I was excited to read the e-mails I’d received from potential suitors, but first I wanted to see how many hits and messages BlondeBartenderHotti had gotten. I figured the ditzy profile had probably received two or three times as many letters from cyberguys. After all, my whole life had been testament to this inequity, and I was sure it extended to cyberspace.
I signed out of UptownAttorneyGirl’s profile and signed back on under BlondeBartenderHotti’s screen name. The page took a moment to load, but when it did, my jaw dropped.
In the twelve hours that the profile had been posted, my blonde alter ego had received 256 views and fifty-seven new messages.
Fifty-seven new messages?
I sat stunned for a moment. The photos I had posted to the two profiles were virtually identical, although in the second one, I had been sans fuchsia lipstick and teased hair. Still, the only real difference was that BlondeBartenderHotti’s profile had sounded blatantly unintelligent. The UptownAttorneyGirl profile? It had sounded just like me.
I stared at the screen. BlondeBartenderHotti’s overflowing inbox stared back at me as if taunting me. There it was, in the stark black and white of NYSoulmate.com’s messaging system: the answer to The Blonde Theory. If I were summing this up as a mathematical equation, I supposed I could quantify the results by saying that for every one man who would be interested in dating an intelligent attorney, there were
nineteen
who wanted to date a dumb blonde.
Nineteen
. The figure made me—the real me—feel really pathetic.
I sighed and clicked back to UptownAttorneyGirl’s inbox to read the meager assortment of messages.
The first was from JaysonArchieNYC, who said he was a thirty-eight-year-old firefighter on Staten Island who liked to date “smart chiks who are smokin hot because I’ve never been out with a smart chic.” The second was from DinoRichie who said he was a forty-five-year-old mortgage broker who didn’t get out much and wanted “someone who wants to stay at home and listen to NPR with me on Friday nights and go on perfect dates to the Museum of Natural History to see the dinosaurs.” The third message was from a sender who’d called himself DrMcDream101, so I opened it feeling optimistic, visions of Patrick Dempsey dancing in my head... but it was just an ad for breast-enhancement cream, which promised me that it would “Double your dating success overnight—guaranteed!”
I sighed. Perhaps my alter ego had fared better.
I logged out of UptownAttorneyGirl’s inbox again and signed back in as BlondeBartenderHotti. I spent the next thirty minutes scanning the messages, reading each one quickly. In the total of fifty-seven messages, there were four ads, including one from the DrMcDream101 of breast-enhancing fame. But that still left fifty-three genuine responses to the dumb-blonde profile.
Some were ridiculous, but just under half sounded like guys I could actually consider going on a date with, although I supposed this was the first sign that I was going insane. I cut and pasted the best twenty answers into an e-mail that I sent on to Meg, Jill, and Emmie with a note from me asking them to pick their favorite ten. Meg had said I needed to go on at least five more blonde dates, and although I felt like the answer to The Blonde Theory was just as simple as the 1:19 ratio, I knew I couldn’t let her and the girls down. For that matter, I couldn’t exactly let myself down.
At noon, after I had met with a new client, an indepen-dently wealthy man who wanted to patent a “viable alternative to shoelaces,” as he called the strange sticky device he had plunked down on my desk, I called Meg, who conferenced in Emmie and Jill. Together, the four of us picked our favorite ten guys from BlondeBartenderHotti’s list and agreed that I would e-mail them back in descending order, trying to make a date with five of them, one for each of the next five nights—including tonight.
“You never know,” said Jill, ever the optimist. “My friend Anne met her husband through Match. There
are
good guys on these Internet dating sites.”
“They just happen to be few and far between,” I grumbled. “And I don’t think any of the good guys are writing to BlondeBartenderHotti.”
“Don’t be so negative,” Meg said. “After all, you agreed to this experiment. Maybe it will help change your perspective on dating.”
I snorted. “Yeah,” I said. “It will erase any doubt in my mind that I’ll wind up a spinster. Now it’s a certainty.”
“There’s no such thing as a spinster anymore,” Emmie chimed in, her voice bubbly and enthusiastic as usual. “You’re just a fabulous thirtysomething with a fabulous job and fabulous shoes.”
“You’re like Carrie Bradshaw!” Jill chimed in excitedly.
“Yes,” I said. “Except that this is real life, not some TV show that wraps up neatly in thirty minutes and ends with my Mr. Big sweeping me off my feet.”
The girls wished me luck, and we said our good-byes. I spent the remainder of the hour drafting quick e-mails—in my best dumb-blonde writing style, of course—to the top five guys on the list: GeorgeEdwards38 (a thirty-eight-year-old engineer), MarcoPolo (a thirty-six-year-old Italian buyer for Prada), HighAltitudeFlyer (a forty-year-old airline pilot), CorporateColin (a thirty-seven-year-old mortgage broker who owned his own company), and DavidDunnNYPD (a forty-one-year-old NYPD detective).
By the end of the workday, I had heard back from CorporateColin, whose real name was Colin White; MarcoPolo, whose name was really Marco Cassan; and HighAltitudeFlyer, who was really Douglas McDonnell. Colin had agreed to meet me for dinner tomorrow night at eight, while I’d made a date with Marco for Sunday night and one with Douglas for Monday. And all three guys who had responded by the end of the day sounded decent, in their e-mails and profiles, at least. How could I go wrong?
Why did I have the uncomfortable feeling that those were famous last words?
I
awoke the next morning to the sound of running water.
For a moment, in that foggy place between sleep and consciousness, I couldn’t remember where I was. I’d never heard running water like this in my apartment, but the sound conjured up the image of a trip I’d taken with Peter to Brazil during the time that our relationship was going well. We had stayed in a little cottage at the edge of a rain forest and had awoken every morning to the sound of a little waterfall nearby. For an instant, I was back there, listening to the flowing falls and waiting for Peter to roll over and spoon me, holding me tightly against him like he never wanted to let me go.
Then, blinking my eyes into the harsh sunlight that was already pouring in my window, I realized in an instant that I was indeed not in Brazil, on a romantic vacation with a man I loved. Instead, I was in someplace far less exciting: my own bed. Alone. As usual.
As I lay there trying simultaneously to forget the trip to Brazil and to go back there again in my mind, I realized that the sound of rushing water was closer than the waterfall had been to our Brazilian cottage. And in the middle of Manhattan, in a fifth-floor apartment, I shouldn’t be hearing rushing water in any kind of proximity.
This was not good news.
Hmm, maybe I had finally cracked and was going wholeheartedly insane. Ah well, at least it would get me off the hook for The Blonde Theory. The girls couldn’t very well expect me to conduct self-deprecating dating experiments from the loony bin, now, could they? Although dating mental patients would add an interesting new dimension to this whole thing.
I sat up in bed and looked around. I couldn’t
see
any rushing water, which I supposed was a good sign that I hadn’t totally cracked up yet. But I could definitely hear it. And it was coming from the direction of my bathroom. Not a good sign.
I slid out of bed, cringing a bit as my feet touched the cold hardwood floors and adjusted to the temperature. I kept my apartment very cold at night, because I loved wrapping myself in several blankets while I slept. But stepping out of the warmth of the blankets into the Antarctic-like conditions of my bedroom was always a shock. I pulled on a robe over my boxers and gray Harvard-insignia tank, and, wrapping my arms around myself, I shuffled to the bathroom.
I turned the knob and pushed open the door. I immediately wished I hadn’t.
But it was too late. The six inches or so of water that covered the tiled bathroom floor came gushing out into the bedroom, seeping immediately into my beautiful hardwood floor, no doubt warping it. Trying to close the bathroom door again proved to be useless; the water was already pouring out.
“No!” I moaned as I noticed the bottom of my bathrobe absorbing the flow. I peeked my head around the corner of the bathroom and immediately saw the source of the early-morning waterfall, which was significantly less appealing than the one I’d had outside my window in Brazil. The torrents of water were spilling over from the bowl of my toilet, which must have started to overflow during the night.
I closed my eyes for a moment, still standing in the puddle of water, and wondered just how cursed I was. I mean, whose toilet starts to spontaneously overflow for no apparent reason during the night? This could only happen to me.
I took a deep breath and shuffled over to the toilet, trying not to think about the fact that I was currently standing in toilet water. It didn’t get much grosser than that. I tried to remember what I could about fixing toilets, but all I could come up with off the top of my head was jiggling the handle. So I reached over and did that, jiggling the metal grip firmly. I paused and listened for a moment, waiting for the flowing water to shut off, thanks to my miraculous handyman solution.
No such luck. Okay, so I wasn’t destined for a career as a plumber.
I took a step closer and removed the top of the tank, setting it gingerly on the edge of the bathtub. I peered inside hesitantly, not sure what I’d find or, for that matter, what I’d do with what I’d find. The inside looked fairly simple. I gave myself a little pep talk.
You’re a smart girl, Harper. You graduated from Harvard, after all. Surely you can figure out how to stop your toilet from overflowing.
I took off my robe, as I wasn’t crazy about the idea of sticking my robe-clad arm into the toilet, then I reached into the cold water, fishing around for something that would make the running water stop. I was heartened to discover that the flow ceased temporarily when I lifted the narrow lever attached to the thin chain in the middle of the back toilet basin. I was just about to go pour myself a congratulatory glass of orange juice and give myself a pat on the back for solving the problem when I realized that the moment I let go of the lever, the water started flowing again. And it seemed heavier this time. So unless I planned to stand in the bathroom holding the lever for the rest of my life, I was still stuck.
Okay, I could handle this.
Stay calm
, I told myself.
You aced the New York patent bar exam. You can figure out a toilet.
I plunged my arm into the back of the basin again, feeling around for anything else that might have triggered the unwelcome flow of water. There was a little tank-looking thing on the left with a metal pin attached. I lifted the pin, crossing the fingers on my other hand optimistically. Nothing. I jiggled the little white tube shooting a steady stream of offending water into the cylinder that fed the toilet bowl. But it just squirted out toward me, making me jump back in disgust, because now not only were my feet and arms covered with toilet water, but I had been squirted in the cheek with it, too. I took another deep breath and plunged my arm back in, pulling at the little floating bulb that I assumed was supposed to indicate when the bowl was full and didn’t need any more water. That, too, just made the speed of the flow increase.
I felt for anything else that might stop the flow. I jiggled the handle again with my other hand. I tried jiggling it while holding the little black lever up, while pushing the bulb down, while jiggling the little white tube.
Still, nothing.
“It’s a toilet!” I finally said aloud to myself, scowling at it. “How can it be this hard?” I kicked the base of the toilet for emphasis, which evidently sent some sort of signal to the water shooting from the tube to double its flow immediately.
Okay, I could handle this. I thought for a moment. Right. I could just call my landlord. He’d have someone come up and fix it right away. Sure, he’d probably look at me like I was a brainless idiot, which in fact I was at the moment, but at least the water flow would stop. Every second I wasted was one more second that the water was seeping into my expensive hardwood floors, no doubt damaging them beyond repair.
I made my way to the kitchen, too discouraged to even think about the fact that I was now tracking toilet water all over the apartment. I felt like screaming. This should be something I could handle. I was a single girl, not an incompetent dolt. Why couldn’t I figure out the damned toilet? I couldn’t help but think that if I had a boyfriend—if Peter or anyone else were still here—the problem would already be solved. Men just seemed to be born with the innate ability to fix things and mow lawns and hook up electronic devices, didn’t they? What was wrong with me that I could figure out the intricacies of extremely complicated patent laws but I couldn’t figure out how to stop a simple toilet from running?
It wasn’t until I was in the kitchen with my portable phone in hand that I realized that I
couldn’t
call the landlord. Why? Because I didn’t
have
a landlord. That’s what happens when you
buy
your apartment. Damn it. And I thought I was being so smart and independent by purchasing a place two years ago—sort of a knee-jerk reaction to Peter leaving.
Who needs a man?
That was my theory. But that was before my toilet broke and I realized how incompetent I was. What was I going to do?
I could call Meg and have her send Paul over, but by the time he got here from Brooklyn, I’d already be floating away in a sea of toilet water. I’d be better off spending my time building an ark. I could call Jill, but I had the gut feeling that Alec was conspicuously missing the home-repair gene. And even if he
did
know how to fix a toilet, he’d no doubt make excuses about how he had to go into work instead. I couldn’t imagine him dirtying his hands with toilet water. I could just hear his nasal voice:
Harper, I save lives. I don’t have time to fix toilets.
Okay then.
That left me one choice. Sad as it was, I’d just have to call a plumber. I felt like an idiot; it would cost me hundreds of dollars to have some guy come over and do something that an independent woman like me
should
be able to do myself.
“Idiot, idiot, idiot,” I cursed myself aloud. But I didn’t have a choice. I grabbed the yellow pages from the drawer below the phone and skimmed through the plumbing section quickly until I found a location close to me.
Handymen on Call: The 24-Hour Answer to All Your Plumbing, Electrical, and Household Problems
, the entry read. I immediately dialed the number. It rang three times before a gruff voice answered, growling the business’s name into the receiver.
“Um, yes,” I said, feeling like a complete fool. “I live on Seventy-fourth and Third. My toilet is overflowing, and I can’t get it to stop. I need someone to come over and help me as soon as possible, please.”
The guy snorted.
“Our minumum charge for a house call is seventy-five dollars,” he growled, sounding amused. “And since it’s before ten am, that’s an extra twenty-five. And that’s before you add on our hourly rate.”
“Fine, fine,” I said hurriedly. Whatever. I didn’t care. I just wanted to solve the problem quickly, and if I had to throw money at the problem to make it go away in a timely fashion, then so be it.
“All right, ma’am,” the guy said. “I’ll have Sean there in fifteen minutes. He’s the closest to you right now. Let me have your credit card number.”
I read it to him hastily, then I gave him my exact address, hung up, and waited for the handyman to arrive.
Less than ten minutes later, there was a knock on the door. I waded back out from the bathroom, where I had been standing, peering into the toilet and trying to figure out its mysterious ways. Of course I hadn’t bothered to use the time to brush my teeth, run a comb through my hair, or put on any makeup, which I immediately regretted, despite myself, when I opened the door to find a sandy-haired guy about my age standing outside.
He was looking down at a notepad in his hands when I opened the door, and when he looked up and grinned pleasantly at me, his blue eyes wide and sharp, I felt momentarily self-conscious about my matted hair, makeup-free face, and braless tank top.
“Um, Mrs. Roberts?” he asked, glancing back down at his notepad, his deep voice thick with an accent I couldn’t immediately identify.
“Yes,” I said. “
Miss
Roberts,” I corrected, not sure why I’d felt like I needed to clarify that. “But please, call me Harper.”
The handyman, dressed in faded jeans and a collared pale blue shirt that said handymen on call over the left breast pocket in red stitching, smiled at me and extended a hand.
“I’m Sean O’Sullivan,” he said. Okay, so that solved the mystery of his accent’s origins. He was obviously Irish. I took his hand and he shook mine firmly. “Pleasure to meet you,
Miss
Harper Roberts. You say you have a toilet overflowing, so?”
“Um, yes,” I said, self-consciously. “Right this way, please. Thanks for coming on such short notice.”
“That’s what we do, ma’am,” he said cheerfully, shutting the door and following me down the hall toward my bedroom. Of course I’d hadn’t made the bed or picked up last night’s outfit from the floor. I hurried ahead to the bathroom, hoping he wouldn’t notice my bra and panties lying in a heap beside the corner of my bed. Not that it mattered; he was the handyman, not some potential date. I guess my senses were just going haywire because it had been so long since I’d actually had any kind of man in my bedroom at all. We rounded the corner toward the bathroom, and when he saw the pool of water extending out into my bedroom, he groaned.
“Ah no, you have a bit of a mess ’ere, eh?” he said, shaking his head.
“It happened while I was sleeping,” I said, a bit defensive. After all, it wasn’t like I had clogged the toilet myself. “I just woke up and found it like this, and I couldn’t figure out how to turn it off.”
Sean turned and grinned at me again, then stepped into the bathroom, wading through several inches of water. He bent down beside the toilet and in one twist of his left wrist turned off a knob behind the toilet that I hadn’t even
noticed
when I was fishing around
inside
the toilet. The water immediately stopped.
“Well, this will stop the water for now, then,” he said, standing back up and looking at me with an amused expression.
“I feel like an idiot,” I mumbled, shifting from foot to foot and looking at the ground. “I didn’t even notice that knob there. You mean I could have fixed this myself?”
“Not to worry, miss,” he said cheerfully in his thick Irish brogue. “You’d be surprised how many calls we get like this. If you’ve never had an overflow, you don’t even think to look for the faucet handle. Now let me have a look inside the belly o’ the beast ’ere.” He bent at the waist to look inside the back of the toilet. After a few seconds, he reached in a hand, fished around for a second, looked down, and twisted something inside.
“That should do it, now,” he said, straightening up. “Let’s just see what happens when we turn ’er on, right then?” He bent down and turned the faucet handle back to the left. We both listened for a moment. No more running water. He flushed the toilet, and we both stood in silence as it went through its normal cycle and then shut off, as it always had in the past.
“It’s fixed?” I asked incredulously. “Just like that?”
The handyman turned around to face me and nodded. “Yeah, it’s back to right normal, so,” he said. “Now we just have a bit of a mess to worry about ’ere.”