began to notice that, behind him, the restaurant was filling with gorgeous Italian men—real Italian men, speaking Italian and everything. I tried to focus. #134 went on: All his brothers were lawyers, including one who was an award-winning documentary filmmaker by night and a confirmed bachelor. “As soon as I hear that one of his relationships is getting serious, I know it’s about to end,” he said. (Now, his brother I would probably be attracted to.) 

#134 also said he’d had a few long-term relationships and a previous marriage. Elaborating on the idea of long-term relationships, he said, “There’s something wrong with someone who’s in their late 30s or early 40s and has never been in a long-term relationship, don’t you think? People who haven’t had a long-term relationship don’t know how to give. They’re just selfish.”

Somewhere, the gongs of doom rang. My last long-term relationship was fifteen years ago. I gulped. Without knowing it, he’d just kicked me in the gut. But I just nodded as if I totally agreed: People who haven’t had long-term relationships—the lepers.

“I didn’t just insult you, did I?” he asked. I must not have had quite the poker face that I thought I had.

“Oh, no, of course not,” I said.

I didn’t really hear what he said after that. I had a lot of self-reflection to do. And now I was really distracted by the hot Italians. There was definitely something wrong with me. I excused myself to go to the bathroom and frowned at myself in the mirror. I've always thought of myself as being interested in long-term relationships but my dating history pointed to the contrary.

I took a deep breath and left the bathroom. He didn’t exactly insult me but, with that comment, he did manage to guilt me into agreeing to a second date. We finished our coffee, he paid and walked me to the corner and I gave him my phone number. After we parted ways, I stopped into a deli and bought a pack of cigarettes, a pint of Ben & Jerry’s and a lottery ticket—the hallmarks of a disappointing date.

I called Eva, who’s financially struggling and trying to date a non-committal ex-con, and told her about how #134 was successful and into long-term relationships. “Would he like me, do you think? Could he support both you and me?” she asked.

And then I came home to my one true long-term relationship: Molly McButter, my 13-year-old cat, who rolled over so I could rub her big, fluffy belly.

Signs of Hope: He's clearly into long-term relationships. And he's successful. And he picks up the check. 

Red Flags: I’m just so not attracted to him.

Turning Point: When he nailed me—my supposed problem, I mean.

Diagnosis: For him: He seems pretty available.

For me: Am I just one of those selfish people who doesn’t know how to compromise?

Mr. Unavailable #113: Fantasyland

See The Phoenix Rises, Paper Perfect, More Nouveau, Please and Visions of Sundance for the background on this one. 

After generating a large amount of Christmas cheer with #113, the Jewish doctor, I had high hopes. In the days after Christmas, there were some texts, but things were on a downswing rather than an upswing. Where were the phone calls? Where were the plans to meet up at Sundance?

Taking a cue from "Calling in the One," instead of sitting around wondering if he was going to call and going crazy when he didn’t, I was direct about what I wanted.

I texted him: Happy Thursday, Mr. Piano Man. I would love it if you had some time to catch up via telefono sometime soon…”

After I sent it, I couldn't stop smiling. I'm not sure how to say it, but I was really proud of me. I made me laugh. I was tickled by my directness. It was so foreign. Not to get too cheesy, but I even caught myself thinking, "That was so great. I love me."

Two days later, having heard nothing, I was totally fine. His silence had become my answer. He was incapable of doing what I asked. It was New Year's Eve and I was on the M train crossing the Williamsburg Bridge headed to a party with Kevin when a text came in.

#113: Happy new year Tara, wish you were here, or I was there with you. Maybe a party in dumbo or nolita?

I looked at Kevin. “A text? Two days later? What about a phone call? I asked for a phone call.”

Kevin not only shared my aggravation, he surpassed it. “It’s like he only gets in touch with you when he wants to, like he’s acting as if he’s in a relationship without doing any of the stuff that makes it a relationship.”

I remained standoffish in my reply: You, too. Have a great new year’s!

#113: Just getting sushi.

We were baffled. “So?” Kevin said. I answered #113 with no response.

Maybe the standoffishness had an effect because he called the next night and left a message. And then I called him back the next night and left a message. And then two weeks went by with nothing until another text arrived.

#113: Small batches. 


Again, I didn’t respond.

One month later, on Valentine’s Day, with #113 having completely vanished from my mind, I was sitting on my sofa watching TV, enjoying my self-imposed singleness as I worked toward finishing "Calling in the One" when a text came in.

#113: Happy valentine’s day! Be mine

I laughed as I realized I hadn’t thought about him in over a month. Having failed to call me, he'd become an automatic write-off. I wasn’t sure what kind of fantasyland he was living in. Be mine? Seriously? 

I played nice.

Me: Aw, you are sweet. Happy Valentine’s Day.

#113: Miss you. Have your necklace and want to keep it til I see you. Piano coming this weekend.

I laughed again. He missed me? Why didn’t he call me then? It was 2012. There were so many communication options. He had an iPhone. I had an iPhone. We could call. We could Skype. We could Facetime.

I remained polite but standoffish.

Me: Aw, yes, you’ll have to return my necklace in person. Keep me posted on your travels. And I’m glad your piano is finally on its way.

But the more standoffish I was, the more he appeared to pursue.

#113: Like you. How we are it is nice surprise. Spontaneous.

I laughed even harder. "How we are?" We weren’t anything. And we weren't spontaneous, we were non-committal.

And then it got even better. He sent a photo. Of himself. In bed. In his boxers and a T-shirt. Clearly, he’d just taken it.

While he did look cute lying there in boxers and a T-shirt, I panicked at where things were headed. Was this sexting?

Help me out here. What is it called when you’ve had a romantic liaison with someone and you don’t hear from him in any real way for a month and a half and then he reappears expecting you to pick up via text from exactly where you left off when you saw him? Presumptuous? Flaky? Rude? I shut him down.

Me: Yes, we’ll have to see what happens next. Cute photo. It’s sleepytime here, too. On that note, I must get some shuteye. Have a good evening. Sleep well. Xx

He was no dummy.

#113: Sleep well T.

Signs of Hope: He did call once and leave a message.

Red Flags: After I called him back, he never called me back.

Turning Point: When he never called me back.

Diagnosis: For him: He appears perfectly happy to be living in fantasyland.

For me: I shut him down, but I didn't completely shut him down.

Mr. Unavailable #113: Visions of Sundance

See The Phoenix Rises, Paper Perfect and More Nouveau, Please for the background on this one. 

Around 7 a.m., with plans to meet Eva for her birthday breakfast and then pack and head to my cousin’s in Boston for Christmas, I told him I had to go.

“Maybe I should stay an extra day,” he said as I started to get up.

“You should stay,” I said.

“When are you getting back?” he asked.

“The afternoon of the 26^th. When are you leaving?”

“My flight is at 6 p.m. on Christmas….Maybe I can stay another day.”

“You should.”

We went back and forth like that a few more times. Ultimately, he didn’t stay, but he did keep in touch while he was still in New York. For example, later on Christmas Eve, he texted me while I was on my bus to Boston from his bus to Jersey to see his parents. And then later that night in Boston, my cousin and I were in the kitchen giggling about the whole thing (“He came to New York to buy a grand piano?”…”How much is one of those things anyway?”…“He goes to Sundance every year? Every year?”) when he called.

I took my phone upstairs to talk. After complimenting me some more, he went on a neurotic Woody-Allen-like ramble (he is a Jewish doctor from New Jersey): “I should have called you earlier. We could have spent more time together…I don’t like the bus. It isn’t safe. I don’t think you should take the bus anymore. Take the Acela. I’ll chip in….You’re very passionate. You’re very affectionate…So am I? Well, why wouldn’t I be? I like you, you like me. Of course I’m going to be affectionate…”

I’m not sure if I mentioned it before, but I like it when people talk a lot. I find it soothing and entertaining. On some level, it doesn’t even matter what they’re saying.

He continued. “I don’t understand why so much is based on merit. It doesn’t mean anything. My family kept all these old awards and certificates of mine and I don’t know why. They’ve got them all up in my old room. That’s why I didn’t stay there. It’s just yucky. It really bothers me that these awards and things mean so much. I was teenager of the year when I was in high school. What does that mean to me now? Nothing. When I was a resident, none of it meant anything. We were all the same… I wish you were here. I have your necklace. That would have been the perfect way to get you back here tonight: ‘Oh, you left your necklace, now you have to come back.’ We could have gone somewhere and sat by a fire and had a glass of wine. But you’re in Boston.”

“I am,” I said, simultaneously soothed and entertained. “Are you leaving tomorrow? Don’t go,” I added, sounding uncharacteristically interested.

“Should I stay?”

“You should stay. I want you to stay.” There it was again.

“I’m working on Tuesday.”

“When do you think we’ll get to see each other again? Do you think you’ll come to New York soon?”

“I was thinking maybe we could meet somewhere,” he said.

 “That would be fun,” I said as visions of Sundance danced through my head.


On Christmas day, he sent one last text from New York: Merry christmas. On way to airport, happy I got to see you.

Signs of Hope: He texted and called and complimented me.

Red Flags: Things that start fast also die fast. Especially if they’re long distance.

Turning Point: After I left him that morning. I was happy when I left him, but my feelings only grew more sappy as the day wore on, as if my imagination were injecting reality with a hefty dose of fantasy, i.e., Sundance.

Diagnosis: For him: I know his dating record is pretty spotty. I know this because it looks a lot like mine.
For me: Never mind dating records. This is suddenly so exciting. 

Mr. Unavailable #113: More Nouveau, Please

See The Phoenix Rises... and Paper Perfect for the background on this one. 


With his arm still around me, #113 said, “I have something for you.” He let me go and reached into his pocket, pulling out a CD. It was his latest album. Confident.

“You talked about this when I saw you in Arizona,” I said.

“I did? When was that again?”

“Over a year ago,” I said.

“It’s been more than a year? I thought it was just a few months ago,” he said.

Confident and absentminded.

Now that #113 had seen that Kevin was not a girl, he let Kevin pay for our drinks and then #113 sprung for a cab. He sat close—to me, not Kevin. At the party, there were kids, which made me remember  #113’s earlier text. We looked at each other: “Everyone has kids.” 


The three of us mostly kept to ourselves in a conversation dominated by #113. He talked. And talked. And talked. About how he went to Sundance every year. About how he got his niece the same toys the kids at the party had. It didn’t seem like self-aggrandizement. Maybe he was nervous. I couldn’t remember how he was when I originally met him. Surely, he didn’t talk this much.

I’m a tiny bit ashamed to report that I succumbed to the urge to shush him—more than once. Things like, “Oh, we’re about to start the game, look…” and, even, “We should pay attention now.” He was mostly glued to me, which was 90% flattering and 10% annoying. And when he did talk to other people, I was glad to see that they were not attractive young women. (This sentence brought to you by…Jealousy: How you know you like someone.)

When we left the party, Kevin headed for the subway and #113 and I grabbed a cab and headed back to Manhattan. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. Go home? Stay out? I was kind of up for whatever.

“Do you want to go home? Do you want to get a drink at the hotel bar? Are you hungry? Do you want to go to Blue Ribbon Sushi?” he asked.

“I’m up for anything,” I said.

“Let’s go to Blue Ribbon Sushi,” he said.

When we walked into Blue Ribbon Sushi, the staff greeted him like he’d been there the night before—because he’d been there the night before. When our order arrived, he pointed to the two rolls he ordered and said, “I got this for you and I got this because I want you to try it.”

Confident, absentminded and thoughtful.

We talked about various things--our mutual friend, how I really don't like sushi, how one day I plan to live in the Domino Sugar factory, “I'll have one of the smokestacks.”

“You don’t want to live there. With all that sugar, it’s full of rats and mice and bugs. OK, if you really want to live there, you can live on one side of it and I’ll run a cracker factory on the other.”

He was silly. I liked that.

The next thing we knew, it was 3 a.m. The restaurant had closed at 2 a.m., but the staff, hanging out folding napkins in nearby booths, hadn’t kicked us out.

We went outside and hailed a cab.

“Who should get dropped off first?” I asked.

“Let’s go to my hotel first, it’s closer,” he said.

Still apparently up for whatever, I got into the cab before him. He closed the door and the cab turned onto Houston and then Varick. I don’t remember what was said because whatever was said was really just a transitional bridge that took us from friends who hang out at Blue Ribbon Sushi to more-than-friends who kiss in the back of cabs. Ergo, we started kissing in the back of the cab.

After about two long blocks of making out, I said, "It’s been a while since I made out in a cab."

“I never did.”

“But you had a girlfriend for in New York for three years,” I said. He looked at me. And then I remembered he’d told me about their passion deficiency. “Oh, right.”

We pulled up in front of the Mondrian. “I don’t want to be presumptuous…” I muttered.

“Just come up,” he said.

Confident, absentminded, thoughtful and decisive.

To walk into the Mondrian hotel at 3 a.m…. with #113’s arm around me…the door held open by one of these nouveau doormen….to the plush elevator bank…up to his suite (an upgrade, naturally)...felt decadent. Something I could get used to.

Fully clothed, we rolled around on the bed. I got to hear flattering things like, “I can’t believe you’re here.” and  “You’re cute. And hot. Cute and hot.”

Eventually, we fell asleep in that way you never really fall asleep the first time you try to fall asleep with someone.

Signs of Hope: I guess I like him more than I thought I did.

Red Flags: Do I like him, or do I like the attention and all the nouveau stuff around him?

Turning Point: When we kissed in the cab. I guess I really was up for anything.

Diagnosis: For him. He got me into bed with him. He must be smoother than I give him credit for.

For me: Um, apparently I’ve forgotten, but I’m currently working my way through a book called “Calling in the One.” I’m supposed to be taking a break from men—including having trysts in hotel rooms with them—so I can find that long-term, commitment relationship for which I long. Well done.

Mr. Unavailable #113: Paper Perfect

See The Phoenix Rises... for the background on this one.

Every few months, #113, the neurologist-pianist I’d been introduced to in Arizona in October 2010, would send me messages on Facebook with compliments (“You look stunning in that dress…”) and allusions to future visits (“I might be coming to New York to see my family in New Jersey… Do you like Tom Stoppard? Arcadia is playing in New York...”) This went on for more than a year. Every time I’d hear from him, I’d get excited and then hear…nothing.

In mid-December, he wrote again, “I’m coming to New York from the 23rd to the 26th. Are you around?” I already had things scheduled—parties, a trip to Boston, meeting Eva for a birthday breakfast. I wasn’t reworking my plans to accommodate a potential no-show, so I wrote back to say he was more than welcome to come to the party I was going to on Christmas Eve-Eve.

And then I forgot all about it.

Christmas Eve-Eve morning, I was readying myself to dive into the aforementioned plans when the phone rang. It was an Arizona number I didn’t recognize, so I let it go to voicemail. And then I listened to the message. It was #113 saying he was at his hotel in Soho, that he was going to get some culture and see the DeKooning exhibit and did I want to come with him?

Culture? I had no time for last-minute, unscheduled culture. Let me reiterate: I had plans. I called him back. He was friendly, engaging, talkative—someone who would do well in a party setting. I told him I had plans all day, but he was welcome to come to the party in Williamsburg that night.

“Oh, I’d love to go—if you want me to go. I don’t want to be in the way.”

“Oh. No, I want you to come. It will be fun. Another friend of mine is coming. We can all go.”

“I just want to spend some time with you... I haven’t seen you in a while, so I’ll go anywhere” he said. “And I haven’t been to Williamsburg in a long time.” I asked him when he’d arrived. Wednesday night, he said.

He’d waited until Friday morning to call me. “What have you done so far?” I asked.

“I went to the Steinway piano factory yesterday to get a piano. That’s actually why I came here.”

OK, that’s kind of sexy.

“I even found one I liked. I wasn’t sure that I would, but I did.”

He explained that they only make 150 grand pianos a year and each one takes a year and a half to make. Owning one had been his lifelong dream. He’d even bought the right-sized house the previous spring to have something to put it in. As someone who composes and plays his own music, it was necessity wrapped in luxury. A pianist and a neurologist. Paper perfect.

“Congratulations,” I said.

“Yeah, I told my family I was getting a piano and they said, ‘Be sure to get a good bench. You have to get a decent bench.’ Never mind the piano, it’s all about the bench to them.”

I laughed. He told me he was staying at the Mondrian on Crosby, so we made plans to meet around 8 p.m. at the bar before heading to Williamsburg.

Around 6 p.m., he texted: At friends uptown to see their kids…815?
Me: Sure. Sounds good.
#113: Everyone have kids.
Me: Not everyone.
#113: True
Me: You just have to hang in the right circles.

And by "right circles," I meant my circles—my childless, single circles.

Kevin and I reached the hotel around 8 p.m. The lofty bar area was nouveau Alice in Wonderland—an English garden decorated with oversized glasses, vases and pitchers. Mismatched chairs sat with wrought-iron-and-glass tables.

“You told him you were bringing me, right?” Kevin asked as we settled into stools by the bar.

“I said a friend was coming."

“He probably thinks I’m a girl,” he said.

“Maybe…Maybe not,” I said.

#113 texted that he was stuck in a cab coming down 5th Avenue. Then he called. “Hey. I’m really sorry I’m late. You guys can go ahead to the party if you don’t want to wait and I can meet you there. You’re at the bar? Charge the drinks to my room. I want to get your drinks. So sorry I’m late.”

I told him we weren’t in any hurry and would be at the bar when he got there. I hung up and turned to Kevin.

“Yup, he thinks you’re a girl,” I said. “He offered to buy our drinks.”

“I thought he might. No one ever thinks ‘opposite sex’ when a ‘friend’ is coming along,” he said.

“When he walks up, to give him some warning, I’ll yell, ‘It’s a boy!’” I said.

Over Kevin’s shoulder, I watched the door for #113. It wasn't just the bar, the entire Mondrian was nouveau—nouveau money. There wasn’t a suit in sight, but there was attitude everywhere. And then #113 walked through the door—in gray cords, a cream sweater and a scarf around his neck. Neurologist chic.

I walked up to him as he came down the steps, smiling. We hugged and he kissed me on the cheek, holding me. Even when I rolled my body away to introduce him to Kevin, he held me to him, almost claiming me as he reached out with his other arm to shake Kevin’s hand. (It’s a boy!)

Signs of Hope: When he held me to him.

Red Flags: The fact that it took him more than a year to get to New York and, in that time, he’d resurfaced and then disappeared several times.

Turning Point: When he walked into the bar.

Diagnosis: For him: He liked-me–liked-me a year ago and he still likes-me–likes-me today.
For me: I didn’t like-him–like-him a year ago, but I like-him–like-him today.