Tuesday, March 20, 2007
The Other Janice
My friend Janice responded to my last blog entry with this inspirational feat of photoshop. It's poetry in motion.
Desperate times...
The opportunity to meet with a professional matchmaker was something myself and the girlfriends I recruited approached with cautious optimism. On one hand, we were excited by the prospect of having a woman so savvy in the dating department give us her precious time. On the other, we found the whole idea tantamount to accepting defeat. By the way, this was NOT my idea. Here's the email that ignited my interest:
Fabulous, single ladies:
Did you happen to catch a segment about Janis Spindel on a recent Nightlight episode? I just had my TV on in the background and stumbled upon it and found it rather intriguing. So, Janis Spindel is a “matchmaker” in NYC who has a niche clientele of smart, attractive, successful women and smart, attractive, successful men (her words, not mine). The way it works is that one of her staff does an initial phone screen screen and then she meets with you one-on-one (and charges $1000 for a 30 minute meeting!!!). She then gets to work and introduces you to possible matches and invites you to “networking” events where you can meet people on your own. HOWEVER, if there is a group of 4-5, she can meet with all of us as a group and waive the charge.
The funny thing is that I went on her website and looked at some event pictures and saw a picture of one of my classmates from business school who is a great catch!!! So, I felt less like a loser and better about exploring this further.
I have to give my girlfriend props for going out on a limb. After all, aren't we all looking at alternative means by which to find a mate? Especially since most of us have exhausted the traditional route (whatever that is)? All of us were intrigued. In fact, so many of my single gal pals were that I had to splinter off into another group altogether to accomodate the demand for a meeting with Janis.
I arrived late, as usual, to her Upper East side apartment. I knocked on the door and could hear her butchering one friend's name. Everyone was dressed impeccably as my girls typically are with their make-up and nails done. I had pulled my hair up into a clip and was just cursing the fact that I needed a manicure. After asking how long I was married, she said abruptly, "Do you always wear your hair up like that? Is your hair long?" I pulled my clip out and laughed self-consciously trying to remember if I made it a point to wear my hair down on dates. "She wears it down," my roommate interjected.
Let's take a moment to talk about the appearance of our dating sensei. Clearly, she was a fan of botox and judging by the way her skin had been pulled taut across her face, I'd venture to say she's had some work done. And she herself was a real piece of work. As my friend Liza pointed out, how could you trust a woman who thought leopard print jersey and lace was a good look? And for a successful spinster slayer, she had one shitty apartment. But what we found most horrifying was how she spoke to her 20 something assistant. I mean here we had schlepped to her place for her to ascertain the viability of our candidacy in a mere 30 minutes and she kept stopping to scream at this poor girl. "Get off that site! That is NOT where you need to be looking. Go to the database. I don't want you to look at those pictures, I want you to focus on the dinner party!" In retrospect, her assistant was kind of dense because apparently she never did do what her slave driver demanded, continuing to draw her ire.
The only thing more annoying than this display of distraction during what had been billed an "important meeting" was the fact that she made us purchase her fucking book: Get Serious About Getting Married: 365 Proven Ways to Find Love in Less Than a Year. She made us pay $25 each for this even though it sells on Amazon for half that price. "Fill out the 25 page questionnaire in my book and get it back to me ASAP! But don't you dare, rip the pages out, make copies then fill them out!" she demanded. Since none of us have a copy machine in our apartments, we quickly did the math and realized we would be carrying this book to our respective offices where someone might see it in our possession. This didn't set well with my friends. When we were finally dismissed, we walked out in somewhat of a daze.
As we compared notes, my friend Liza cut to the chase and declared, "I'm sorry, you guys, but she's a whack job!" I was inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt. Sure, she was eccentric but maybe that in your face technique is what shook men out of their, "I'm going to marry a model who wants to cook and clean all day then give me a blow job at night" reverie. But this inclination towards her faded once I made the mistake of actually reading parts of her book.
There's a section devoted to cosmetics and outpatient treatments to "look your best." Not to mention, she had the nerve to pontificate on fashion. According to this Bible for Brides-to-be, every woman should own a nice black turtleneck and a pair of "sexy mules" in case their suitor comes over for dinner. The only mules in my future are likely the men I'd meet through this marriage broker. No, you get serious, lady, if we were really on the market for the caliber of men your exquisite tast indicates, we'd hit the Carnegie Club in a pair of Jimmy Choos- slingbacks not mules.
Fabulous, single ladies:
Did you happen to catch a segment about Janis Spindel on a recent Nightlight episode? I just had my TV on in the background and stumbled upon it and found it rather intriguing. So, Janis Spindel is a “matchmaker” in NYC who has a niche clientele of smart, attractive, successful women and smart, attractive, successful men (her words, not mine). The way it works is that one of her staff does an initial phone screen screen and then she meets with you one-on-one (and charges $1000 for a 30 minute meeting!!!). She then gets to work and introduces you to possible matches and invites you to “networking” events where you can meet people on your own. HOWEVER, if there is a group of 4-5, she can meet with all of us as a group and waive the charge.
The funny thing is that I went on her website and looked at some event pictures and saw a picture of one of my classmates from business school who is a great catch!!! So, I felt less like a loser and better about exploring this further.
I have to give my girlfriend props for going out on a limb. After all, aren't we all looking at alternative means by which to find a mate? Especially since most of us have exhausted the traditional route (whatever that is)? All of us were intrigued. In fact, so many of my single gal pals were that I had to splinter off into another group altogether to accomodate the demand for a meeting with Janis.
I arrived late, as usual, to her Upper East side apartment. I knocked on the door and could hear her butchering one friend's name. Everyone was dressed impeccably as my girls typically are with their make-up and nails done. I had pulled my hair up into a clip and was just cursing the fact that I needed a manicure. After asking how long I was married, she said abruptly, "Do you always wear your hair up like that? Is your hair long?" I pulled my clip out and laughed self-consciously trying to remember if I made it a point to wear my hair down on dates. "She wears it down," my roommate interjected.
Let's take a moment to talk about the appearance of our dating sensei. Clearly, she was a fan of botox and judging by the way her skin had been pulled taut across her face, I'd venture to say she's had some work done. And she herself was a real piece of work. As my friend Liza pointed out, how could you trust a woman who thought leopard print jersey and lace was a good look? And for a successful spinster slayer, she had one shitty apartment. But what we found most horrifying was how she spoke to her 20 something assistant. I mean here we had schlepped to her place for her to ascertain the viability of our candidacy in a mere 30 minutes and she kept stopping to scream at this poor girl. "Get off that site! That is NOT where you need to be looking. Go to the database. I don't want you to look at those pictures, I want you to focus on the dinner party!" In retrospect, her assistant was kind of dense because apparently she never did do what her slave driver demanded, continuing to draw her ire.
The only thing more annoying than this display of distraction during what had been billed an "important meeting" was the fact that she made us purchase her fucking book: Get Serious About Getting Married: 365 Proven Ways to Find Love in Less Than a Year. She made us pay $25 each for this even though it sells on Amazon for half that price. "Fill out the 25 page questionnaire in my book and get it back to me ASAP! But don't you dare, rip the pages out, make copies then fill them out!" she demanded. Since none of us have a copy machine in our apartments, we quickly did the math and realized we would be carrying this book to our respective offices where someone might see it in our possession. This didn't set well with my friends. When we were finally dismissed, we walked out in somewhat of a daze. As we compared notes, my friend Liza cut to the chase and declared, "I'm sorry, you guys, but she's a whack job!" I was inclined to give her the benefit of the doubt. Sure, she was eccentric but maybe that in your face technique is what shook men out of their, "I'm going to marry a model who wants to cook and clean all day then give me a blow job at night" reverie. But this inclination towards her faded once I made the mistake of actually reading parts of her book.
There's a section devoted to cosmetics and outpatient treatments to "look your best." Not to mention, she had the nerve to pontificate on fashion. According to this Bible for Brides-to-be, every woman should own a nice black turtleneck and a pair of "sexy mules" in case their suitor comes over for dinner. The only mules in my future are likely the men I'd meet through this marriage broker. No, you get serious, lady, if we were really on the market for the caliber of men your exquisite tast indicates, we'd hit the Carnegie Club in a pair of Jimmy Choos- slingbacks not mules.
I'm with Lou Dobbs...
Seriously. Fucking bring an end to outsourcing. I just spent fifteen minutes on the phone with the dumbest girl in India. I know she's got some stiff competition but for Pete's sake, she couldn't pour piss out of a boot if the directions were written on the heel. All I wanted to know is if I could get the late payment fee on my AmEx waived. She kept telling me that I should call back after I had made a payment. "I just made a payment online." She told me to hold then came back and said I had just posted a payment so there would be no additional late fees. Umm, thanks, why don't you go back to surfing Indian matrimonial websites?
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