New Year's Steve

A snort comes out of my nose.

“Better not be doing that on your date tomorrow,” Sheila wisely intones, now sage with dating wisdom. “Men folk don’t like a lady who sounds like a pig. Not unless they like bacon.”

“Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.” I suddenly remember that I’m on a mission and hit her up for direction. “Hey Sheila, would you happen to know where the maintenance office is? I’m having an issue with my lights and no one is returning my calls.”

She makes a ‘hmm,’ sound. “Office manager hasn’t helped you with that?”

Er… Do I mention that I bypassed the office manager after the first request because I thought it would be quicker to do myself?

No. No I don’t.

“Uh, I did once. Was I supposed to just drop the subject?”

The receptionist levels me with a stare. “Sweetie, don’t try to be a hero. Let the office manager do her job.”

Okay, but she’s not doing her job, otherwise my light would be fixed. I am woman hear me roar and all that jazz.

“I know, I know. And I would if I wasn’t on such a time crunch. I only have until the end of tomorrow to meet this deadline and the lights in my office are tripping me out.”

Sheila gives her head a little shake. “Your timing is horrible. I could be wrong but I’m almost positive the maintenance staff isn’t working this week.”

I sigh. “But you at least know where Skeeter’s desk is in the building, right?”

“First floor, suite 102.”

“Thanks. I’m going to jog down there and see if he’s around.”

She tips her head, puzzled. “Why would you jog when you can take the elevator, dear?”

“I was being…” I wave a hand. “Never mind. You’re right, I’ll take the elevator.”

Better to just agree than to argue over it.

“Don’t get those bunny ears caught in the door,” she hollers after me as a race away.

“I won’t, thanks!” I yell over my shoulder, mug, granola bar and banana in hand in search of Skeeter and the gang. Punching the elevator button with gusto, I’m confident that I’ll find at least one person who can help me.2HarrisonShe thinks my name is Steve.

Harrison Steven McGinnis, in actuality, but I wasn’t about to put that in my dating bio.

Way too searchable, way too rare, way too easily recognizable.

In my defense, Steven is my middle name, and because the whole online dating thing creeps me out, I used it to create a bit more anonymity to go along with my cropped face photos and torso shots.

Lame, I know, but there are way too many shady people out there, woman included. Once they find out what I do for a living, they all start creeping out of the shadows. Hence the fake name.

Felicity.

Her name sounds like a ray of sunshine; something I need in my life. Not that my life is terrible, it’s just that I can get lonely like everyone else and dating sucks.

Admittedly, I haven’t done tons of it, because let’s face it — I don’t exactly have the time to meet new women every weekend. Nor do I have any intention of sleeping with random strangers just to get my jollies off. Not worth the headache and the chance I’ll wind up banging a Stage Five Clinger I can’t get rid of once she’s been to my condo in the sky, or seen my expensive car, or had a taste of the good life I can provide.

I’m in search of something meaningful, not a gold digger. Unfortunately, there are plenty of those around. I’ve known that type almost all my life.

My grandfather Len McGinnis founded this company when I was a boy; a sports enthusiast, his best buddy played for the Mets back when players were cheap and baseball was America’s favorite pastime. All Grandpa’s friend wanted to do was play ball. Mostly uneducated, he’d played in a farm league and had a tough time signing and understanding the players contract. Luckily, Grandpa could, and helped him work through it and…

The rest is history.

I’m not about to squander a legacy for some woman who just wants a meal ticket; these days, it feels like that’s all they’re here for.

My phone pings and I swivel in my desk chair — twenty-eight floors above the city — with a smile on my face, that familiar buzz that could only be associated with LoveSwept.

Felicity: Is it ever acceptable to double dip a chip at a party?

I laugh.

She’s so adorable with these goofy questions.

Me: Only if you break it in half.

Was that a dumb answer? What the fuck do I know, I double dip all the time. I have no manners, despite the silver spoon that some may think is in my mouth.

Felicity: What kind of chip and dip are we talking about here? What’s your favorite?