“Dear Susie,
Here is your single’s love horoscope for Wednesday, June 8:
It’s party time! Your knack for socializing — mixing and mingling, putting the right people together, kissing in corners — is off the charts now, so put together an impromptu evening or plan a big bash for the weekend.”
How does astrology.com know me so well?!
Perspective #1: Susie J. updates her father’s office
From: Susie J
Reply-To: Susie J
To: susiejster@gmail.com
Date: Apr 27, 2005 10:11 AM
Subject: Jen’s Big Life Adventure: Date #2 with the Millionaire* (Date #1)
Summary
Score: 6.1
Food: Excellent (Scott’s at Jack London Square)
Chemistry Test Results: there’s potential…
Details
On the way to dinner, he mentions his internet dating failures (-5 P.p.). The implication, however, was that he likes me. A couple minutes later he admits that he realized the severity of our age gap. I wonder when it occured to him. As a good friend of mine put it: “I was just punching some dates through the calendar, and I realized that I’m a lot older than you!” (-5 P.p.)
I had a glass of a northern coastal California cab and the mahi mahi with hush puppies and garlic butter. He had the fresh crab and made a funny joke about how he was going to get messy (+3 P.p.). The conversation had some definite second date lulls, but we pulled through. I really only had to fear for the fate of the date for a matter of seconds at a time. We finished with the creme brulee, really quite a good rendition.
As it was the second date, it was necessary to delve a little deeper into each other’s lives. Among what we discussed: Swedish reality television, his apartment and the nearby organic grocery store, his mother’s visit, his bunions (just kidding!), other products I could sell at home fairs, my boring job, et cetera. We hardly touched on any depressing subjects, save the past two elections. He expressed that after the 2004 election, he was depressed for two weeks and he’s still ashamed to return to the homeland (+15 P.p.).
The highlight of the date definitely came when he tried to figure out what I do in my free time. After briefly mentioning my knitted goods plan, I realized it was the perfect time to bounce one of my entrepreneurial schemes off his business-oriented (sponge) head. (I mean, really, what is a millionaire good for besides investment possibilities?) I quickly (and intelligently) decide to persent the most solid of my buisness models: the bar/laundromat. And–this is where the Patrick points really start rolling in–his brother has always wanted to start a bar/laundromat! (+6,304 P.p. – or should they go to his brother?) I wondered briefly if I was out with the wrong brother (-45 susie j. points).
After dinner, we took a walk along the pier and then he brought me home. He mentions that it’s chilly and I offer him my coat (+14 susie j. points for chivalry). He declines (+3 P.p.), but strangely mentions that he thinks we have an audience. He was referring to the window flanked restaurant nearby, but unbeknownst to either of us, we definitively were not alone. It seems two of my great friends had concluded that the best use of their Tuesday evening was stalking my date. I don’t disagree; their reports follow.
Conclusion
Investment Potential: high
Romantic Potential: see investment potential
Compatibility Assessment: eh…see investment potential.
*This claim is as of yet unsubstantiated.
Please direct any comments, queries, and concerns to susiejster@gmail.com.
If you would like to subscribe to the Jen’s Big Life Adventure newsletter, please send an email with the subject “subscribe.” If you would decisively like to be left off the list for any future mailings, please respond with the word “unsubscribe.”
Perspective #2: Stalker #1
Once a bitch always a bitch, what I say. Dusk had turned to darkness and Gayle and I were feeling hungry and mean. We were driving in circle after circle, and the restaurant eluded us time and time again. Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning in a cheesy metaphor, an idea struck me, an idea awesome in its brilliance and immaturity.
“Wouldn’t it be funny if we went to the restaurant where Jen and her Swede are eating?”
“Oh my God, that would be so freaking hilarious.”
Our restaurant finally appeared. We ate, and the food displaced our hunger, but not our predatory impulses. Nay, it fueled them, and what had at first been an amusing suggestion became a goal, a challenge, a grande cause. It was to go like this: we would arrive at Jack London square and peruse the restaurants. Being quality people, Jen and the Swede would be seated prominently, next to a window. We would enter and pretend to notice them, and Gayle would express surprise that we happened to be at the same restaurant: “Oh my God, I can’t believe it! Will and I come here all the freaking time!” I would excitedly tell Jen that Zach and I had made progress on our list of the fifteen best states: “Jen! Number five is going to be… Alaska!!!” Then I would take notice of the Fjord-jumper and exclaim, pointing at him, “you’re right, Jen! His head really does look like a sponge!”
I will spare you the details of our drive from Albany to O-town, fascinating though they are. We found an unbelievably choice parking spot – picture this if you can: the very last parking space on Broadway! The one right next to the corner, right across from Jack London Square! An auspicious start, to be sure!
Then began a rather lengthy survey of the various boojie restaurants; through the window we scanned the scattering of booj-bags in a bistro and a seafood restaurant, with no luck. The night air was pleasant and the grimy waters of the bay provided an undeniably romantic ambiance.
“What if we find them making out out here?”
“That would be freaking awful.”
We continued the search for our prey undaunted, entering a Steakhouse. I played the hostess like a fiddle: “Hi. I’m planning a graduation party for next month; would it be okay if we just looked around?” But alas, this ruse was for naught, for there was nary a Jennifer nor a Scandinavian in sight.
“Okay, I’m getting Jen vibes from this direction!” said Gayle, and we investigated the restaurant’s bar. Another disappointment for our hapless heroes.
It was now becoming rather late, and as we walked along the pier I worried aloud that the date might have finished already.
“No way… I’m sure they started at eight. And it’s, what, ten o’clock now? Two hours for dinner is about right.”
“I don’t know. Swedes are very efficient.”
Gayle stopped short, suddenly staring at the walkway beside the restaurant that we were approaching.
“Hey! I see two people!” she whispered. “And the girl’s got curly hair. She’s got curly hair!!!” We had to duck behind a boat, and Gayle peered eagerly across the pier. I could see nothing. I have bad eyesight, and refuse to wear glasses. Glasses are for nerds. The couple reappeared, and it was as if Gayle suddenly exploded:
“Oh my God! It’s them!! It’s totally them!” I was overtaken by a sudden panic: what the fudge were we thinking being there? How pathetic were we going to look? Jen would see us, and her face would register momentary confusion, and then a toxic melange of disgust and contempt. “What are you guys, ten years old?? I can’t buh-leeeeve this!!” And she would treat us to an ostentatious roll of the eyes. Being naturally cowardly (I’m Irish/Scottish), I bolted, taking refuge beside a nearby fountain. Gayle (also of Celtic descent) frantically followed. I made her light a cig, so as to look natural, and we sat dreading our imminent discovery.
And yet, as the star struck couple passed, cheeks pink from cold, they were too absorbed in each other to take notice of us! They strolled slowly past the fo
untain, sparing nary a sideways glance. At this point Gayle and I went from saboteurs to spies. We were spying. We were creepy. But we couldn’t interrupt the romantic promenade; that would be bad form. Jen and Spongehead – there really is an uncanny resemblance – sauntered dreamily along towards Broadway, eventually walking right past my car. They soon began to recede into the darkness of the underlit street. Gayle and I trailed them about fifty or sixty cubits behind, praying to soon be done with this sad episode of our lives. But as we finally reached my car, Jen and the Swede crossed the street and BEGAN WALKING BACK TOWARDS US!
“Should we wave to them?”
“Okay. Yeah, we’ll drive by and wave. That will make us less creepy. And we won’t actually have to talk to them.”
“Oh, but there’s no U-turn.”
“This is Oakland, the land law forgot.”
“Should we open the windows?”
“No, no, let’s just wave.”
And we gave the biggest, smelliest wave that we could muster, excited staccato heartbeats resounding in our anxious bosoms as we barreled toward our victims. We were sure that our attack met its target, because as we waved Jen turned her face askance, and there it was, that look of disgust and contempt, aimed at none other than us! It seems, however, that Gayle and I can’t even manage to make asses of ourselves properly: Jen swears that our wave went unseen, that her withering glance had some other object, or was a hallucination, that if we had not told her our tale she would never have suspected a thing. Next time we’ll do a better job, Jen. We’ll make our presence known AND give you ample cause to regret it.
Perspective #3: Stalker #2 weighs in
The only information we had to go on was Jack London Square . No time, no specific restaurant, no assurance of success. But, no doubt because of complicated and fateful astrological configurations and a special psychic connection between Jennifer and myself, the seemingly needle-in-a-haystack chance of successfully stalking her on her date was in actuality more of a stick-out-like-a-sore-thumb given.
Thinking back, it is almost as if the millionaire wanted us to stalk him on his date with Jennifer: why else choose an area where the restaurants have so many windows? Of a particularly paranoid disposition myself, I question this decision. After walking around the third restaurant and peering in the large bay windows, I must admit that hope was fading fast. Will, as a Taurus, has an arguably natural inclination toward defeatism, so I felt that I had to rally his spirits: “It’s only over the next hill, bucko!”
And then: in the distance, a girl with dark, short curly hair. A pair of people, walking out along one of the piers. I was almost immediately sure that it would turn out to be Jennifer and the millionaire. My heart leapt at this success, and I turned to inform Will of my suspicions. But then it hit me: they were holding hands. And walking along a pier. Slowly. For a moment, this evidence of romance made me doubt that it was Jennifer (after all, I’m very skeptical of this whole millionaire thing). But a certain slant of light hit her, and I could see that she was wearing her red coat. And a familiar “business cas” gray skirt. And that was certainly her walk, though it was slowed down to a sexy not-a-care-in-the-world sashay.
As I slowly processed this all, I realized that they were walking back from the bay and would soon round the corner and see us!!
Now, to be fair, I can not speak for Will. But having read his description of our escapade, I would argue that it was neither our Celtic heritage nor our astrological inclinations that made us bolt at the prospect of running into them. At some level, we both knew that this was not how we had imagined our happily impulsive encounter: it should have been (and would have been, had we found the damn burrito place earlier) them seated, us standing. Not an intrusion on an intimate moment. That is just poor form, and Will and I both shudder at the thought of poor form. So I think that our bolting came from the best within us: despite my skepticism as to this strapping Swede’s intentions toward Jennifer, despite Will’s hatred of people with money, despite Will’s disapproval of taking a date to Jack London Square, and despite my dislike of many born under the sign of the twins—despite all these things, this type of moment between two people is to be respected.
Quickly noticing how absorbed Jennifer and the millionaire were with each other, we became less and less afraid of being noticed. He is only slightly taller than her, dressed in all black, short sleeves, nice slacks. His walk had a certain confidence to it as well: certainly the pretty girl on his arm didn’t hurt matters. I really didn’t see his face this whole time, for I was much more interested in watching Jennifer. She was smoking and smiling, casually holding his hand and ambling ever so slowly this star-speckled night, as though she was made for dating, made for romance, moonlight, candlelight, the like. A scene worthy of the cinema, to be sure. An aura of charm radiated from her—how could this millionaire not be in love with her? Happy to behold this web of magic she so effortlessly had woven, I became even more reluctant to disturb it. And the millionaire became a person, no longer an abstract, vaguely pathetic shade, and I had no desire to ruin this happy stroll for him. After all, he was just enjoying a beautiful moment in a cold, hard world.
You know: I don’t know if I actually felt any of this. Will’s description is much more accurate. I get carried away sometimes. After all, I am a Leo. Of Celtic heritage, no less.
Okay?
I just wanted to get that out there.
I also like my really lame, boring temp job that leaves eight of the nine hours of the day entirely unoccupied. Wandering around suburban San Leandro at lunchtime hardly counts as an occupation.
So, I’m walking around these curvy, sunny streets every day for an hour. Sometimes I talk on the phone, sometimes I listen to music. Often I just walk.
This temp job I have right now is situated in the middle of a circle the circumference of which is entirely composed of retirement communities. One refers to itself as a “gracious retirement residence.” That makes me wonder.
Consequently, my company on the sunny suburban streets of San Leandro is comprised mainly of the elderly. This makes me wonder, too.
I remember fresh-faced and pimply me wandering the dirty streets of downtown Berkeley when I first moved there. I remember the shock of the homeless, the smell of the riff raff. I wasn’t offended, of course. I even made friends with a good many when I was living right off Telegraph.
Standing out in my memory is the picture of an older woman who, presumably, had spent much of her life terrified of the world. Or, perhaps, not terrified. But, definitely attempting to avoid it. My evidence was simple: Everywhere she walked, all the time, her head faced down. Her eyes focused only on the sidewalk, on nothing besides her feet and the soft concrete beneath them. Sometimes she’d carry two brown paper grocery bags, heavy with some sort of grocery or life stuff. Her arms would be straight at her sides, the bags barely missing the ground as her eyes bored a deeper rut in the sidewalk with every step.
I’d see her from time to time while I lived in Berkeley. I bet I’d see her still if I spent more time over there. Maybe you’ve seen her. Maybe you, too, have wondered about the life that stiffened her posture, her body eventually forming that immovable tee.
One time I passed her on Dana. She was walking towards Telegraph, and I was on my way to Shattuck–probably to play pool or some such nonsense. All I saw while I passed her in awe was the center part of her straight gray hair, the scraggly ends a no longer optional curtain over her face. I’d have to be a pancake on the sidewalk to actually get a glimpse.
There’s something about me that you should know if you’re going to make sense of what’s going on here. I have an overactive cingulate gyrus. No, really, I do. When I was a baby and my mom would take me on planes, I’d turn around and I’d make baby small talk with the people behind us. Passing people on the street, I don’t just see passerbys, I see faces. I see lives. It’s really fairly inconvenient on public transportation. Sometimes I’ll [seriously] shed a tear from the pain reflected in a fellow passenger’s face. And my overactive imagination is surely also to blame. If only it didn’t enumerate the scenarios that may or may not have put said pain there.
Anyway, so my cingulate gyrus is overactive. It’s the part of the brain that lights up, so to speak, when one sees a face. Okay, so I just looked it up and I’m totally wrong. The cingulate gyrus is the part of the brain that has to do with emotions. My cingulate gyrus, then, is just as active as one would expect given my dramatic nature. But some other part of my brain is out of whack which leads to a particularly obsessive obsession with people.
So, here I am in San Leandro, walking around and watching the old people, and remembering the Berkeley resident that has made such an indelible impression on me. And then, low and behold, I notice the top of a gentleman’s head walking right towards me. He doesn’t look up to meet my smiling face as we pass. I look across the street. I see a woman watching the ground while she ambles her way across the street. She doesn’t need to see the flashing hand, the intersection is beeping her safety message. It’s an epidemic!
Saddened by this disturbing fate of humanity, I resolved that fateful lunch break to never allow my gaze to fall–to instead face the world and welcome my cohabitants of this admittedly often cold, hard, bacteria-infested world. In keeping with this resolution, I have since tripped over bits of sidewalk multiple times and stepped in shit twice. In a week! Conclusion: the world is a dangerous place.
My skin was itching, and I was tired of fighting it. So I dug through my purse to find the eighth of an inch of cigarette I’d hoped was still around. It had been a day or two since I’d indulged. Not long for some, but long for me, on this particular day, yesterday.
When I lit the match to the stub of a fag, the smell transported me back nine long years. It’s the difference between smoking and being a smoker, that smell. It was the beginning of a life-long love affair, and I smelled it yesterday.
I wonder if I’m alone in differentiating this odor. Perhaps it was the particular mix of suburban Northern California and newly lit charred tobacco. Perhaps I was just feeling nostalgic, but no, no, there was something different about this cigarette. Maybe I’d been carrying it around in my purse since high school, and Parliaments smelled differently then. But that’s not it, cause I smoked reds in high school, like the cool kids. No, it was the smell of that first drag, the particular odor of naivete. Something I’d lost, but somehow regained.
Today I wondered if a pack of smokes might make my day tolerable, and, should they, if they would again provide entrance to this strange time warp I’d stumbled on. I bolted out the office of the temp job formerly known as best temp job ever, to my local smoke shop, which I have, on occasion, utilized to buy the smokes that have proven in the past to make days tolerable.
And today? Well…
“A pack of Parliament Lights please” as I dig around my purse for quarters, hoping to put together the requisite $4.48.
“Are you 18?”
“Yes. I have an I.D.” oooh, but he doesn’t want to see my I.D. The question, apparently, was not out of concern for his tobacco license.
“Are you single?”
“Yes.” What was that?! Don’t tell stinky old nasty man the truth, stupid girl.
“You are?!” Lie now?! I already dug my grave. Let’s lie in it.
“Yes.”
“Can I ask you out on a date?” Let’s see. You’re at least fifty, and you work at a convenience store. Perhaps you own the convenience store, but…
“Um..not this week. I’m having a hard week.”
“Why?”
“Oh…family shit.” The short answer. I mean, really, there are tears in my eyes. Do I need to explain myself?!
He mumbled something I didn’t understand along the lines of helping me through it. I must have looked skeptical. “Okay. Well, I’ll see you next week, then.”
And now, yet another reason to quit smoking. Or at least to avoid that particular market. I realize that I crossed a line. Now I’m old enough that old guys will hit on me too. And, in case you’re wondering, the smokes taste like I’m a smoker, cause I am, and, no, my day is not yet tolerable.
Background: the forecast, the initial proposal
From: Jennifer Sue
Reply-To: Jennifer Sue
Bcc: Dad Sue , zach Sue , Julia Sue , G. Sue , Will Sue
Date: Apr 15, 2005 10:08 AM
Subject: My Date with the Millionaire
Reply Reply to all Forward Print Add sender to Contacts list Trash this message Report phishing Show original
So, this is how the date with the millionaire went. (Feel free to spread this around the office, Dad.)
I was nervous. I remember hearing that he was shy and REALLY wanted a girlfriend. Not a good start.
He did NOT come to the door. Rather, I called him while he was on his way over, and he asked if he should call when he got here. Seeing an easy way out of introducing him to my mother (I mean, really, we are adults here), I readily agreed. He arrived and called (didn’t park – at least not on the right side of the street), but he did get out of the car.* I had Mom follow me out and take a picture of him from behind the gate. I’m pretty sure he noticed, but didn’t bat an eyelash (+2 Patrick points (P.p.).
* Denise – I really do not feel that it’s rude in this day and age to wait outside. Cell phones are the new doorbell!
He looked like a millionaire, dressed well in nice blue jeans, a black shirt and a white striped button down overshirt (actually, quite tasteful). And he’s much cuter than I remembered (+5 P.p.). We got into his Mercedes-Benz convertable roadster, but it was too cold to put the top down (-1 P.p.).
Thankfully, Mom had printed out the night’s movie schedule and written on it whether the critics liked them or not. Nothing was playing at a convenient time, and so we decided to eat first (though he’d had a sausage earlier in the day). Turns out he likes organic food. (+5 P.p.).
Anyway, we walk around Hacienda Crossings, but I refuse to go to Macaroni Grill, and there’s not much else. So then I suggest Main Street, and we go there and have a wonderfully delicious meal at Pastas? It’s right next to that coffee place (Coffee Beans & Things? – the one near Tully’s). We dined on bruschetta, and I had the crab stuffed prawns. He chose the special, a crab stuffed filet of halibut. I had a glass of the Mondavi Cab. Turns out he doesn’t drink much wine (-4 P.p.). Dinner conversation consisted of a rather dismal discussion of the future oil crisis (I brought it up – minus 10 Jennifer points (J.p.), but we’re not really keeping track of those). Then we moved on to corporate abuse of disposable products to encourage American consumerism, followed by a lovely chat about his family and Sweden. He goes there two months of the year!! Anyway, dinner conversation was lovely and he paid for everything. Plus 15 P.p..
Back to the movie theatre. We finally decided to see Million Dollar Baby. A good choice, because a good movie, but other than that a real downer and really REALLY long. We have some little Snickers bites. They weren’t very impressive (-10 Snickers points). The movie was long. I was tired. I finally got home at 12:20, and he was very polite. Quite a gentleman, opening doors and the such. My conclusion: both Southern men and foreign men have manners (for the most part).
So, in conclusion, it was a good date. On the scale of 0 to 10 where 0 is what results from my signing up to be on that terrible Blind Date show, and 10 is oh my god, it turns out my blind date is Orlando Bloom and Heidegger has just made a huge impression on him, I rate it a 7.3.
Yes, we’re going to go out again sometime. Yes, I curled my hair. No, he didn’t invite me to Sweden. No, I never found out his last name. He’s a gemini.
ReplyForward
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>
> Dad Sue to me
> More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
>
>Whoa, this is more detail than I anticipated? I have forwarded it to
>the proper authorities. What is the highest scoring date you have
>had?
>
>Date: Fri, 15 Apr 2005 10:23:24 -0700
>To: Dad Sue
>From: Dad Sue’s coworker 1
>Subject: Re: Fwd: My Date with the Millionaire
>
>>>How does she expect us to do some real investigating without a
>>>last name? Geez!! She should kiss him on the next date for a basic
>>>chemistry test.
>
>”A day without chocolate is a day wasted.”
>
>————————————————————————————
Dad Sue to me
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
>To: Dad Sue
>From: Dad Sue’s coworker 2
>Subject: Re: Fwd: My Date with the Millionaire
>
>They change their minds a lot. So in May, a Gemini might think he
>can’t possible live another day without an iPod, but then two days
>before his birthday, he’ll say Apple sucks … he doesn’t want to
>support that awful company, he would never be seen with an iPod …
>iPods are destroying the moral foundation of America and only Steve
>Jobs is getting rich. For his birthday, he just wants to have a
>quiet picnic at the beach with his closest friends, especially
>Sandi, his friend from New York who now lives in Portugal. Maybe she
>would fly out for the weekend.
>
>Oh, dear. Sorry to go on and on. I was just channeling a friend.
>
>>>Why?
>>
>>
>>>Oh, no … not a Gemini. It’s so hard to buy presents for them.
>>>cm
>————————————————————————————
Jennifer Sue to Dad Sue
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
you know, on second thought, i give it a 6.9. My highest is probably a 7.3. But I don’t go on too many dates. If 10 is a date with Orlando Bloom, though, last night certainly can’t be a 7.3. Please let everyone know how I’ve reconsidered.
– Show quoted text –
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Mom Sue to me
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
You didn’t send me your report but I did get a copy of it from Daddy. Why do you think he knew I was hiding behind the gate?
– Show quoted text –
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Jennifer Sue to Mom Sue
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
i just put that in for comic effect. You aren’t mad are you?
ReplyForward
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Mom Sue to me
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
No. I was just worried it was true.
– Show quoted text –
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Jennifer Sue to Mom Sue
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
so, did you get a good picture of Patrick?!!
ReplyForward
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Mom Sue to me
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
No I was too freaked. I did get a picture of the car with a tree going up the middle of it.
– Show quoted text –
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Julia Sue to me
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
Fish stuffed with more fish: -15 date points. Ew!
At least you found out the important shit, i.e. his sign and how much
time he spends in Sweden.
La la!
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Jennifer Sue to Julia Sue
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
it’s actually fish stuffed with shell fish. not quite the same thing!
– Show quoted text –
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Julia Sue to me
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
whatEVER, yours was shellfish stuffed with shellfish.
– Show quoted text –
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Jennifer Sue to Julia Sue
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
good point. it was damn good though.
– Show quoted text –
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Julia Sue to me
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
i’m suuuuuuuuuure.
i wanna go on a date. sniff sniff.
– Show quoted text –
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Jennifer Sue to Julia Sue
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
hee hee!! and i have another to go on sometime.
– Show quoted text –
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G. Sue to me
More options Apr 15 (4 days ago)
million dollar baby? how apropos!
– Show quoted text –
This is how the date with the millionaire is going to go:
He’s going to have his limo driver pick me up at my parents’ house. He won’t know which house is mine (even though they are numbered) and he’ll have to call. Then he’ll come to the door and meet my mom. My mom will smile widely and accept him into our family. He’ll get a little flustered, but he brought me a corsage. A corsage!! Suddenly I like him a little more.
We’ll get into the limo–at which point we’ll have our first conversation ever (in person, anyway)–and drive to the movie theatre. We’ll have a glass of champagne in the limo to celebrate our going out after postponing the date twice. We’ll pick a movie, but the one we decide on won’t start for forty-five minutes. So I’ll spend forty-five minutes wishing I was on a date with someone who smoked. But at least he enjoys a good bottle of champagne!! We’ll leave the limo and walk around Hacienda Crossings, chatting about life and philosophy, and drinking champagne out of paper cups. Or maybe we’ll sit in the theatre and discuss politics and the human genome, and drink it from a flask. Either way, it is good champagne.
Finally the movie will start. He will, or he won’t, try to hold my hand (this prediction is guaranteed 100% accurate).
Then we’ll have dinner. I’ll order a couple glasses of wine. We’ll probably go to the only restaurant I’ve ever worked at. That won’t be ackward at all. At least they bring a jug of wine to the table and don’t keep track. And then I’ll try to pay for myself. But only as a gesture. He’ll see through me, and realize that I don’t actually want to pay for myself. I’ll tell him about my goal to have a million dollars by August. He’ll suggest that he funds one of my crazy entrepreneual schemes. Yes, the date is going well.
He’ll take me home as I’m tired and drunk. But not before we buy plane tickets to Sweden for May Day, and make arrangements for the bar/laundromat to open in June. I say! I’m sooooo lucky. Oakland is too, cause it is severely lacking a bar/laundromat.
He’s not really my type. I normally go for brunettes. And he’s older, and very shy. I don’t know what we’re going to say to each other. (No matter, really, since he has yet to call to arrange it.)
I hear he wants a girlfriend. To be a millionaire’s girlfriend!!
Showered with expensive gifts. Taken to the best restaurants a city has to offer. Flown to Sweden on a whim.
Sigh.
And never to have to work again, come marriage, should marriage come.
And never to have to work again, come divorce, should divorce come. And come it must! Especially if we have nothing really to say to each other. (I don’t think I’d marry him if he made me sign a prenup. Then what would be the point of the whole thing at all?)
So here’s the thing. If he wasn’t a millionaire, I wouldn’t go out to lunch with him. (I think) I know he hopes it will be romantic, and (I think) I know I’m not interested.
But he is a millionaire, and I am broke. And I would like millions. Marrying him is probably as likely as winning the lotto, but at least I won’t have to spend any money on the way.
Oh, Aristotle! Please advise!
Now, I never thought that Aristotle would talk to me, given that I’m a woman and all. But here he is, reminding me of my goal to be eudaimon, and how I must be both disposed to be virtuous, and act virtuously, in order to accomplish that goal.
Here’s where I pull out my copy of Nicomachean Ethics (in lecture note form, of course), and cite the section on the virtue of openhandedness. My conclusion: I need these millions in order to truly be openhanded. Aristotle laughs at that. Since he’s dead, he sees right through me, he knows that I know I’m skirting the issue.
Ethics always comes down to friendship, I think, and Aristotle agrees with qualifications. On this particular occasion, he’s just launched into his lecture about how one must model their relationships with others after their relationships with themselves. About how you must love and respect the other for their own sake. And how you owe it to them, just as you owe it to yourself, to consider what’s best for them and always act in accordance with those goals.
I’m looking at Aristotle like, what are you talking about? And what does this have to do with my millionaire? Aristotle realizes that I only heard half the lecture. Since he’s dead he knows I was thinking about how much I want a cigarette. This launches him into a lecture on moderation. Ugh.
But then he brings it back. He says that I can have lunch with the millionaire, but that I should in no circumstances mislead him in any way. He recognizes that although the virtue of charity was not around in his time, it may be applicable here. He suggests that if I am to be both a charitable person, and a friend, I should have lunch with him. But as a friend, no sex.
No sex! Oh, Aristotle. Fine. But what about marriage?
No marriage! says Aristotle. Marrying for money is definitely not in the virtuous section of the Venn diagram he has etched in the clouds. Of course, Aristotle reminds me, if it turns out that I love him, then I can marry him. And, yes, that definitely would facilitate openhandedness. But he doesn’t seem to think I have much of a problem with that particular virtue, given what he’s seen. This brings him back to moderation. Jesus!
Argh. Jesus is back now too and he and Aristotle are arguing over Aristotle’s interpretation of charity. And sex, and procreation. Jesus seems to think I can have sex with him if I have his child, cause that would be charitable. Or maybe I heard him wrong. I leave them to argue, confident in my decision to have lunch with the millionaire, and if we don’t fall in love, hopefully I can set him up with one of my less ethical friends.
