Five Things I Can't Live Without (6 page)

I laughed. “Did you write that in your profile?”

“I didn’t use the word ‘retch.’”

“That could be part of the problem.”

“You mean I should have used the word ‘retch’?” she teased.

“I just think you need to be careful when you’re being acerbic, because it can sound bitter. It seems like men want to make sure you’re fun and nonscary, which you are. I think that’s why so many people write that ball game/ballet stuff. In San Francisco, all the women are equally at home in hiking boots or stilettos. You know, for the outdoorsy/sexy vibe.” My friend Larissa was an Internet dating veteran and she and I had had discussions on the topic before, but I hadn’t realized I could sound this authoritative. Weirdly, I was starting to have fun.

“It’s hopeless! I hate self-promotion. Think about it, Nora. I’m a ghostwriter.”

“But you’re also funny and clever and all the things anyone could want in a partner in crime.” I waited for her to laugh, but she didn’t. “It’s just that these things need to be carefully crafted. You want the pictures to show diversity, and you want them to be great but to actually look like you so that when you meet the guy, he’s not disappointed. You want the profile to read like you on your best day, but you have to find a way to showcase your cleverness without too much sarcasm or irony because those can read badly. What you are, above all else, is a writer. This assignment is made for you.” I had warmed to my pep talk so much that I had entirely forgotten my earlier misery.

There was a pregnant pause; then Kathy said, “Maybe the assignment is made for you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Maybe you could edit my profile?” she asked hopefully.

I had to admit, I liked that my successful writer friend was soliciting my help. It was an ego boost I really needed just then. “That could be interesting.”

“I’d pay you,” she offered.

“No. Absolutely not.”

“I insist. Think of it as your first paying gig as a writer.” There was silence on the line for a few seconds, and I could tell she was thinking about something. Kathy was one of the only people in my life with whom silence really could feel companionable. “If this goes well, maybe you could market yourself. You know, be some sort of profile consultant. Think about all the people languishing on those Web sites, wondering why no one’s writing to them. What they need is a smart, fresh eye to read and give them feedback. You could be—the Profile Eye! What do you think?”

I laughed. “That’s the worst name imaginable.”

“That’s where you’re wrong. The worst name is ‘Yen for Books.’ I couldn’t think of anything when I was supposed to name my profile and after sitting there for way too long, I just typed it in.”

“Kathy!”

“I know, I know. The more we talk, though, the better I feel. I mean, it’s so obvious why no one is writing to me.”

“You know, what’s interesting about your idea,” I said slowly, “is that there are all these people sitting around feeling bad about themselves when the fault lies with their profile. It could be a real self-esteem builder to have someone point that out, and then help with it. I mean, kind of a public service.”

“A public service that pays.”

“And I’d be a writer,” I said, my excitement starting to rise.

“You would.”

“Is there any way this could actually work?” I asked, desperately wanting her to say yes.

“Yes.”

Chapter 4

K
athy! What were you thinking?” I squealed.

“I don’t know! Maybe I wanted someone who doesn’t scare easy.”

“Well, the good news is, I’ve diagnosed your problem. I mean, after reading this, even I was considering never e-mailing you again.”

“Hey, I know it’s bad. You don’t have to rub it in.”

“And you filled in every single category! I mean, putting in that you’re an agnostic on top of all those Proust references—that’s the death knell right there.”

“Ha-ha.” She paused. “You don’t have to fill in all the categories?”

“No. You can skip around.”

“Okay. I authorize you to remove the agnostic part and my weight.”

“Oh, no. Your weight stays. That’s the only reason you got any responses at all.”

“Don’t you have some work to do?” she asked mock-pointedly.

“I’m going.”

We hung up and I reread the profile, more intently this time. The problem was, it didn’t sound like Kathy at all. It didn’t capture her kindness or her generosity or her playfulness. She did like Proust, but mostly she was using Proust as a punch line, and what kind of guy can you net with Proust as a punch line? And saying it was embarrassing to place an ad alienated any reader who’d been hardy enough to make it that far. Not to mention that opening shot about wanting an acquiescent woman, even if they didn’t know it …

So there were two questions to be answered. The first was, Who was Kathy? The second was, Who was the target audience? I needed to blend those into one entirely authentic sales pitch, which wasn’t the oxymoron Kathy seemed to think it was.

“Nora!”

“Okay. I guess you can take out the last line.” I paused a beat. “So, what do you think?”

“I love it,” Kathy said, without hesitation.

“Now it sounds like you.” My face flushed with pride and relief. I’d been so nervous reading it to her, waiting for the verdict.

“Really?” she asked, sounding touched.

“Definitely.”

“You can do this. I mean, for a career. You could really do this.”

My heartbeat accelerated again, with hope and terror.

Kathy and I decided the best place to start my freelance career was Craigslist. That’s because in the Bay Area, it’s fairly common to manage your whole life through Craigslist, a Web site of classified listings that range from the mundane to the mind-blowing. Over the years, I’ve generally used it for the mundane: jobs, apartments, a bedroom set, and a car. People I know have found their massage therapists, child care workers, bandmates, pets, lost keys, and, in one instance, a reliable sex worker. When I first moved to town five years ago and knew no one, Craigslist introduced me to a hiking group, an adventure group, a meditation class, a wine-tasting club, and a loosely organized cadre of extremely hip knitters. Every time I forced myself to make an appearance, I managed to tap at least one person who was as misplaced as I was. I met one of my best friends, Larissa, at a gathering of Jewish singles, and I’m not Jewish. (It was a low moment, trying to pass. But I’m a mutt, and mutts don’t get their own singles gatherings.) Anyway, Craigslist was free, and largely unpoliced, and yet somehow legitimate, which made it the perfect place to launch my new business venture.

I was so electrified with excitement that it was hard to make it through the next day of work, though I was grateful for another week of guaranteed income. I spent a lot of my time browsing dating Web sites, gleefully noting any clunker ads and thinking how soon I might be coming to their rescue. I felt like the right person with the right skills and the right idea at the right time, which was dizzyingly foreign to me.

I left work right at five. I’d decided that I wanted to surprise Dan with a special dinner that night, my way of saying, “Aren’t you glad I’m moving in with you?” I was also going to surprise him with my new career plan. For the provisions, I went to the gourmet market, where I never shopped. I frequented the supermarket with its bright lights and Krispy Kreme display, where the perpetually harried filled their carts with salami and canned peaches. The gourmet market, on the other hand, is a place where people actually sign up for wine and cheese classes. The fish department only buys from sustainable fisheries to protect the local ecosystem, and at the meat and poultry counters, staff wear white chef jackets and recommend the best cooking preparation and a wine pairing. The produce is all organic and each fruit or vegetable has a sign in front of it explaining that it’s from whatever region in the world currently has the best crop of that particular kumquat or gingerroot or what-have-you. It’s where locals who could afford to care about their bodies and the world in equal measure shopped, and where I envied them in their serene, yoga-pantsed glory. They lived here; I was only a tourist.

I headed for the fresh pasta department and bought a pound of the butternut squash ravioli. The woman who sold it to me explained how to prepare it lovingly with a sage butter sauce, asparagus, and cherry tomatoes. When I added on some bread, the red wine she suggested, and flowers, I felt a twinge that I refused to interpret as guilt. I didn’t have time for guilt anyway. I needed to get to Dan’s home before he did or all was lost.

Once inside the apartment, I threw everything on the kitchen counter and hurriedly arranged the flowers in a vase on the table. As I debated whether to start slicing the bread or boiling the water for pasta, I looked around and realized just how little time I’d spent in this apartment without Dan. It seemed completely unreal to me that in a week, this would be my home.

I’d never moved into someone else’s space before. I’d lived with boyfriends before (two, to be precise), and in one case, he moved into my apartment, and in the other, we’d picked out an apartment together. I would have preferred the latter route this time around, but Dan’s rent was so low that neither of us wanted to give it up. My rent would be half what it had been at Fara’s, and that reduction in expenses couldn’t have come at a better time.

But it wasn’t the apartment I would have chosen. First of all, it was carpeted and I’m a hardwood lover. I tried to get my fill of wood from the bar that runs the
entire
length of the living room. Yes, the bar was gorgeous, but it was from 1920 and didn’t exactly blend with an apartment built in the 1960s. It did, however, match the mammoth entertainment center on the perpendicular wall. I was daunted by that living room.