The headline read: Internet Lothario charged with grand larceny for swindling women out of $140,000.
For the past seven years, Westchester, New York resident Solomon Jesus Nasser has romanced women on various Internet dating sites. Spinning a tale of intrigue and wealth, he was able to sweet talk a number of women into giving him computers, expensive watches, and cash. He’s facing a minimum of five to fifteen years in prison. As his mug shot flashed on the newscast last week, I realized: hey, I know this guy.
About a year ago, on a lark and the lure of three months for the price of one, I signed up on Chemistry.com, which claims to offer a scientific approach to matchmaking. I slogged through the questionnaire, wrote the required essay, clicked the magic button. And presto: I had seven matches who the company promised would provide me with many “jolly times and hearty laughs.”
I haven’t brought up Ex and his Next for a while, and for good reason. What with J graduating cum laude from college (not that I’m bragging) and actually landing a job in this market (okay, so I’m bragging), L off to her junior year in college and K finally emerging from her year-long funk, we grownups have been on our best behavior for the girls’ sake: each of us pretending to tolerate the other.
Then the Evil Stepsister (ES) reared her head and all hell broke loose just as she left for fashion school.
ES had left her Ugg boots behind. K coveted and took them, then compounded her “crime” by lying to her dad and step about it. Not nice, but hardly a capitol offense. From the ensuing hoopla, you would have thought that she had taken a kidney, not a pair of last season’s footwear.
I’m racing through campus. I’m late and I have no idea where the building is, let alone the lecture hall. Have I even made it to class this semester? Good Lord, is the final today? In this nightmare, I usually wake up around this point, in a sweat, totally disoriented.
But this is no dream. I’m participating in freshman orientation, New York style, where parents actually get to stay in real dorm rooms, eat cafeteria style and stumble around campus while their hapless progeny have a separate but equal experience.
I want to be a team player, I really do. But at the end of the day, looking over my monastic room, the lonely twin bed with its 17-thread count sheets on a non-pillowtop mattress, I suddenly want to weep. There is a sign on my bathroom door explaining that “no means no.” A suicide hotline number is prominently displayed by the wall phone.
After my disappointing experiment with Chemistry.com, one would think I’d steer clear of online meeting sites, but I have to admit it wasn’t too long before I went slinking back to the Internet, looking for love.
And out of the blue, there he was, staring me right in the face. I was intrigued by his picture — handsome, yet somehow vulnerable. His profile tugged at my heart: A southern gentleman, he had some issues: uncertain parentage, health problems, excessive shyness, fears of abandonment; but nothing that the love of a good woman couldn’t resolve. Did I say I’m a sucker for a pretty face?
We communicated through a third party until we decided to meet, face to face. The Jersey Shore is a little out of my dating range, but I decided to make an exception for this guy, and on an unremittingly gloomy day, I braved the Tappan Zee bridge traffic and headed south on the Garden State Parkway. I was as nervous as a schoolgirl as I approached the house two hours later; I knocked tentatively on the screen door.
Or maybe it failed me. God knows I gave it the old college try. A couple of months ago I signed up with Chemistry.com, Match.com’s answer to eHarmony. And I was cautiously optimistic. Unlike Bob from Brooklyn, who was “seeking cosmic love, I was just looking for someone to pal around with (hopefully NOT a terrorist!), who was interested in travel, the arts, liberal political discussion.
I didn’t find him. Or anyone even close. What I did find was a born again Christian truck driver who was still living with his parents, a retired sanitation worker, a guy who worked in chemical waste treatment and a whole slew of men who haven’t read a book since The DaVinci Code. I received profiles of men describing themselves as: “in pretty good shape for my age and still have my hair” and guys who were not particularly particular about their matches: “Our common interest should be that you're woman and I'm a man. Height: four feet to seven feet; body type: no preference.”
I want to play by the school's rules, honest I do. But when they are just plain stupid and possibly endangering my child's well being, not so much.
Even with continued therapy, K's panic attacks are an issue. If I knew then what I know now, I would have skipped steps one through 10 and just hidden her stash in a mint box. (Then again, after hearing about the Supreme Court case of the poor girl who was strip searched on suspicion of carrying Advil, maybe not.)
I went to her doctor, who filled out the proper forms and expressed her medical opinion that K should be able to self-administer her anti-anxiety meds in school as necessary. Delivered to school nurse.
Permission denied.
So I brought in a supply of 0.5 mg Xanax — in original container — so the nurse could dispense them as needed. That is, if K could actually get to her.
Her first attack took place at the beginning of history class. K told the teacher she needed to go to the nurse. His response: "We’re having a quiz — if you don't stay, you'll get an incomplete for the quarter."
The only thing worse than suffering through your very own first heartbreak is experiencing it a second time, through your daughter. And it's been a pretty wild ride through the wake of The Boy's exit from K's life. Starting with a terrifying five hours in the emergency room.
The night before, she had crawled into bed with me at two in the morning. She hadn't done that since she was about 10 years old. She was clammy to the touch, sobbing, unable to tell me what was wrong. I held her, murmured sweet platitudes in her ear until we both fitfully fell asleep.
The next morning, she told me she couldn't go to school, she felt nauseous, couldn't breathe. A few hours later, in a near panic, she told me her heart was racing — and she really couldn't breathe. By the time we got to the doctor's, she couldn't walk or talk either. When the doctor tapped her knee with that little rubber hammer — nothing happened. He sent us to the ER, looking grim.
