Клео Коул - Through The Grinder

As usual, the SinglesNYC profile didn’t match the reality. Everything from her photo to her occupation had seemed better in the on-line profile than it had been in person. A big yawn for him.

The Genius hadn’t been all that surprised. The only question had been, “What next?”

Cruising more SinglesNYC profiles was an option. Giving up was an option, too. But then, of course, so was this…

The Genius emerged from the shadows and crossed the street, heading into the Blend.

“Ah, well,” murmured the Genius, “at least I’ll get an excellent cappuccino out of the evening.”

“Clare, I have one word for you,” whispered Tucker as he offered me a French café cup of cappuccino from his half-empty cork-bottomed tray.

Cradling the heat in my cold hands, I sipped at the warm froth, then peered over the cup’s rim, apprehensively taking in the crowd of milling bodies filling up the Blend’s second floor.

“One word?” I asked Tucker.

“Tadpoling.”

“Excuse me?”

“That’s what they call it when an older woman dates a younger guy.”

“Tadpoling. Right. I see. Thanks for clearing that up, Tuck. And I thought you were having a bayou flashback.”

“No, seriously, sweetie. I know you probably wouldn’t look twice at a guy who was like ten or twelve years younger than you.”

“Tucker…”

“But tadpoling is the hottest trend around.”

“Older women and younger men?” I asked. “In what universe?”

“Uh, honey, don’t you know? It’s totally all that. Demi Moore and Ashton Kutcher? Hugh Jackman and his wife? Cher, Madonna…the list just goes on and on. Don’t you remember that movie with Diane Keaton and Jack Nicholson — the one where cutie Keanu Reeves has the hots for post-menopausal Diane? You know she even got an Oscar nomination for that role.”

“Hollywood, Tucker. All of your examples are Hollywood. I’m sure if I were a millionaire movie star with houses in the Hamptons and Malibu, tadpoling would be a lovely option to consider, but this is the real world.”

“My point exactly! The real world does nothing but obsess over Hollywood — trends trickle down, Clare, remember that. Trends trickle.”

“Everyone! It’s time to get started!” called Nan Tulley, our Cappuccino Connection hostess.

Although these sessions were nondenominational, even advertised in New York magazine’s Personals, these evenings were actually part of the fundraising and outreach committee work for Grace Church over on Tenth and Broadway (one of the most magnificent examples of Gothic Revival architecture in the country, with lacelike stonework and gorgeous stained glass. New Yorkers always gape when they pass it, but few realize it was built in 1845 by the same architect who would later erect the monumental uptown landmark St. Patrick’s Cathedral.).

“Come, everyone! Gather ’round…” Nan called again, clapping her hands.

Nan’s regular job was managing the Wee Ones daycare center on Twelfth, which might have explained why I couldn’t shake the impression I’d just entered an elaborate playgroup.

“Shoo, Tucker,” I whispered. “I’m not really here to meet anyone anyway. You know that.”

“If you say so, sweetie.”

With an annoying roll of his eyes, Tucker was off to serve more caps to the crowd.

I moseyed over toward Nan, trying to keep my distance from my daughter, Joy, as I’d promised.

Right after my date with Brooks Newman two days ago, I’d phoned Joy and made her promise to quit the SinglesNYC on-line dating site. She agreed to try the tamer (a.k.a. “dud”) sites that Brooks had scrawled on the back of his business card for me, but Joy also informed me that she’d decided to sign up for the Blend’s Cappuccino Connection night.

I let it go for about twenty-four hours. Then I signed up, too.

Joy was furious.

“Mom, I can’t believe you’re doing this!” she’d said when I told her.

“It’s got nothing to do with you,” I lied. “They’ve been meeting in my coffeehouse two times a month for how long now — and all I’ve ever done is send my part-timers upstairs with trays of cappuccinos. It’s about time I saw for myself how the whole thing works, don’t you think?”

Joy really didn’t buy it, but I promised her I wouldn’t interfere with her participation — and she finally said that maybe it would be good for me after all.

My daughter was still under the delusion that I needed to discover that no man out there could hold a candle to her dad, an admittedly larger-than-life type, who, despite his inability to remain monogamous, had loved Joy unconditionally and with all his heart — and therefore could do no wrong in Joy’s eyes. As exasperating as it was for me, I saw no reason to rob the girl of her love for the man, even though there were still times Matteo could make me angry enough to fantasize about pouring a few steaming hot Speed Balls down his pants.

Nan clapped a final time in a way that made me feel like I’d have to raise my hand before using the little girls’ room.

“Quiet now, quiet! Okay, good! Now, I want you all to put your Listening Caps on. The first rule of connection night is that everyone must make at least three connections. Even if you think you’ve only met one person with whom you have chemistry, you must make dates with three people. This rule ensures that many of you will have more than one chance to connect! Isn’t that great!”

Nan had the sort of enthusiastic voice I imagined worked very well on a dozen sugared-up four year olds. This crowd, however, seemed less than receptive. They murmured warily.

“Now, now, I know what you’re all thinking!” Nan continued. “Why? Why do I need to ask people out with whom I don’t necessarily feel a strong connection? Well, I’ll tell you why: many happily married couples have had bad first meetings — and many fantastic first meetings have ended in bitter splits. You can never tell what may happen if you just give a person a chance to grow on you!”

“Like fungus?” some joker called.

“Hostility will get you nowhere,” snapped Nan. “Remember, a bad first impression can still lead you to the right person…maybe not the perfect one, but the right one…”

I was dying to look around a little more, check out the people who’d gathered, but I didn’t want Joy to think I was spying on her. The room was packed, too, which made it hard to see the entire field very clearly, anyway. So I just sipped my cappuccino and kept my eyes on Nan.

“Now, let’s get started!”

The second floor of the Blend was quite roomy, with marble-topped tables and chairs as well as an eclectic mix of mismatched furniture. Overstuffed chairs and French flea market sofas, along with floor and table lamps, gave customers the feeling of relaxing in a bohemian living room. (With so many Village apartments being nothing more than tiny cramped studios and one bedrooms, it literally was that for many.) And tonight it was romantically lit with a roaring fire in the brick hearth at the front of the room.

To start what was termed the “Power Meet” session, our chipper hostess told us she was going to position all the women around the room at different tables and seating areas. She would then select men at random and pair them with the various women.

But before Nan began seating us, I noticed her having a little side discussion with Tucker. It looked rather tense. I motioned him over.

“Everything all right?” I asked while Nan got busy seating the women around the room.

“Nan’s upset,” he whispered. “You’re not going to believe this, but your group is actually short a woman — someone cancelled without calling.”