Getting to Know Him

When meeting someone online, on one of the various dating sites, I have found that a false sense of knowledge and intimacy develops very quickly. You read his profile and, because your profile is straightforward and brutally honest, you assume his is also. He reads your profile, and writes a note intended to grab you on various revelations you've made in your profile. (I will not even discuss, here, the number of disgustingly poorly-written e-mails or profiles I've received or read. How can grown men—all of them with high school diplomas and many of them with college degrees—not take more care in their words, their spelling, their grammar? It's truly astonishing.)

Each e-mail leads you to believe you know him a little better. The e-mails lead to phone calls, where you get to know even more about him. You're attracted to his voice. Or not. You find him comfortable and easy to talk to. Or not. And each little step on the road to a potential friendship or possible romance gives you a little more of a sense of knowing.

Then you meet him and the development process continues. And you rarely stop to think, "What don't I know?"

I dated a man at the end of 2005 and beginning of 2006 who lived a couple hundred miles away from me. We e-mailed, then talked on the phone. Soon we were talking on the phone the first thing every morning and the last thing every night. After a couple of months, we met in an equidistant location. All went well. He made me laugh. I made him smile. Maybe I would have a sweetheart in my life again. I never thought to ask, "What is your home like? Do you know how to dust and clean? How frequently do you mow your lawn? Do you have a washer and dryer?" The practical questions were abandoned in favor of the interest and history questions.

After a few more weeks, I drove on a Friday afternoon to his home town to spend the weekend with him there. I walked into his living room, overnight bag in hand, and my jaw dropped. If I had been a smarter person, I would have turned around, walked out the door, and driven right back to Tucson.

There was dust on every surface. Lots of dust. There were cobwebs hanging in every corner, as if the room was decorated for a Hallowe'en party. There was a litter box in the living room, and a cat food dish in the dining room. His cat had died a year earlier. There was so much furniture in the living room, I found it difficult to move through the room. As I write this story now, I can still feel the horror I felt in surveying his space.

But, woman that I am, I thought, "this can be fixed." At the three-month point, we parted ways. It was not to be fixed. (Nor could his long, bushy eyebrows, which he stated he planned to comb back over his head to combat his Male Pattern Baldness.)

So with that background, and not having seen the quarters that the Jazzman calls home, I occasionally wonder what I will find in his space. Is he a neatnik or a slob? Is he organized or out-of-control? Can it be fixed or not, and does it even matter?

I will confess that I am not a neatnik. When I arrive home from my long commute, I don't have any interest in tending to the house. I try to keep the kitchen and my bathroom decent. I try to keep the house in a manner that I wouldn't be embarrassed if a friend were to come to the door. The mail enters the house and perches someplace, to be retrieved a few days later. I thank the Powers that Be for my friend/cleaning lady who keeps me from being condemned by the health department. The only thing I'm adamant about is cleaning the litter boxes, as I have two cats with the stinkiest poop since cats became domesticated.

By all indications, the Jazzman is nothing like me in his housekeeping habits. He moves dishes to the kitchen after dinner. He wipes the floor after tracking snow into the kitchen. He actually told me the other day that my organization gene was defective. I simply nodded, acknowledging the truth of that statement. In trading typical male/female roles, he seems to realize that I can be fixed. I need a little encouragement and a little insight, and I can shape up. I want to shape up! (When one lives by herself for years on end, she tends to lose track of any need to shape up.)

So I think I don't need to fear another repeat of the El Paso experience. I think I can just concentrate on getting my act together, rather than worrying about his act.

I've found a good man—a very good man—and I need to just thank my lucky stars! And pick up my shoes from the floor.