I’m sitting at my desk, on the phone with my sister Shannon.
We’re both reading personal ads on the internet.
“Ooh! This one sounds perfect,” says Shannon. “Stephanie likes NPR, Red Stripe, and Gators games.”
“The Gators are football, right?”
“Yes, you big mo, Gators are football. I like Stephanie. Go look at her picture.”
I click on Stephanie’s picture. She has 80s mall bangs, like Joan Cusack in Working Girl.
“Shannon, I refuse to consider any woman whose bangs require a round brush and a half hour of Aqua Net application. Just on principle.”
“I think you’re being too picky.”
“I liked Monica better,” I say. “She’s a single mother. That means lots of dates at her house. And Stephanie doesn’t smoke. Nelson smokes.”
“Wait, let me go back and see if anyone responded to our flirt messages.”
My cousin Nelson, who lives with my boyfriend Preppy and me, has been treading water in the dating pool for the last few months. I’m not sure what happens when he goes to a bar by himself, but lemme tell ya what doesn’t happen: fucking. Preppy and I figured that since all of our gay friends have at least one straight girl on speed dial, we’d have Nelson paired off with a hot chick in no time, but no such luck. So Nelson’s been spending a lot of time at home going stir-crazy, asking Preppy what he’s doing every thirty-five seconds and preparing elaborate sushi dinners at nine in the morning.
It’s not his fault. He went to an all-boy’s school, which my buddy Zack says sounds just heavenly, but did little to improve his game with the ladies. He’s a nice guy who happens to struggle with the initial approach.
So, inspired by my Aunt Trish’s recent foray into online dating, Shannon and I have opened a personal ad in our cousin Nelson’s name. I know I’ve said I’m against matchmaking, but the situation called for desperate measures. We answered the questionnaire as honestly as possible, determining how Nelson would describe himself, and then improving that statement ever-so-slightly. I also edited his profile pic in Adobe Photoshop. Nothing on the Mariah Carey scale, I just fixed the lighting a bit and gave him a tan.
A few nights later, I report our efforts while I’m out having drinks with the boys.
“Hi, my name is Topher,” says my buddy George. “And I have serious control issues.”
“I do not! I’m trying to help him meet people! Preppy will tell you, Nelson needs to get out more.”
“It’s true, he does,” says Preppy. “But not if he’s gonna be hanging out with chain-smoking single mothers from E-Harmony just so we can have a night alone. And what will these girls do when they find out all the great e-mails they’ve been getting are really from you and your sister?”
“We’ll work it out. It’ll be like Cyrano.”
“Darling,” George concludes. “You can’t assign a plotline to Nelson’s life.”
“Damn it George, I’m not assigning a plotline. I’m just introducing new characters.”
Back at the house, as I inspect the desperately eager faces of the girls who’ve responded to our carefully-constructed personal ad, I begin to feel a small pang of guilt. Maybe Nelson should be getting a girl on his own, even if it takes a little longer and I’m apprehensive about the results. Plus, if I remember correctly, both of the guys in Cyrano wound up dead at the end of the story, and that’s not promising.
Unless…
What if I found him a girl, and TOLD her that we’d created a fake profile for him? And then I could introduce her to him as some friend of mine, whom I’ve never mentioned before for a reason I can’t determine just yet.
“Dear Stephanie,” I write. “I know this will sound strange, but I’m not the man whose picture is posted on this profile. I’m his cousin. But you seemed really nice…”
“Ooh! This one sounds perfect,” says Shannon. “Stephanie likes NPR, Red Stripe, and Gators games.”
“The Gators are football, right?”
“Yes, you big mo, Gators are football. I like Stephanie. Go look at her picture.”
I click on Stephanie’s picture. She has 80s mall bangs, like Joan Cusack in Working Girl.
“Shannon, I refuse to consider any woman whose bangs require a round brush and a half hour of Aqua Net application. Just on principle.”
“I think you’re being too picky.”
“I liked Monica better,” I say. “She’s a single mother. That means lots of dates at her house. And Stephanie doesn’t smoke. Nelson smokes.”
“Wait, let me go back and see if anyone responded to our flirt messages.”
My cousin Nelson, who lives with my boyfriend Preppy and me, has been treading water in the dating pool for the last few months. I’m not sure what happens when he goes to a bar by himself, but lemme tell ya what doesn’t happen: fucking. Preppy and I figured that since all of our gay friends have at least one straight girl on speed dial, we’d have Nelson paired off with a hot chick in no time, but no such luck. So Nelson’s been spending a lot of time at home going stir-crazy, asking Preppy what he’s doing every thirty-five seconds and preparing elaborate sushi dinners at nine in the morning.
It’s not his fault. He went to an all-boy’s school, which my buddy Zack says sounds just heavenly, but did little to improve his game with the ladies. He’s a nice guy who happens to struggle with the initial approach.
So, inspired by my Aunt Trish’s recent foray into online dating, Shannon and I have opened a personal ad in our cousin Nelson’s name. I know I’ve said I’m against matchmaking, but the situation called for desperate measures. We answered the questionnaire as honestly as possible, determining how Nelson would describe himself, and then improving that statement ever-so-slightly. I also edited his profile pic in Adobe Photoshop. Nothing on the Mariah Carey scale, I just fixed the lighting a bit and gave him a tan.
A few nights later, I report our efforts while I’m out having drinks with the boys.
“Hi, my name is Topher,” says my buddy George. “And I have serious control issues.”
“I do not! I’m trying to help him meet people! Preppy will tell you, Nelson needs to get out more.”
“It’s true, he does,” says Preppy. “But not if he’s gonna be hanging out with chain-smoking single mothers from E-Harmony just so we can have a night alone. And what will these girls do when they find out all the great e-mails they’ve been getting are really from you and your sister?”
“We’ll work it out. It’ll be like Cyrano.”
“Darling,” George concludes. “You can’t assign a plotline to Nelson’s life.”
“Damn it George, I’m not assigning a plotline. I’m just introducing new characters.”
Back at the house, as I inspect the desperately eager faces of the girls who’ve responded to our carefully-constructed personal ad, I begin to feel a small pang of guilt. Maybe Nelson should be getting a girl on his own, even if it takes a little longer and I’m apprehensive about the results. Plus, if I remember correctly, both of the guys in Cyrano wound up dead at the end of the story, and that’s not promising.
Unless…
What if I found him a girl, and TOLD her that we’d created a fake profile for him? And then I could introduce her to him as some friend of mine, whom I’ve never mentioned before for a reason I can’t determine just yet.
“Dear Stephanie,” I write. “I know this will sound strange, but I’m not the man whose picture is posted on this profile. I’m his cousin. But you seemed really nice…”
