Match Made in Manhattan

by Amanda Stauffer

  “Four,” Margo says.

  “After four years of blood, sweat, and tears, we can finally celebrate the project’s transition from schematic design into construction.”

  “One million tiles sounded,” I write it in the air with my index finger. “Frosted on this huge cake. And Margo says nothing. Not a word.”

  “Bitches be cray,” Dave says, shaking his head somberly as he opens the oven door.

  “Stop! I’m being serious,” I pout. “How could she say nothing?”

  “I don’t know—wouldn’t it have been awkward if she undermined Joanne’s toast by giving you credit?” He slides our homemade Sicilian pizza out of the oven.

  “I would have. Isn’t that the gracious thing to do? The right thing to do?” I fume. “I was late to the meeting because I was sounding the millionth tile this morning!”

  “That’s whack.” He pulls a pizza cutter from the drawer.

  “I know, right? A cake? When has Joanne ever done anything nice for anyone? And she calls a staff meeting to give Margo a CAKE? Never mind me coming in, sounding hammer in hand. . . . She even talked to me this morning, Joanne, on my cell while I was walking on top of the Guastavino vaults!”

  “You got to walk on top of the ceiling vaults? We gotta get you a fedora; you’re like the Indiana Jones of the building world, baby! Did you find hidden scrolls?”

  “No, but I found a few dead pigeons.”

  “Did you have to carefully balance on the vaults, like on a tightrope?”

  “Actually, it was pretty cool. I was in the interstices between the vaults and the roof. It was like spelunking. The slope was so steep, I actually had to sit and scoot down the vaults on my butt, like a giant slide. Getting back to the top was like rock climbing.”

  Dave takes two dinner plates down from the cabinet above his sink. The injustice unnerves me again. “She’s the one who approves our timesheets. She knows exactly how many hours, weeks, years I’ve spent at St. John’s. Sounding the ceiling tiles.”

  Dave hands me a glass of Chianti. “Babycakes, Joanne’s not a nice person. And she’s not your biggest fan. This isn’t news.” He grabs my chin and pulls me in for a consolation kiss. “I’m sorry, but you have no choice but to ignore it. Come on,” he commands. “To the couch with you!”

  He reaches for his Apple TV remote and relaxes into the corner seat of the brown leather upholstery. I curl up next to him and nuzzle into his shoulder. As the theme song for The Sopranos begins, I take a large gulp of wine, and am so very happy that it’s Monday, our weekly Italian-cooking-slash-Sopranos-watching night.

  “How many episodes do you think you have in you tonight?” he asks.

  “Eleventy!”

  “Three?”

  “Three sounds good. I have to be on-site tomorrow at 7:00 a.m.”

  Basking in the warmth of the late-summer air, Nicole asks, “So Dave’s mom came up with this recipe?”

  I nod vigorously. “She made a batch during my first visit to Seattle a couple years ago. Super delicious, right?” We drink deeply from our margarita glasses, taking in the always-stunning views of the sun setting over the Empire State and Chrysler Buildings. My friend, Ashley, lives in Alphabet City with four roommates who share a private roof-deck that is bigger than my entire apartment. A grill master who crafts her own barbecue sauce and doubles as a party-planning extraordinaire, Ashley significantly ups the fun quotient of my social life. Memorial Day, July Fourth, most three-day weekends, you can count on her to host a spectacular get-together. This evening, the night before Labor Day, is no exception.

  Dave circles back to us, blender pitcher in hand. “Refills?”

  “Yes, please,” Cassie trills.

  Dave fills her glass to its rim, then takes my half-empty glass and fills it to the top. I look at it, frowning.

  “You want me to re-salt the rim?” he asks knowingly. I nod enthusiastically and hand him back my glass. “Be right back.”

  “Awww, so attentive,” Cassie says sweetly. “When am I going to find my lifelong bartender?”

  “So what’s in this anyway?” Nicole asks.

  “Actually, it’s so laughably easy, you’ll probably savor them less once I tell you: one can of frozen limeade, enough tequila to fill the empty limeade can, and a can of beer. And ice.”

  Nicole laughs. “That’s so . . . redneck.”

  “And so unexpected coming from Dave’s mother,” Cassie points out.

  Dave’s mother is a tall and beautiful, restrained and exceedingly elegant lady.

  “Which is why this margarita,” I point to Cassie’s glass, “was such a great ice breaker.”

  “Pun intended,” Nicole interrupts, and we all giggle.

  “I was so intimidated,” I explain to Nicole, “flying out to spend an entire week with his parents. Things had always been so . . . formal with her the few times I’d met her in New York. But! On the night we flew in, his parents were grilling burgers in the backyard. I don’t know if it was just the tequila itself that loosened things up, or the fact that I showed interest in her mixology skills, but I asked for the recipe, and it was like an instant ‘in.’ She took me inside, we got the blender going together, and ever since then things have been much more . . .”

  “Smooth?” Nicole completes the thought.

  “Like these margaritas,” Cassie jokes, and downs her refill.

  “Hands down, Best. Gift. Ever.” And I mean it. This red-and-yellow glass sculpture embedded in a pebble-filled rectangular base is, by far, the best gift I’ve ever received.

  “I was hoping you’d say that. My mom helped me arrange it and she thought—”

  “She helped you ‘design the composition.’” I hold up finger quotes. “You know, in artist speak,” I add, helpfully. With two hands, I carefully rotate the sculpture so I can marvel at it from all angles.

  “Yeah. Now you have your very own Dave Chihuly piece,” he says proudly.

  “Dale Chihuly, you mean. His name’s Dale.”

  “I know. But it’s his glass, my design. Dave plus Chihuly. Dave Chihuly.”

  “SO cool! Sorry I’m a little slow on the uptake right now. I’m just so bowled over by its . . . amazingness. Really.” Then I cock my head. “How’d you get pieces of his glass?”

  “A couple days before Christmas, I went dumpster diving behind his studio one night.”

  “So this is black market goods?” I ask, intrigued.

  “I mean, it was in their garbage. It’s not like I stole.”

  Glassblowing has long been a passion/hobby (a passionate hobby?) of mine. And as I’ve continued to rent studio space out in Brooklyn from time to time, Dave has been the lucky recipient of a small collection of brightly colored—if lopsided—glass beer steins and vases. Anyone who blows glass is, by nature, a devout Chihuly fan. His dynamic, undulating forms are so different from traditional, functional glass, they’re virtually impossible not to love.

  A couple summers ago, the New York Botanical Garden in the Bronx mounted a Chihuly exhibition, and Dave let me drag him there. Twice. Then we watched two documentaries on him, sought out his work in museums from Chicago to Los Angeles, and my Chihuly avidity became a shared one. But in my wildest dreams I couldn’t have imagined I’d have a piece (or, rather, many broken pieces) of his art all to myself.

  I not-so-subtly brush the festively wrapped package I brought to the edge of his dining table. “Can you open yours tomorrow?” Although I bought him exactly what he requested for Christmas—a French cuff shirt and a pair of modern silver cuff links—the Dave Chihuly is an impossible act to follow.

  “I can’t believe we’re not ringing in the new year together this year!” Cassie sulks as she sits on the edge of my bed, watching me fastidiously fold and refold beach attire into my suitcase.

  “You’ll live.” I smile.

  “It just won’t be the same. You do realize you’re breaking a five-year streak?”

  Cassie and I met as high school seniors at ou
r college’s Admitted Students Day and became fast friends. Freshman year we cochaired the campus winter formal; sophomore year we cochoreographed several pieces for our dance troupe; junior year we moved off campus into a house with five other girls; senior year we coled freshman orientation. We became good at Skyping in the three years after college when she attended law school in North Carolina and I attended architecture school in New York. Once she passed the bar, Cassie accepted a job at a big firm in New York City, took over the lease from my third roommate who was moving (even though on her lawyer’s salary, Cassie could have afforded a far more posh apartment of her own), and we’ve lived together in domestic bliss ever since.

  I wrap my wedge sandals in their dust bag and nestle them in among my dresses and bathing suits. “I know. But there will be other years.” I turn to face her with an exaggerated pout. “Don’t be mad at me. I’m sorry! I promise we’ll spend it together next year. Dave just, I don’t know. He really wanted to get away. And he had all these expiring hotel points . . .”

  “Fine. Have fun.” She mopes.

  “Wait—what?” I bolt upright from my chaise longue.

  Stay calm, I coach myself. Deep breath. Deep breath.

  “I just don’t . . .” Dave sighs, sips his margarita, picks up a nacho, and shrugs his shoulders. “I just don’t think it’s necessary right now.”

  “‘Necessary’? ‘Right now’?” I repeat his words back to him, with a little more heat than intended. “We’re talking about five months from now. We’re talking about five months from now, three and a half years into a relationship.” Oops. I didn’t intend to whine either.

  “I know. But.” He stares at the nacho platter. “Why don’t we just wait until we’re married? I don’t think there’s any reason we have to do it before we’re married.”

  I sniff quietly, trying to clear my filling tear ducts.

  It’s New Year’s Day, the last night of vacation, and we’re having dinner on the beach. Until thirty seconds ago, we’d been planning to move in together when my lease expires in June. Deep breath. Until now, except for fleeting thoughts about getting engaged, usually precipitated by the engagement announcements of friends, I’d never felt in any hurry to massage the relationship in any particular direction. It’s comfortable, we love each other, and I figured we’d get married someday. The logistics of how or why previously hadn’t felt important, and I’d never felt the need to set a timeline, laminate it, and stick it on the fridge. (I actually have a friend whose girlfriend—now wife—did this.)

  But this about-face on a move-in plan hatched nearly a year ago feels not only like an insult but also like a giant step backward. I grit my teeth to hold back tears.

  Deep breath. Deep breath.

  Without intending to, we spent the next week hashing out the reasons to break up and the reasons not to. Dave kept making the case that he loved me! And he loved our relationship! So we should stay together! . . . Just not live together. One morning I’d say I needed a night off to think; that afternoon, he’d text me asking if I wanted to grab dinner. And out of force of habit, or a naïve hope that his position would change, I’d find myself in his kitchen after work. And each night, we calmly, amicably, rationally debated the future of our relationship. My eyes would water. His voice would crack. Yet while he pled his case, I found myself tuning him out, psyching myself up to do what I knew needed to be done: if it’s not going to work after three-plus years, it’s never going to work. It was sad and draining. But in a way, that week of romantic purgatory gave me clarity, and all those interior-monologue pep talks gave me confidence: You can do it! Life will go on.

  Now three weeks later, for the first time, at twenty-seven years old, I am a single New Yorker. When I ultimately allowed my rational side to take over, Dave’s broken promises made breaking up with him a fairly cut-and-dried decision. Because there was no deception, no wondering what if I’d done x, y, or z differently, and really no regrets—other than having stayed in the relationship for perhaps one year too long (that is if I could have discerned that this wasn’t to be The Relationship with a capital R)—there isn’t much point in licking my wounds. Instead I need to pull myself together, dust myself off, and ask: What now?

  I’ve never been on a first date. I didn’t pique the interest of many boys in high school, and in college, I was fortunate enough to have my meet-cute on a freshman orientation backpacking trip, which sparked a four-year relationship with a really stellar guy. Throughout college I had a wide circle of kindhearted, intelligent, funny, and attractive guy friends; when my college relationship ended around graduation, some of them, like Dave, naturally morphed into dating prospects. But with friends, before even going on a “date,” you’ve both (hopefully) weighed the pros and cons of dating and decided you’re into it, lest you risk damaging the friendship . . . and that means it’s really not a first date at all: no first impressions to be made, red flags already flying in the open, minimal high jinks, et cetera.

  Until now I haven’t had to worry about what kind of signal I’m sending out. I haven’t debated which blouse will communicate that I’m classy but casual, nor have I obsessed over how high my heels should be or how much makeup to put on. For the last three years, I showed up at Dave’s apartment after work in paint-splattered, chemical-stained jeans and company-emblazoned polos. Before Dave, my college boyfriend Scott lived so close by I sometimes walked over to his apartment in my flannel pajama pants. I’ve spent countless hours perched on the edge of the bathtub, chatting with Cassie and Nicole as they curled their hair, applied their smoky eyes, and primped for their dates in our tiny tiled bathroom. I suppose it’s my turn now to learn how to make a smoky eye? Dave and I, Scott and I, we were pals. They knew what I looked like. And they knew what I was like. I didn’t have to brainstorm topics of conversation or worry I might say the wrong thing.

  So now, in the last third of my twenties—most people’s dating prime—I’ve had two three-plus-year relationships, two or three mini-relationships, and not one blind date, setup, or genuine first date. And I haven’t the foggiest clue as to what a typical date looks like. But of paramount importance, it’s high time I figure out how to find people to date—assuming I want to branch out beyond the alumni population of my college. The world is big and I am small. Where do I begin?

  Nicole swipes at her screen and tosses it to me. I snort with laughter at the profiles before me.

  “Come on, I’m way too prudish for Tinder. Can you picture me bringing home random dudes?”

  “I haven’t brought home that many random dudes, have I?”

  “Yeah, but, I think there’s an expectation there that things will move faster physically than . . . my slowpoke pace.”

  “What about Hinge?”

  “Assuming I don’t want to date any more college classmates, I should probably cast a wider net, no?”

  Nicole reads aloud from Match.com’s homepage: “‘If you don’t find someone special during your initial six-month subscription, we will give you an additional six months at no additional cost to you to continue your search.’”

  My cursor hovers over the SUBSCRIBE button.

  “I think you’re really going to like it, Ali,” Nicole coaxes.

  One hundred and fifty dollars for six months, nay, a potential year of possibilities and new horizons doesn’t sound like a bad deal. Right?

  “Please let me help craft your profile?” she begs. “There is literally nothing I’d rather do with my evening.”

  With Nicole looking over my shoulder, I begin to type.

  IN MY OWN WORDS:

  What can I say that distinguishes me from every other girl on this site? Let’s play a little game called “Two Truths and a Lie:”

  1.

  I once medaled in the women’s lightweight division of the World Championship Wild Hog Catching Contest in Sabinal, TX.

  2.

  I have a cameo appearance in not one, but two music videos: one for U2 and one for Bone Th
ugs-N-Harmony. If you squint, you can see me!

  3.

  I have a pet hermit crab named Poseidon.

  MY INTERESTS:

  I’m an architectural conservator, which means that I spend my days donning latex gloves and wielding scalpels and syringes, attempting to save historic buildings one paint chip at a time. When I’m not working, I like to glassblow, bake cakes, soufflés, and all manner of desserts that require a blowtorch, and/or seek out BYOB restaurants with my friends. I’ll never turn down a run along the East River, a walk through Central Park, a mojito, an adventure, or chocolate-covered anything.

  ABOUT MY DATE:

  I am looking for someone who is intellectually curious, has a big heart, and can make me laugh. Bonus points if you won’t protest when I try to drag you to screenings of Italian neorealist cinema or to the barbecue festival in Madison Square Park, even though I fully acknowledge that it is overcrowded and far too touristy (but still, so fun!).

  I look at Nicole, who gives me a thumbs-up. “Alright,” she says. “Let’s publish this thing and let Match.com work its magic.”

  Ready. Set. Post.

  cancerdoc10: Matt, the Hands Man

  January 16 at 10:42 p.m.

  Hey there,

  I promise not to protest (too much) when you drag me to Italian neorealist flicks. When I’m not, you know, saving lives and all, I, too, enjoy mojitos and chocolate-covered anything.

  You seem familiar. Is it possible I’ve seen you around the CP Reservoir or at Dorrian’s Red Hand?

  Matt

  After receiving a dozen “winks” and a handful of emails that were alternately raunchy, riddled with egregious spelling and grammatical errors, or just too brief and cursory to give me anything to respond to, Matt’s email (in conjunction with his photos, showing a tall, trim, dark-brown-haired guy with green eyes that appear to sparkle) has officially piqued my curiosity.

  January 17 at 7:45 a.m.

  Hi Matt!

  It is possible that you’ve seen me around the Reservoir. If you noticed someone with a blonde ponytail and gold Asics nearly expiring as she tries to make it to the 90th Street exit, then yes! That was me. Unless you’re having flashbacks to five years ago, you probably haven’t seen me at Dorrian’s, though.