Client interviews are sacred. After marching out of Gary’s office, I have no prospective client interview set up. Claiming to have one is often my way of saying to Gary: leave me alone, or I can’t think of affirmations fast enough to stop me from throwing things at you.
Incoming email chimes, and it’s from my publisher, asking about the three chapters. I write back that they’re done, but I want to go over them one more time on my lunch break and will send them then.
So, back to the boob chase. I face the emails from clients, and the first one is from a man in his mid-sixties, a typical Mr. SoFBRG.
I took Amy out for dinner. It was pleasant enough but let me say that it became quite comical. I’ve never met a more self- absorbed person. Not once did Amy ask one question about my life or me. It was Amy’s favorite music, Amy’s taste in movies, the classes Amy skipped in junior college…and silly stuff like that. Thus, I would like to meet someone a bit more mature in her outlook. Thanks.
Oh, you would, would you? Dear Mr. SoFBRG,
How shocking that a young woman almost thirty years your junior would not be as mature as you’d like. Since she’d be taking advantage of your AARP discounts on future dates with you, I personally think that she should be giving you her utmost attention and admiration. But, no worries. I’ll fix you right up with a GDGD, more mature by about five years, who has learned to suck up to wealthy men by acting like she gives a royal shit about the different golf courses you’ve played on.
Of course, even though honest and realistic, I don’t actually send this email. I expect ridiculous complaints from clients. It’s just that my inner demon is trying to break out of her cage again, and writing what I’d really like to say sort of pacifies her, much like a bag of stale marshmallows might keep a gorilla busy long enough for you to get your ass out of the enclosure.
Thank-you for the detailed feedback. Yes, these popular
and gorgeous young women can be a bit self-centered. I will work on another match ASAP. Please do let me know if you would consider being a bit more flexible on the age range. If you would be open to dating some of our beautiful women who are in their forties and fifties, you just might find their personalities to be more mature as well.
Like, duh. Yeesh.
Next: Here’s an email from my all-time favorite male client, Nate. A psychic told him someone whose name began with an M would help him find a soul mate, and shortly after that, he applied for membership. We’ve had such a fun relationship. I introduced him to a terrific woman and they were exclusive for over two years, but it recently fell through. I just matched him with a bubbly brunette named Marina and have my fingers crossed.
Here is my feedback on Marina; I apologize for this email in advance.
On a balmy evening, she wore a bulky sweater and a shawl or scarf over it. I could tell though that she wasn’t slim and was trying to hide her body.
It was a strange date. She went on and on about how fun and interesting I was, and then told me that she met someone 3 weeks ago that she really likes. With her eyes all fluttery, she said seeing him at her door is like Christmas morning. She told me that she felt no chemistry with me. And then after dinner, she wanted to go to the bar and have a drink. I didn’t really want to, but I guess I had nothing better to do at the time. I paid for after-dinner drinks, and she wanted my opinion about this guy and her sexual intentions with him. I really don’t understand why she went on the date.
Oh, noooo. I need to stress again to these women that they should go out with a man only if they’re open to a new relationship. As for Marina, it sounds like she’s put on weight since I saw her last spring. Nate’s not overly picky, so if he mentioned it, there’s a problem. I’m tossing Marina’s file, and I’ll sneak Nate an extra referral. Don’t tell Gary.
I work on matches for a while. Connie is in the hall and holds up her coffee cup, a question: do I want some? I raise mine and she comes in and gets it.
Alana buzzes me to say that Bob Carpenter is calling and wants to talk to me. A shudder passes through me. I so wish we could be done with this guy, but he just keeps renewing. Deep breath. Might as well get this over with.
I pick up the phone, and he greets me in a tenor voice that doesn’t match a man with a six-foot plus frame. He’s nearly sixty with a boyish face that might make him appear as young as he thinks he looks in his snazzy wardrobe—if it weren’t for all his sun wrinkles. He owns a ten acre spread out in Hemet and is sure this entitles him to date women under thirty-five. His top priority is cup size and whether or not she loves Jesus. In that order.
Now, he’s calling to complain that the airhead bimbo who agreed to date him isn’t returning his calls.
“Marla, I took her shopping and spent almost three hundred dollars,” he says.
I can easily picture him whining to his mommy as a boy…or perhaps still. “Where did you take her, Bob?”
“Oh, we went to Forever 21. I got her some great sexy dresses like the kind I’d want my wife to wear. I want to take her to church.”
From what I gather, his idea of a great marriage is having a stick with tits (AKA titsy-pops) in slutty clothes as she cooks, cleans, and prays out there at his ranch. I can’t imagine how he made so much money in his business. His behavior is so extremely inappropriate.
One day he came to L.A. and took me to coffee at Tuescher’s. As he was walking me back to my office, he was telling me that I was very attractive, and I should wear mini-skirts.
I told him that I felt that I was too mature to wear them anymore, especially not to the office. He then said I should wear them when I’m out on a date with Adolfo—without any panties on, and then inside the car, let Adolfo’s fingers do the walking….“That’s what I’d like to do….” He actually smirked in a way I remember boys in junior high reacting to a dirty joke. I felt like my stomach was full of worms. His talking like that to me really creeped me out. I walked as fast as I could back to the office. His long legs allowed him to keep up with me easily, and he said, “God bless you, Marla, and know that Jesus loves you,” and left.
So, now as I’m talking to him about the Beverly Hills fashion designers that truly impress the GDGDs willing to date him, my patience is as thin as a shadow. Since I’m a matchmaker, people always ask, “What do you think of Patti Stanger, the millionaire matchmaker on Bravo?” The woman is known for her crass, in-your- face attitude, yelling at her clients, and insulting them. I think she’s usually spot on with her advice, I answer, but I’d be fired immediately if I yelled at my clients like she does.
Today, however, I test the boundaries and let the Patti out a little. I’m already yelling into the receiver.
“Bob, LISTEN to me! I’m trying to HELP you. You’ve had NO success with any of the women I have matched you with. You’re going to be ALONE the rest of your life unless you change your APPROACH!”
“I have to be who I am, Marla,” he says.
I remind myself that I’m talking to a twelve-year-old in a man’s body. “I understand that God is important in your life, but you’re turning the girls OFF when you keep throwing in religious babble into your conversation on the FIRST phone call. And then—”
“Don’t interrupt. And THEN there’s your outgoing message on your voicemail? Just take off the ‘God bless, and know that Jesus loves you’ part, okay? I know that it shouldn’t, but it TURNS THE GIRLS OFF. They think you’re a religious FREAK or something.”
“But Marla, I want a woman with Jesus in her heart,” he explains in that now maddening little boy voice.
I have to calm down. “Listen Bob, I’m not judging you, but don’t you think it’s a bit—how shall I say this?—ODD that you want a woman with Jesus in her heart and TRIPLE D’S on her chest?” I’m still yelling, but he doesn’t seem to mind.
“That’s just what I’m attracted to, Marla. God loves big-chested girls just as much as He loves you and me.”
Deep breath. Yelling at Bob will not change his freaky personality. No, this is a job for the big guns. I’m thinking Vienna with a team of shrinks working day and night on his mother issues combined with shock treatments and a partial lobotomy. And meds. Lotsa meds. My coaching will never get this guy to change his ways.
“Bob, think about what I said. I have to go; my other line is ringing. Let’s touch base next week.”
“God bless you, Marla, and know that Jesus loves you.”
I hang up in slow motion. Connie is staring at me with two steaming mugs in her hand. I beckon and she pushes my door open with her butt and enters.
“What was that all about?”
I un-grit my teeth. “Bob Carpenter.”
“That guy has a voice like a cartoon character.” She sets my
coffee mug on my cute coaster with the martini olives painted on it— given to me last year by Jenna.
“I’ve got a question,” Connie says. “You okay?”
“Please distract me.” I gesture toward the chair opposite my desk and she sits. We slurp together, enjoying a fresh jolt of the joe.
“Whoever brought coffee to the civilized world should be canonized,” I say.
“Saint Joe.” She raises her mug. “Hey, Marla, what is this Playboy promotion Gary keeps referring to?”
“Oh.” I make a face. “I hate it. He does it whenever the client list is low. Every year the Playboy Mansion has a few parties they sell tickets to at a thousand bucks and up. This one coming up is called ‘Midsummer Night’s Dream,’”
“I’ve heard of it.”
“Gary will buy maybe a half-dozen tickets.”
“As a signing perk?”
“Yeah. His web guy is going to advertise it on the website and in
the newsletter.” The email newsletters go out to guys who have filled out the questionnaire on the website, and Connie routinely uses their captured emails for follow-up.
Connie nods. “And you probably hate this because only porn nerds fall for it, right?”
“Pretty much, especially from out of town. L.A. guys have either already been to the Hefner Mansion, or they see enough big tits
around town and at the beach for free. But the out-of-towners get all excited and drool, thinking they might actually get a date.”
“Well, one of our guys did meet one of our female clients there.” I tell her the story of Lindy who was pretty enough to be matched, but her chest size was only a nice average B cup, so she decided to get the operation. “She threw a party to celebrate going in for new boobs. She was soon bouncing around the office in a top so low you couldn’t look her in the eye. You were either staring at her tits or trying not to. She applied to the Heffner Mansion and was allowed to hang out—”
“So to speak,” Connie says.
“—yeah, at the pool. During one of our Playboy promotions two years ago, a new client met her there, and they got married after three months.”
“So romantic it almost brings a tear to the eye.” Connie sips her coffee, one-hundred percent dry-eyed.
“Another of our girls is Lindy’s friend. She told us that Lindy’s implants have had to be surgically corrected twice. She also said the marriage is breaking up, but she has no idea whether it was because of the boob problems or not.”
Connie shakes her head. “Alana said there was a client whose boob-bag thingy left her lopsided but she couldn’t afford the corrective surgery.”
“Sounds like she’s talking about Becky.”
Connie looks at my ganache-colored wall with the pictures missing. “Do you ever feel like this dating world has gotten completely insane?”
“Yeah. Nutso bonkers.~Especially when we get the Playboy clients.”
Connie heads back to her office, and I’m dawdling over my coffee, thinking of the time I almost got implants. My ex-husband the French chef tried to talk me into it. In his opinion my hair was the wrong color; he wanted me to bleach it blonde. My nails? Too short; teeth too yellow, breasts too small, skin too white, and on and on. You’d think I was an albino beast from the Black Lagoon. Being a natural redhead, I’m very pale, and my skin burns easily. Bruno used to try to convince me to get a suntan. He bought me a gift certificate for five sessions at the local tanning salon. I told him that he’d better get a refund. Then he started in on the breast implants and threatened to divorce me if I didn’t get a tan and implants. Before I met him, I’d never been put down by a man because of my looks. I had always felt very confident about myself in that department, so my self-esteem imploded.
Bruno was devastatingly handsome with full pouty lips, green eyes, and curly chestnut colored hair. I used to stretch out a ringlet and let it go…boing! I told my aunt one day, “I’m lucky to be with Bruno. I mean, it’s amazing I was able to attract such a great-looking guy in the first place.” She looked at me like I’d lost my mind. I pretty much had.
But it wasn’t just his looks I adored. Our wedding in his small village in France was a fairytale. We posed in the nearby woods where white cyclamen grew wild, my white lace dress rising out of the blossoms, white against white. And the food! To Bruno and his family, food was a spiritual experience, savored and revered as an art form. And he was adventurous. We took ski trips to Big Bear and wind surfed in the ocean in summer. And his French friends held garden parties in the evenings, stringing twinkle lights and playing world music, the men and women in cool jeans, cigarettes of tobacco or marijuana at their lips. They talked of their international travels, their laughter filling the warm summer nights. I felt like I was in a new world, a secret club with a secret language. My French quickly became fluent, and I loved the way Bruno and I could have private conversations anywhere without people being able to eavesdrop. Oh, I wanted to please that man.
Bruno wore me down. We went to a plastic surgeon for a consultation. In the examining room with the doctor, I “tried on” implants of different sizes. The doctor placed them in my bra, and I put my shirt on to see what I would look like. Then he asked Bruno and me to watch a video of an actual breast implant surgery. Keep in mind that I can’t even look when I get blood taken, so watching a surgeon cut a woman open and stuff big plastic sacks inside her shocked me to the bone. If I hadn’t been too paralyzed to move, I’d have run from the office, screaming, TORTURE! MAYHEM! Unless you’d had a mastectomy, this was just…awful. I took deep breaths and turned to Bruno, trying not to stutter. “This procedure is…pretty serious. I mean, it’s m-major s-surgery.”
He looked woozy, himself. “Yeah, I didn’t realize that either.” “I’m scared, Bruno. I don’t know if I want to do this.”
“Well, you’ll be asleep. It probably looks worse than it is,” he said.
Yes, he still wanted me to go through with it. I knew that with new boobs, I could have bought a certain desirability and therefore power to hold onto Bruno—which I made mean love, even though it was no such thing. So, I decided I was willing to buy this feeble love with saline bags in my chest. I was ushered to the front desk to set up my appointment for the surgery and to pay. I must say that it was the one time in my life that I was grateful for being broke. Bruno couldn’t help pay, and, fortunately, I didn’t have enough credit left on my Visa card, so I was denied. Thank you, Jesus and all you angels!
And thank you also for letting me come to understand what it means to have a soul mate and not to settle for someone like Logan or Bruno. Or a Playboy type. These new clients that want their day at the Hefner manse may not have any idea what it means to have a deep, loving connection. They will go through a number of titsy- pops, and I will do many affirmations to keep from feeling like a glorified madam in a whoreho~use in this world of insane dating in the City of Angels.
* I do not compare myself to young titsy-pops. My body is
lovely just as it is.
* A little Botox now and then doesn’t count.
* I help soul mates, not playmates, find each other. Soul
* I humbly thank the universe for helping me connect with my
own soulmate, allowing me to know what it’s like to be loved.