Jumpin Back In: Diners, Starbucks and the Dinner That Wasn't

Jumpin Back In: Diners, Starbucks and the Dinner That Wasn't

So what happens when two profiles meet?

First there is the messaging back and forth hoping to find that next level of common interest and connection. All the while you are trying to determine if the person behind the profile is as advertised. If that happens and they are geographically desirable, you agree to meet for coffee (usually). I wonder if Starbucks measures it's participation in the online dating meet-up market? Sometimes it's a diner and sometimes it's dinner.

Ah, you say, she seems to have made some progress. Truth be told, I did. I have so far had an initial meeting with three different gentleman. All went acceptably well. One was at a diner, one at Starbucks and one was a rescheduled dinner in an outdoor café.

I had lunch with Diner Guy and it went reasonably well. No sparks, but pleasant. So when he invited me over to hang out with his neighbors, play horseshoes etc, I said okay. So I get there and the neighbors are on their way out to dinner. He was in the yard with their grown daughter. I'm thinking ooooookay, this is odd but we are outside and it's an easy dash to the car. About 30 minutes into this, a member of the local police shows up looking for the neighbor-wife as someone was being taken to the hospital and she needed to be there. Diner Guy asks if I want to take a ride to the restaurant they are at as she is not answering her cell. Duh…. I pass. In fact, I say that "this doesn't seem like a good time to do this" and head home. He texted an apology but that was too much oddness and drama for a first date.

Starbucks Guy was VERY friendly. Seemed very smart, business owner, overeager to impress I think. Showered me with too many compliments. Within 15 minutes he wanted to hold hands across the table. That just ended quietly. Fortunately, he left the ball in my court to initiate next contact. No chemistry and a bit of a turnoff.

So then there is Dinner Guy. We messaged and talked on the phone beyond frequently for at least two maybe three weeks. He invited me to meet him at a celebration for his son's birthday. Very tempting, we had been connecting wonderfully, but a family event as a first date was daunting even for a brave soul like me. So we agreed to meet two days later at a music event that I usually attend. I figured if it goes well all the better, if it doesn't I am in a familiar place.

The day arrives and I am truly looking forward to meeting face-to-face. At four o'clock my cell phone rings. It is the agency that my father's home health aide is hired through. She has had an emergency and beginning one hour from then she will not be at his house. They are trying to find coverage, but it is difficult. I am for this purpose an only child. So if an aide is not found, I'm it. I am to meet Dinner Guy at six. I go to my father's and after several phone calls and with a bit of a lump in my throat I had to tell him that we had to cancel. He was gracious and supportive stressing that Dad comes first and we left it at that.

Maybe.

More next week……..

If you missed the previous installments, scroll down.

Living in New York: The Next Generation

Flash forward MANY years from Living in New York: The First Generation.

                Last week my daughter and I went apartment hunting in Manhattan. She begins her PhD program at the end of the month.  While she could commute, at least for a few weeks. the demands of her program make a shorter commute from the Midtown East campus desirable.  Why Manhattan and not one of the other boroughs, you ask. Well beyond the late nights indentured to her PhD advisor (all worth it in the end), the commute from some of the better areas of the other boroughs would approach the travel time from home, and, most importantly, she is a twenty-something.

                Apartment hunting like everything else has gone on-line.  Back in the dark ages, where on-line meant hanging your laundry or a phone, you found an apartment by buying the right day or days local newspaper and scour the classifieds for the right place.

                Today, you go to various websites for brokers (fees involved of anywhere from 1-2 month rent) or you go to Craigslist.  Apparently you can find things other than “massage therapists” and serial killers on Craigslist.  You gather your prospective addresses, send emails to the listing contact, and hope for a reply.  Repeat hourly. This is not an obsessive-compulsive action, just real apartment hunting in the early 21^st century.

                My daughter and I felt that if we had 4 appointments lined up it promised to be a productive day.  So armed with appointments and smartphones set for Craigslist, we boarded the train for New York.

                Some things don’t change. Of our contacted listings, ¼ responded and set an appointment, ½ never responded at all (that’s a NO), and ¼ responded to say that the apartment listed less than 12 hours ago was already rented.

                Of the appointments we did set: 3 were already rented by the time we went to see them. Included was one where we took the subway to Chinatown, walked in the pouring rain to Hester and Mulberry in Little Italy to meet an agent who did not show. We took that as a "sorry already rented".  By the time we found a place where we could buy a $5 umbrella for $20, the purchase was moot; we were wringing out our shirts. We did have a delicious early dinner in Little Italy where we ran into a rental broker from early in the day.  He was moonlighting as a waiter in the restaurant.

                Let’s talk about the ones we did see: One 375 sq. ft. studio apartment was in a prime location in the low 70’s on Second Avenue. It was a third floor walk-up with an under-the-counter refrigerator (think dorm room) and a magnificent view of the Second Avenue Subway blast zone.  All for a mere $1450 per month.

                Another had a better kitchen that had a full size fridge and could accommodate a drop-leaf table.  The kitchen and the bathroom had windows that looked out on an air shaft.

                Then there was the one in the mid-90’s on the Eastside, The building had an elevator with patched walls (I thought I saw duct tape). We felt brave so we took the ride. The apartment was vacant and the landlord said to just go up and let ourselves in. I opened the door. The two of us stood in the doorway long enough to observe the mold and mildew on the walls with holes and the rust stains on all the kitchen appliances and the sink.  We closed the door and beat a hasty retreat.

                Our last apartment on the third day was an open house that started at 7pm. The apartment was on a great block in a great section of the Upper East Side. The Laundromat was a block away, a nearby church had a Farmers’ Market every Saturday and a Starbucks and D’Agostino’s supermarket were within two blocks.  No mafia clubs or smelly clam stands (see prior post to get the joke).  We arrived shortly before 7 and there was a couple waiting. The agent took us up an elevator that was well maintained. There were no funky smells; we were off to a good start.  He opened the door.

                We had found IT-the brass ring. A junior one-bedroom (about 400 sq. ft.), all new appliances, hardwood floors, two large closets. My daughter gave me the eyebrows, I returned the look as an agreement. We eyed the couple.  The woman pulled out a tape measure, he took the other end and they started taking dimensions.  I offered up a silent plea—“please don’t let their sofa fit.”

                The four of us, the representative of the landlord, and one of the tenants (the current occupants consisted of a husband, wife and two large dogs) stood around have a civil conversation. Then we moved out into the hall, without the tenant. The couple kept going while we stayed behind. A choir of angels burst into song. 

                We asked about the application process.  The rep gave us the paperwork and said he had to go downstairs to get the next group. Next group! My daughter and I parked ourselves on a stair and started writing. By the time he came back with the third group, we had completed the application and had a check written for the application fee.

                He accepted it and told us it was a first-come, first-serve basis for completed applications.  Completion required that we submit tax returns, bank information and paystubs. It’s like applying for a mortgage.

                We raced home and faxed the required information to him at 11:30 that night.

                She moves in Labor Day weekend.