The BACHELORETTE Project (The Project: LESLEE Series)

by Tami Anthony

  “What do you think about this shirt?” I ask Annie as I pick up an item of clothing from a rack, an item that I can no longer afford. The first thing on our agenda is shopping in which I will be doing more ‘window shopping’ than actual shopping. We decided to venture to what I believe is the best mall in the world: the King of Prussia Mall right outside the city.

  Annie thinks for a second. “Hmm … it’s a little too sheer for my taste,” she says as she picks up a very plain, pumpkin-colored shirt from another rack. It’s safe to say that we have very drastic differences when it comes to clothing. Where I would wear a sexy, low-cut top with hip-hugging Hudson jeans and a pair of sexy stilettos, Annie would rather wear crisp white t-shirts, some outdated flare jeans, and a pair of Timberland boots. Yeah, we are that far from each other on the fashion spectrum, but part of that could be because our body figures are the complete opposite. I am a tall, skinny, fashionable woman whereas she is short, chunky, and looks about ten years older than she is. Genetics can be such a bitch at times. Then again, I have seen some very fashionable plus-size women in my time and I’ve also seen skinny women dress like they’ve just climbed out of a trash can, so maybe it’s just confidence. I think I’ll stick with that theory.

  “So, what do you want to do this weekend?” I ask her hoping that she doesn’t buy the top she’s holding.

  Annie shrugs her shoulders. “I don’t know. Maybe we can hit up a few bars. It’s been awhile since I’ve been out. All Brianna and I do is stay indoors and watch Desperate Housewives and Law and Order.” Brianna is Annie’s chunky monster daughter, a mini-me of herself. Annie prides herself on how she’s able to spoil her daughter with expensive things when little does she know that she’s raising a brat in training. Then again, what do I know? I don’t have a child, so maybe she’s doing the right thing.

  “So, um, do you know what you’re gonna wear this weekend when we go out?” I ask innocently. OK, I know it’s wrong to judge, but the white t-shirt thing is so … blah. I can’t go out with her wearing something as plain as that. Do I want to look like I am playing the Portia to her Ellen? No. Period.

  “I haven’t really thought of that,” she says. “I have a few things at home.” Another white t-shirt perhaps? I think to myself. Maybe I should try and find another trusty assistant, someone who actually cares a little more about their appearance and whose favorite name brand isn’t Hanes.

  “Maybe you should wear some nice heels, a pair of nice jeans, a presentable shirt …” My words drift off. I don’t want to offend her too much, but I’m just trying to be a friend. Granted, I do have an ulterior motive, but it is for good reason.

  “I’m sure I can find something, Les,” she huffs and moves to another unfashionable rack. Oops! I think I crossed the line.

  “Leslee!” I hear a voice shout from the background. I turn around and my mouth just drops.

  “Candace? Candace from Temple?” I say. I can’t believe this. I haven’t seen Candace since our days at Temple University, and I have to say that she looks fantastic as ever. Almost better even!

  Candace and I give each other a hug and the traditional Hollywood cheek kisses. “I can’t believe this!” she says to me. “I haven’t seen you in ages.”

  “Not since graduation,” I remind her.

  “Wow, that long, huh?” she says. “It feels like it was yesterday.” Candace slowly runs her fingers through her hair and I notice the glistening rock on her left ring finger. I’m almost positive that she does this on purpose, you know, so I can see that she’s married and that the diamond on her ring is as big as an Easter egg.

  “Oh, wow! So you’ve gotten married I see,” I say through the fakest smile that I’ve ever put on my face. “That’s nice. So where’d you meet him?”

  “At Temple, of course,” she says, boasting. “Do you remember Earl Bruschelli?” On any college campus, there’s always an obnoxiously rich kid with an obnoxious, stuck up attitude. During our days at Temple, Earl was that kid. He would slow ride down Broad Street in his brand new Range Rover and spent money like he had not a care in the world. He was the complete epitome of a douchebag: rich, spoiled, and annoying.

  “Yeah, I remember him,” I reply and she nods her head. Duh, Leslee! How come I didn’t see the obvious? “Oh, you married him! Congratulations!”

  “We’re going on four years now,” she brags. “We’ve been traveling the world and running our own restaurant in the area.”

  “Oh, really? That’s nice,” I say in a pleasant tone, when I really would like to ring her neck a bit. Another woman bragging about her perfect relationship. My, how the tables have turned for me. “Well, you know Karen is getting married,” I tell her as I notice Annie eavesdropping just a few feet behind us.

  “I saw that on her Facebook,” Candace says. “Her and Russ getting married? That’s exciting.”

  “Yup, she and Russ are getting married,” I say. “The unlikely couple.” I hear a loud bang behind me. I turn around and see Annie picking up clothes from a broken rack on the floor. I give her a questioning look. “Oh, I almost forgot my manners. Do you remember Annie?” I ask Candace as I wave Annie over to us. “She went to Temple with us for a short time.” Candace squints her eyes at Annie’s face trying to remember her. She shakes her head.

  “No, I don’t remember her,” Candace says as Annie stands next to me. Annie smirks.

  “Well, you may not remember me, but I definitely remember you,” Annie says glaring at Candace. “I remember when you were dating that rich kid.”

  “Yeah, well we’re married now,” Candace says flashing her finger.

  Annie smirks again. “Didn’t he already have a girlfriend when you two got together?” she asks, vindictively smiling.

  Candace laughs nervously. “Well, that was a long time ago. We like to leave the past in the past.” Ah, yes, but who could forget that you were fake and a bit of a homewrecker? “So, anyway, are you gals single?”

  “Why, yes,” I say. “Well, I’m recently single. My ex-fiancé and I just called it quits a few months ago. He is a very well known anchor man in New York City.” Yeah, I can brag a little about my past, though it seems just a tad bit pathetic. Sigh.

  “Well, this coming weekend my restaurant is having a speed dating event and I think you two wonderful ladies should be there,” Candace says as she hands Annie and me flyers for the event. “It’ll be a lot of successful business men there, very goal-oriented, looking for love …” Speed dating! This can be my experiment number one and the start of it all. This will be the perfect event to meet eligible men, all in just a short period of time. This is almost too perfect. This is fate I tell ya! Fate!

  I can’t seem too desperate, though. Play it cool, play it cool … “I’ll have to look at my schedule, but it sounds like fun,” I say nudging Annie. “Right, Annie?”

  “Yeah, sure,” Annie says nodding her head. “Hell, if Candace can find a husband, then how hard could it be? Even if it means stealing a man right from under your—” I nudge Annie again and laugh.

  “She’s just joking,” I say nervously. “Annie’s such a jokester.”

  “Well, the information is on the flyer,” Candace tells me. “Pre-registration is required, make sure you bring money to the event, and I hope to see you there.”

  “Yeah, I will really look into this,” I say.

  “You won’t regret it,” Candace tells me while shooting Annie a dirty look that would make mass murderers cry. “Well, it was nice seeing you, Leslee!” she says and walks away. In my hand, I hold the golden ticket. It’s the golden ticket of love. Speed dating might be just the thing for me.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Speed dating. It's one of the few things that give single women hope in finding that ‘white knight’ so to speak. In a very, very short amount of time, you are able to find out if someone is compatible with you or not. In some ways, speed dating is a good thing. You can weed out the bad and save yourself the aggravation of being on a
much longer date with someone that interests you as much as a bland bowl of broccoli would. In other ways, speed dating can be a bad thing. In that short amount of time, men (or women for that matter) can tell you exactly what you want to hear and then turn out to be complete jerkoffs when you really get to know them. But, anything's possible in the game of love, and I'm willing to experiment in any way that I can, for womanhood of course. I’ll finally be able to unlock the secrets to a man’s heart, and in the process, maybe I’ll find love for myself.

  As I prepare for what may be a magical night by straightening my overly frizzy hair, plucking my eyebrows, and applying my makeup (beauty is pain they say, and a lot of work), I hear a car honking outside. It has to be Annie, and she’s thirty minutes early. Doesn’t she know that thirty minutes is crucial for me? It takes me forever to get ready, unlike her; she just throws on a tee and calls it a day. I sigh as I walk toward my bedroom window and open it, flat iron in hand. “I’m almost done!” I shout to her. “I’m still doing my hair!”

  “Well, hurry up, beauty queen!” she snaps. “We’re gonna be late!”

  "OK, OK," I say. "I'll be right out." I straighten the last pieces of my hair, apply some lip gloss and take a last long look in the mirror. I think I look good. My black halter and my jeans are hugging every single curve of my body. Perfect! I slip on my silver, open toe Manolo Blaniks (which cost more than my life right now and are one of the the only designer shoes that I didn’t sell), grab the silver purse that I set out on my bed, grab my cell phone, and I jolt out of the house and into Annie's car: a brand new red Ford Mustang (ugh, why does everyone have a better looking car than me?).

  "How do I look?" I ask her as I flip my hair around. She stares me up and down.

  "Nice, sexy, and a bit desperate," Annie replies. I look at her outfit: a sleeveless, low cut red top, tight black pants and black roach killer heels. Better than the t-shirts she’s always wearing. All in all ...

  "You look like a walking menstrual cycle," I say and she laughs.

  "You know, that was just the look I was going for: that angry, bitchy, PMS look." It suits her well, almost too well.

  “Touché,” I say as Annie begins to drive. Our drive to Bruschelli’s Restaurant is a quiet drive, only music. I think it’s nerves … well, more nerves on my end. Annie on the other hand, quietly hums with the radio. It seems that her nerves are calm, unlike mine. I need to get it together though. I need to have my dating game face on.

  “Here we are!" I say as we pull up to Bruschelli's Restaurant of Springfield, just outside of Philadelphia. As Annie searches for a parking spot, I look around to see the people that are walking in the restaurant and they actually look a bit more … mature than us. Oh, great! Freakin' oldies night! I think to myself. I must've assumed that all the singles are around my age, but apparently they’re not. Some of the men entering the restaurant look like they’re the in-their-50s-divorced-with-four-children type. Gross. Old, saggy balls. It would be just like I was dating my own father or something. I can imagine that they all smell of Old Spice and own corduroy suits at home. I just … can’t.

  "You sure you want to do this, Annie?" I ask and she shoots me that are you freakin’ serious look. "It's never too late to go somewhere else."

  "Why?” she asks. “Because of all the oldheads in the parking lot?"

  "Umm, yeah," I say, nodding my head.

  "Hell yeah I wanna do this!" Annie says. "Not only do I have on my special 'menstrual cycle' shirt on, but some of these oldheads have money. That’s one foot in a large banking account and one foot in the grave. Besides, you're the one that convinced me to come to this joyous event.”

  "All right, all right, no backing out," I sigh. Joyous event, indeed.

  "Ooh, there's a spot!" Annie parks next to a black Mercedes Benz then points to it. "See what I mean by money?" she says and climbs out of the car. I roll my eyes and climb out as well.

  "Annie," I say, "it's not always about money. What about love and compassion? What about affection?"

  “Says the woman with no job, no man, and who continues to mooch off of her college friends.”

  “Um, ouch,” I say rolling my eyes. I am almost offended by this comment of hers. Almost.

  “I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, Les, but I gotta be honest with you. Love and compassion don't mean a thing to me anymore. When's the last time love, compassion, and affection has paid my bills or for my daughter to go to private school? Love is what got me a child in the first place, and look at her father: a classless loser that doesn't see my daughter or pay child support. If you ask me, I'd tell you that love is dead along with compassion and affection. Money is the only thing that we have left to look forward to. So with that said, let’s go.” Annie practically pulls me toward the restaurant and I’m lightly resisting … and thinking at the same time. Is what Annie said wrong? Is the love of the world just gone and replaced by money? Would I be truly happy with a regular blue-collar man with a low five-figure income? Hmmm. Maybe I should dissect that theory as well, for my experiment of course.

  As Annie and I enter the restaurant, I’m blown away at how incredibly gorgeous it is. It’s an actual Golden Palace. I notice the beautiful ivory marble tiled floor with tints of gold and the exquisite glass chandeliers hanging from the ceiling that very much resembles the ceiling of Michelangelo's Sistine Chapel. It’s classy, sophisticated, and romantic. I wouldn’t expect anything less of Candace’s restaurant.

  Feeling a little underdressed and uncomfortable, Annie and I follow the sign to the banquet room where the event is being held. "I can't believe how upscale this place is!” Annie says. “How come you didn't tell me? I would've dressed better!"

  "Well, I didn't know!” I exclaim. “At least you're wearing black pants! I have on jeans!"

  We walk into a banquet hall full of men in business suits and women in cocktail dresses. This is what I like to call Hell. "I'm really starting to feel a little out of place if you know what I mean," Annie tells me.

  "Oh, I definitely can relate," I reply as we walk over to the registry table. We sign in, get our 'Hello, my name is ...' tags to put on our shirt, our table numbers, and we make our payment of fifty dollars (yeah I know, fifty dollars, crazy right? I'm really trying to discourage myself from thinking “budget.” I more so want to think of this as an experimental investment, a life investment, maybe even a sex investment, but all in all, an investment).

  Eyeballing the room, I can predict the type of people that are here. The men look like professional business tycoons (not all elderly), and the women, well, the women actually look like headstrong lawyer types: beautiful, outgoing, professional, dressed for success. Annie and I don't compare to these women. We look like we just came from a club that plays entirely too much David Guetta. So sad.

  An older man rings a bell that's sitting in the middle of the floor. "Ladies and gentlemen, can I have your attention please?" Everyone halts their conversations and devotes all of their attention to the center of the room. "My name is Dale Fields, founder of Matchmakers Philadelphia. How are you all doing tonight?" The crowd just nods their heads and claps a little. "OK, so let me tell you about our company." Mr. Fields goes on and on about how many couples his company has set up, how many have gotten married, how many different ways to meet a person, blah, blah, blah. I just want to get on with this thing. I wanna see if this technique actually works. Shut up, Fields, so we can do this damn thing!

  "Anyway, tonight we are going to experience some of the fastest dates that you'll ever be on in your life,” he tells us. “We like to call it 'Faster Than the Speed of Light' dating,” he chuckles to himself and the crowd does nothing. Just awkward silence. “So the premise of it all is that you will go on fifteen different dates with fifteen different people and each date will last five minutes.”

  “Isn’t this great, Annie?” I whisper to her. “Fifteen different opportunities to meet fifteen eligible bachelors.”

  “Or fifteen differ
ent ways to get rejected,” she says coldly. I hate to admit it, but she does have a point.

  Mr. Fields continues with his drawn out speech. I yawn. “The women, who I must say are extremely ravishing tonight, will be sitting at their assigned tables, and the men, well too bad for the men, they have to do all the physical work tonight making sure that they stop at every single one of the tables provided and give these women a taste of their personality. You must spend the full five minutes at each table. It can be Heaven for you, or it can be complete Hell.”

  “He can say that again,” Annie mutters underneath her breath.

  “Either way, you have five minutes with each other,” Mr. Fields says. “Once you hear the bell ring, you must move onto the next table and continue on with the speed dating process. After the event, we’ll be having a small mixer at the bar. Are there any questions?"

  “Are there any questions?” Annie says mockingly. “We’re not idiots.”

  “OK, so if the women could go to their designated tables,” he says and we find our seats and sit down. “Is everybody ready?” Yes, I’m ready! I think to myself. I’ve been ready!

  “On your mark,” Mr. Fields starts, “get set … DATE!” The men scurry to find tables to sit at. I smile … and smile … and smile … then frown. An elderly man with khakis, a baby blue button down shirt, and thinning grey hair sits in front of me. Fuck! I think to myself. Why, oh, why did Captain Saggy Balls have to sit at my table?

  “Hello,” he says to me as his smile exposes the dental work that is past due. His teeth are narrow and greatly tinted. “I’m Howard,” he says introducing himself as he puts out his hand to shake mine.

  “I’m Leslee,” I say trying to be as polite as possible. What in the world would we have in common? What can we talk about, World War II perhaps? Donna Reed? He’s not even in my own age group, let alone my own realm. Think, Leslee, think…” So, um, what do you do for a living?”