The guy who broke up with my answering machine was the last straw! I was sick to death of meeting men who told me of their youthful suicide attempts the moment I mentioned that I was a psychologist, who were afraid of my education, and whose working vocabularies did not include the word commitment.  I was through with the blind dates arranged by well-meaning friends; I’d never had a clue how my friends saw me until I met the men they thought would be my Mr. Right. (Why had Andrea thought I’d  be perfect with that guy who was deathly afraid of frogs?)

    I had tried and tried and tried the “meeting men by engaging in lots of activities” approach, and I have to admit there were some benefits to it. All those interests I pursued in my spare time provided me with lots of enjoyment, but a scarcity of available men, unless you count the nude construction worker who served as a model in my figure drawing class. 

    In graduate school, one friend had faithfully scanned the personal ads, frequently threatening to place an ad herself. I used to tell her: she was a wonderful person and didn’t have to resort to something like that! she’d find someone! and you never know what kind of weirdo you’d meet from an ad! She pooh-poohed everything I said, and might actually have placed an ad except that she married someone she happened to meet at work. Was it my fault that I was working with already married men?

    At 34, I wasn’t getting any younger, and I wanted a family. The time had come for drastic action.

    Enter Philadelphia Magazine.

    I knew placing a personal ad wouldn’t be risky for me. I’d be cautious. Before I even called any of the respondents to my ad, each and every one of their response letters would be examined by a licensed psychologist (I’d had my license for almost four years.) So, I sat down to write my ad:  SWF, 34, psychologist, storyteller, intelligent, Ivy-educated,  gentle, direct, attractive, seeking nonsmoking, bright, kind,  perceptive professional, nonambivalent S/DWM 34-40 with  integrity, strength of character, warmth, for long-term  commitment.

        I mailed it in to the magazine, along with a check covering my usual excess of words, and I waited.

        Before I’d even picked up the new issue, I received my first batch of responses. The packet contained three letters from subscribers, who had received the March issue before it even hit the newsstands. I opened the letters excitedly, reading between the lines wherever possible.

        One man quoted extensively from literature – a man who read and who appreciated a well-turned phrase! I thought it could be an answer to my prayers. In view of later experience, I’d advise ignoring men who quote literature to impress you. When I called, it turned out he had found true love in the week since writing me, but recommended me to a friend who was too shy to respond to ads. Ignore also friends who are too shy to respond to ads.

        Week by week, as more letters poured in, I sorted them into categories – “don’t call,” “definitely call,” and “maybe.” A letter from a man claiming to be a high school principal (despite the fact he clearly hadn’t mastered grammar or spelling as yet) went into the “don’t call” pile. I also rejected the man who sent his resume and a sales brochure along with an eight by eleven glossy. I began optimistically to phone the men from the “Definitely call” pile. After talking to several of those gentlemen, I decided two categories would suffice, and labeled them “don’t call” and “maybe.”

    Every evening after dinner, I would sit down to phone the strangers who had answered my ad, making notes as we talked. Where was the guy from? Did he have brothers and sisters? Where had he gone to school? What had he enjoyed there? Occupation? What did he like to do in his spare time?

     In the brief period of one month, I actually went on twenty dates with these gentlemen, generally one meeting per man. I went out for coffee, lunch, dinner, snacks, or drinks. I have to admit that some of my dates were with very nice men. One divorced man spent the better part of our coffee date showing me pictures of his kids and lamenting the effects on them when he and his wife split up. He was kind, and very heart-broken. I encouraged him to go ahead and move to Illinois, where his ex-wife had taken the kids, so that he’d be able to see them as often as he could.  Another man I met was a contractor with whom I had dinner. He was funny and athletic, a really great guy who reminded me very much of my younger brothers; an excellent candidate for friendship, but not for the romance department.

    Some of the gentlemen made poor impressions. Lest you think I’m too picky for my own good, I’ll share a few highlights, and I won't even mention the guys who lied about age or marital status. There was for instance the fellow with whom I shared a pleasant Dutch treat dinner on South Street. I agreed to see him a second time when he suggested we go to a  film I wanted to see.  When I arrived at the theater at the time we’d arranged to meet, the fellow was nowhere to be seen. I waited, waited and waited. Finally, time was running out for the start of the film, and still he hadn’t appeared. Well, I figured, although he had stood me up, there was no need for me to miss the film. I bought myself a ticket. The moment the ticket taker took my ticket, the guy suddenly materialized from inside the theater. “Hi!” he called cheerily. “I saved you a seat!” He had been watching to see that I paid my own way before he decided to make his presence known. I didn’t mind paying for my own ticket, but I was past playing hide and seek. 

    Another fellow raved to me about California in the sixties and seventies, assuring me that everyone in the state, with enhanced consciousness from all the drugs they used to expand their minds, had been on the verge of revolution, which unfortunately, for reasons he couldn’t fathom, hadn’t happened. He appeared to have spent the interim years basking in memories of those hippie, radical, psychedelic days. Luckily, we had met in a bar with an extensive selection of  hors d’oeuvres for happy hour, so at least I didn’t go home hungry.

     Although I had started March optimistically with the notion that I was auditioning potential husbands, I eventually began to think of them as the damn men.

    “I can’t believe you’ve gone out with that many men in just one week!” friends would exclaim, eyes glowing, as they imagined all kinds of fun and excitement. They had no idea how absolutely tiresome it had become for me!

    I was glad to get away from the damn men when I went to Massachusetts to visit my family that Easter. My parents knew about my personal ad, and wanted to know what was going on. My Dad was scared to death that I’d run into some nut, and said he didn’t know what the heck was the matter with the guys I’d dated in the past that they hadn’t thrown themselves at my feet and begged me to marry them. My mother, on the other hand, considered personal ads to be one of the exciting things that young people do which hadn’t been available in her day.

    Over the holiday, I concluded that only two of the remaining letters might be worth calls, and I had reservations about both. One was from a fellow a few years older than I, another psychologist. Despite, or maybe because, that was also my profession, it made me suspicious. The other fellow had several strikes against him. First, he was a lawyer, and some lawyers I’d met had been disappointing. Second, he was recently divorced. He didn’t have kids, so I wouldn’t be doing any custody counseling, but I wondered, was he ready to involve himself again? Third, he had inquired what I meant by “nonambivalent.” Was this an ambivalent man trying to wiggle his way out of my definition? On the plus side, he had majored in English literature, but enjoyed reading history, while I had majored in history, but enjoyed reading literature. And he mentioned having a spoiled five-year-old beagle. Here was a man  willing to take responsibility and show love for someone other than himself! To top it off, he was a classical music fan, which in my book would beat hands-down some of the heavy metal preferences of a past boyfriend.

    Having returned from the Easter visit with my family, I sat down to make more calls. I couldn’t help but think that the timing was perfect for the task: it was April Fool’s Day.

    The matter with the psychologist was quickly settled.  We talked only briefly before arranging to meet the Saturday after next for a drink.

    Next I called the lawyer. He turned off his stereo and settled down to talk with me. To the dismay of my cat and his beagle, we really hit it off. He had a dry sense of humor, was interested in lots of things I found interesting, was curious about my life, and seemed sweetly old fashioned at times. We talked for an hour, and he asked me out to dinner for Saturday. I was half hoping that this might have possibilities.

    On Tuesday he called to tell me that the restaurant we had chosen had closed (was that an omen?), and suggested another which was closer to me.

    That Saturday, I had lunch and went shopping with a friend. By then, my disillusionment had kicked in. I got home barely in time to shower and change before going out to meet another damn man. As I entered the restaurant where Tom and I had agreed to meet, I looked around for a man fitting the proper description: five feet, seven inches, brown hair, gray eyes, glasses. I saw a man who matched, and he was really cute.

    “Kate?” he asked.

    “Tom!” I answered thankfully.

    We were ushered to a table upstairs. When I looked at the menu, I was shocked. These were steep prices for a first date! What the heck did this guy expect? Well, I thought, let him expect whatever he liked! I had enough cash and a credit card with me, but I was darned sure I wasn’t going to order anything more expensive than he did!

    We had wine, a wonderful salad, delicious entrees and exquisite dessert, although the meal wasn’t the best part of the evening. We began to talk – about families, our college experiences, our jobs, our interests. He was a middle child, with a younger brother in the southwest, and an older sister who had died a few years before. I was an oldest, with four younger brothers. His family had moved a lot, mine only once.  He had loved his undergraduate days, didn’t much care for law school. I had loved graduate school, at least for the first couple years, although I hadn’t been thrilled with my undergraduate days. We both loved to read. We both enjoyed music and theater. And each of us had a spoiled pet – his, a dog, and mine, a cat.

    When the bill came, I opened my purse and reached for my wallet.

    “No, thanks,” Tom said.

    “I could leave the tip,” I offered.

    “I invited you, and it’s my treat,” he answered, and that settled it.

    We finally decided to free up our table by adjourning to the bar. During dinner, I had already reached my personal limit of one glass of wine, so we continued our discussion over Perrier with a lime twist. I won’t say the conversation was without snags. Tom mentioned that he had been involved in politics while in college; I had too.

    “I was a Young Republican,” he said.

    “One of those,” I remarked. I had heard of Young Republicans, but had never knowingly met one before, and, frankly, had wondered if they really existed. Well, if politics was going to be a problem, I thought, we may as well get it out in the open right away. “I was a socialist,” I told him. “I moved away from socialism after I graduated college, though.” I waited. He didn’t seem to be fazed in the least, and we continued chatting.

    The other snag developed when Tom asked me to go to the orchestra with him the next Saturday evening.

    The next Saturday evening! But I had already made arrangements to meet that other damn man for a drink that night! “I’m very sorry,” I said, “because I would love to, and I really do want to see you again, but I have a previous commitment.”  I waited. Would he ask if he could see me Friday or Sunday instead?  He took it well, but, no, he did not ask for a different day.

    At last, Tom walked me to my car, gave me a quick kiss, and said that he’d call me soon. I’d heard that line before. Did he mean it?

    The next day, my friends were pretty much in agreement that I was an idiot for not having accepted Tom’s invitation. “Call him and tell him you were able to rearrange your schedule!” Julie advised.

    “I can’t,” I insisted.  “It wouldn’t be fair. What about the other guy?”

    “Who cares about him?” Laura asked. “You don’t even know him.”

    I brooded, wondering if Tom would call again. On Tuesday evening, he did.

    “You seem to be pretty busy, and I don’t want to miss out again by not asking you early enough. Are you free the next Saturday?” We arranged to see a movie and have dinner. And then we continued to talk.

    I have to admit, I enjoyed talking with Tom so much that I was not very excited about meeting the other remaining damn man. Although he had billed himself as a psychologist, he turned out to be a tall, lanky psychology intern, well versed in jargon. A plain talker myself, I could see this would be a mismatch. During our brief date, the gentleman informed me that, although he had been planning on staying local, the day after we originally talked, he had accepted a post-doc a sizable distance away. “I thought maybe I should call and explain to you that I’m moving next month and cancel the date, since there's no possibility for anything long-term, but I was curious about you, so I didn’t,” he said.

    When the bill for his two mixed drinks and my glass of wine came, he carefully tabulated my share, with tax, telling me not to worry, that he would take care of the tip. After seeing the tip he left, I threw in another dollar.  As I got into my car to head home, I was thinking, and for this I missed an evening at the orchestra with that sweet, bright, fun, interesting man?

    The following Saturday, as I was dressing for my second date with Tom, another friend called to give me dating pointers she had just read in a  magazine. She warned that I should avoid ordering French onion soup until I knew a man very well; the strings of melted cheese hanging from one’s spoon and mouth might put him off. And to think that I had reached the age of thirty-four before I learned this!

     I was dressed, though barefoot and only partly made up when the doorbell rang twenty minutes before Tom was to pick me up.

    “I’m early,” he said, and the sound of his voice made it clear that he had a bad cold.

    While I finished my preparations, Tom got to know my cat. She disliked him from the word go. Even though she was declawed, she made her feelings obvious; she bit him.

    During dinner that evening, I asked Tom how his concert had been, and heard more than I wanted to. Since I’d been unavailable, he had asked a woman who was a member of a professional organization he belonged to. They ate dinner at a restaurant near the Academy of Music and ordered paella. Bless her heart, she had told him during the course of the evening that she thought platonic relationships were the best kind!  I also heard that mine had not been the first personal ad that Tom had ever answered, but that prior efforts had netted one date, not deemed a tremendous success. Well, he wasn’t the first man I had ever met either, so I tried to take this news with grace. Besides, we were really enjoying spending time with each other. We continued that by way of phone in the following week.

    On our third date, I had the bad cold. Tom had received an invitation to be part of an audience previewing pilots for new television programs, and we decided to try it out. In order to make it a realistic television viewing experience, they told us, we would also watch commercials. We saw two sitcoms, a quirky one with potential, and one absolute clunker. The programs were interrupted frequently by soup commercials. When it came time to fill out reaction forms, it became clear that the real purpose of the event was to test the effectiveness of the commercials. Nevertheless, we had a wonderful time. When Tom took me home, I invited him to in to sample some of the chocolate chip walnut cookies I had made especially for the occasion. And again, conversation didn’t lag.

    During the ensuing week, we were talking on the phone nightly, and I was inwardly lamenting the geographical distance between my apartment in King of Prussia and his townhouse in southern Chester County. For our fourth date, Tom invited me to go to a charity horse race and then to have dinner at his house. This was a Sunday event, and Tom had mentioned that he would be busy Saturday evening without mentioning why. I tried not to be suspicious. Maybe there was a good reason that had nothing to do with other women. Regardless, I was soon going to see his townhouse and meet Cleo, his beloved dog. That had to be a good sign, didn’t it?

    Tom had bought a new camera and took pictures during our fourth date.  As soon as I got out of his car, he began taking pictures of me. We spent the afternoon watching horse races, admiring the horses’ socks, meeting some people Tom knew, snacking, talking and laughing. Afterward, we headed back to his place.

    Tom’s townhouse was dominated by his record collection. He had told me, somewhat apologetically, that he had a large collection of classical music recordings, but I had no idea how incredibly extensive it was. “I have more in the dining room and in the bedrooms,” he admitted sheepishly. It seemed great to me.

    Tom captured on film my first meeting with his dog, Cleo. As I gingerly reached to pet her, she looked as uncomfortable as I. She was an unusual little dog. When Tom prepared to feed her, Cleo became so excited that she leaped, again and again, four to five feet into the air. I called her “the amazing bouncing beagle.”

    Tom also prepared dinner for us. He had made potato salad, using his mother’s recipe. He proceeded to barbecue chicken and stir-fry broccoli. During dinner he told me about his Saturday evening event. He had taken his mother to a concert where her friend's son was playing. I breathed a sigh of relief. And his pet was a lot friendlier than mine. During dinner Cleo slipped under the table and rested her head on my knees, waiting for a handout which never came.

    The following week Tom sent me into a tailspin during one of our phone calls. He told me that he had been writing a letter before I called. “I haven’t mentioned it,” he said, “but I placed an ad too. Mine is in this month’s Delaware Today.” 

     “Oh,” I said. Just when I had started to believe that this might really be it!

    “I’ve had five responses, and I was writing a letter in reply,” he said.

    I’d found it flattering to get all those letters. Maybe after he had met the people who responded to his ad, he’d see, as I had, that it wasn’t easy finding someone you could get along with so well, someone with whom you could talk and talk and talk and never tire of it, someone you could trust. Maybe this wasn’t the end of the road. Maybe I could just wait this out. “Oh,” I said.

    “Would you like to hear the letter?” he asked.

    Sure, I thought. I just love to hear letters that the man I’ve fallen in love with is writing to other women. “No, that’s O.K.”

    “I’d like you to hear it,” he said.

    The beginning was a jumble of words, but then I was able to focus: “met someone special” and “will not be pursuing.” He was writing letters explaining he was not going to see these women because he had met me!

    On the Saturday evening of our fifth date, Tom arrived with a bouquet of flowers. We looked through the paper and chose a movie, talked about where to go for dinner, and somehow got on the topic of families.

    “Do you want to have kids?” Tom asked.

    “I’ve always wanted to have kids,” I answered.

    “How many kids do you want to have?” he continued.

    “Oh, two or three,” I said. “What about you?”

    “I’ve thought I’d like one or two. So I guess it’s two,” he said.

    “Two would be nice,” I agreed.

    “You realize, of course,” he said, “that I’ve just asked you to marry me.”

    You could have knocked me over. I thought he was speaking hypothetically! Not to be outdone, I answered, “You realize, of course, that I’ve just accepted.” As I looked at him, I had a sudden, delightful thought: I would get to look into those eyes for the rest of our lives.

    After a few blissful minutes, he got down to brass tacks. “How many vacuum cleaners do you have?” he asked.

    “Two,” I answered.

    “You mean, counting that dust buster?”

    “Oh, no,” I answered. “I have an upright and a canister.
Counting the dust buster, it would be three.”

    “That’s great,” he said. “My vacuum isn’t doing too well.”

    “Are you marrying me for my vacuums?” I asked.

     “No, but it doesn’t hurt,” he said. “When do you want to get married?”

    “I don’t know,” I said.

    “How about August?” he asked.

    “August!” August started in two and a half months!

    “Too soon?” he asked. “You said you have to take vacation time in August, and we want to be married before winter, because it’s not going to be fun driving between here and my place in snow.”

    “O.K., August,” I said. I was not only going to get married. I was going to do it in a couple of months!

    “Where do you want to go for a honeymoon?”

    “I don’t know! I haven’t thought about it. I didn’t know you were going to ask me to marry you tonight!”

    “I was thinking Quebec might be nice.”

    “Quebec! That would be wonderful!” I said. I had always wanted to visit Quebec, and since we were both heat-shunning, fair-skinned people who sunburned quickly, it was an easy choice.

    We continued talking about the future, Tom trying to define and schedule our marriage plans, and I, uncharacteristically, at a loss for words. I was suddenly, abruptly, engaged to be married to this wonderful man, and that was as much as I could grasp at the moment.

    We never got to the movie, although we did go out to eat. All night I felt encompassed by a glow that made my whole world different. But, enchanted though we were, Tom had to get home to his dog, and the evening ended, leaving me alone to contemplate our happy future together.

    It was my habit to call my parents on Sunday mornings, and this particular Sunday morning happened to be Mother’s Day. As usual, however, Dad got on the phone first. Poor Dad had been following the events of that spring with concern and skepticism.

     “Dad,” I said, “Tom and I have decided to get married.”

    “Gee! This is sudden! Who are you going to marry?” He was in shock.

    “Tom! I’ve told you about him, Dad. I’ve been seeing him every week and talking to him almost every night. And last night he asked me to marry him.”

    “Boy! This happened fast! You haven’t known him too long, have you? Uh, congratulations! Boy, this is a surprise! Evie!” he called to my mother.

    “You’ll really like him, Dad. He’s really nice!”

    “That’s good,” Dad said. “Here, you’d better tell Mum.”

    “What should you tell me?” my mother asked.

    “Tom and I have decided to get married.”

    “That’s so wonderful! You must be so excited! I wish I could give you a big hug and kiss right now!”

    “We’re going to come up in a couple of weeks so you can meet him, Mum.”

    Several years before, my mother had taken me into Boston to a little shop where she had seen a wedding gown she was sure I would love. I hadn’t even been seeing anyone at the time, but my mother figured I might find a husband sooner if I had the dress in mind. Unfortunately, I hadn’t liked the dress. Now she jumped into wedding planning with both feet.

    “When do you think you’ll get married?” she asked.

    “Late August,” I told her.

    “That doesn’t give us much time!” she exclaimed. “But don’t worry about it.”

    There followed a barrage of questions – where to have the wedding, what type of event did I want, time of day, who to invite, clothing, menus, attendants, music. Still in a state of shock, I found myself at a loss, repeating over and over “I don’t know.” Suddenly I realized that I had at least one concrete piece of information. “I can’t carry roses,” I said.

    “You can’t carry roses!” Mum exclaimed. “Why?”

    “Tom’s allergic to roses,” I told her.

    “Allergic to roses! What a shame! But don’t worry! We’ll work around it!”

    And indeed we would. The season of the damn men had ended.

*      *     *

Biographical Note: Kate Lydon is a storyteller, writer and editor who also hires out as an adjunct professor. She grew up along the rocky coast of Massachusetts, but has lived most of her life amid the trees of Pennsylvania.   Daughter of a man who made the best donuts in the world and a woman who acted out Macbeth and read poetry for her children, Kate is the oldest of five, and thus is prone to giving advice. However, her husband, two children, two cats and one dog, independent souls all, pay scant attention, and so she writes. Kate’s satirical murder mystery, Off Center, is now available through Amazon’s Kindle Store. She is currently working on another novel, as well as a book of stories about visiting her grandparents Papa and Eva, whose shared hobby was arguing. Several Papa and Eva stories have been published here: "Visiting Papa and Eva", "Melon, Coffee and Coke" , "Riding in the Car" , and "Lessons in Psychology." See also Kate's stories "You Don't Mean It, Dear!" and "Pipe Dreams," and "Wisdom Teeth."