It's Just Lunch - Review

Slowly I slide my finger atop a tall stack of crisp, new one-dollar bills. I draw the first one into my palm and crush it into a small wad, as if it were a soiled Kleenex. I toss the crumpled greenback into an eagerly waiting toilet bowl. Flush. I crouch and watch with great enthusiasm as the whirlpool swirls and sucks it down. I grip the next one, crumple, crush and repeat the process again, and again, and again… two --- thousand --- six --- hundred --- times.

This fantasy is vivid in my mind. Living out this daydream would have given me more joy and satisfaction than the six-month contractual agreement I just completed with It’s Just Lunch (IJL).

I signed up for IJL upon the urging of my good friend in Seattle, who has membership there. In Seattle, IJL customers average one date a week and sometimes more. I thought this was what I was buying.

I gave them a month to get under way before letting them know I wasn’t getting my weekly date. My matchmaker did all she could not to laugh – at which point I revealed my expectations that the two IJL offices act similarly. To this day, no one at the San Francisco IJL office will admit customers have an expectation that chains or franchises operate in a similar fashion – you know, like a Big Mac in Seattle is the same as a Big Mac in San Francisco? When I tried to make this point to the General Manager, she treated me like I was a crazy person for having that point of view, and thought my expectation of chains being similar was outrageous. Huh!

People of the Bay Area, if you think the online dating sites are a waste of your time, and you’re considering It’s Just Lunch, consider this:

With IJL, a six-month membership is $2,600 and you go on five dates. That’s $520 a date.

A Match.com six-month membership is $119.94. If you’re like me and average five or six dates a month, it’s roughly $3.63 per date.

But we all know the price isn’t the problem. When spending our hard-earned money, we consider the value of the product or service, the patient and responsive customer care, and the skills and expertise of the professionals servicing us. In a matchmaking service, we hope for one that deeply understands our needs and works with us in partnership to help us find a desirable and compatible match. IJL failed miserably in all categories.

I’m not a high-maintenance woman. I originally had three requirements:
1) His age range be between 2-11 years older than me
2) His location be within 30 minutes from my house
3) His height be at least 6’ (since I’m tall and I like wearing heels)

Week 1: Nothing – crickets.

Week 2: They call with my first “match.” He’s 13 years my senior, lives 120 minutes from my house, he’s 6’ tall – um, no. I pass.

Week 3: Next Match – 6 years younger than me, lives 90 minutes from my house, and he’s 5’10”. Nope.

Week 4: Next match – same age as me, lives 115 minutes from my house, and he’s 5’10”.

I reiterate my three needs at this time, at which point I’m told that even though I stated my preferences up front, they don’t match by height. Great.

A few days later, I get another call. My next match is 14 years my senior, and lives 60 minutes away. I cave – I give up – I have them set up the date. He was the worst match ever.

After this failed date, a month after I joined, I knew I was had. I wanted to be released from the contract so I made the General Manager of IJL a very generous proposal. I offered the company $600 as compensation for the first date if they would let me go. Of course they declined. No refunds. No guarantees. No satisfaction.

IJL touts that they have professional matchmakers looking out for you. Don’t believe it! My matchmaker, while a nice person, was absent, and certainly not matching to my personality, preferences or needs. The coordinators that “take care” of clients were usually unavailable and often remiss in returning calls.

Women of the Bay Area, don’t do it – don’t be suckered in. If you’re unconvinced, and you crave more details, you can read the blow-by-blow of every date, along with a detailed scenario of dealing with this company firsthand, on my dating blog, WendyDates.blogspot.com.

For a demonstration of their less than stellar customer service, be sure to read the post “It’s just a drag” (April 17, 2011).

The five IJL dates, for quick reference, are:

Date #89 - April 17, 2011
Date #90 - April 27, 2011
Date #95 - June 2, 2011
Date #99 – August 2, 2011
Date #100 – October 20, 2011

Over the past few years, I have been on exactly 100 first dates. Three out of five of my IJL dates were literally, and without exaggeration, the worst three dates of my life.

The IJL dates couldn’t have been more of a mismatch if a troop of blind, half-crazed monkeys went out into the streets to find my man. While on an IJL date, I often wondered if I was secretly appearing on an MTV dating reality show.

So, my readers, if you’re single and looking for your mate, good luck out there. I don’t know what the answer is; I’m still gathering data, but I can certainly testify that it’s not It’s Just Lunch!

If you enjoyed this review.... please forward it on.

Date #98 - Warning: X-Rated

His Age: 53
His City: San Francisco
Setting: San Francisco – A progressive date starting with dinner at Izzy’s Steakhouse

Let’s start with the disclaimer, shall we?  I recommend that if you’re my mother, my Mormon paternal grandparents or the like, you may want to skip this vignette.  For those of you who prefer your reading to stay safely in PG-13 territory, you may also want to skip.  This is at least an R rating.  Buckle up.

Date #98 contacted me a few weeks earlier, but days before we were to meet, I was bitten in the face by a dog.  The bite required eight stitches right below my right eye.  I wasn’t up for seeing anyone new.

He wanted to meet before the stitches came out, which made me love him just a little bit, but I had to say, “No way!”  I was willing to let him see a really cool-looking scar, but not eight black whiskers woven between clumps of blood with scabs poking out of my face.

One of the things that attracted me to him was his life’s work.  He owns a prestigious law firm in San Francisco, and he’s one of the good guys, representing a cause dear to my heart – the type of man I could get behind and support well.  But at date #98, the skeptic in me didn’t bother to get too overly excited until we actually met face-to-healing-face.

On the date, I discovered he was intelligent, interesting, not particularly funny, and not at all my type, but I wanted to give him a chance.

Over the three hours of dinner conversation, the top two hot topics that he repeated were his ex-wife and his ex-girlfriend.  From what I gathered, there was quite a bit of overlap.

By the conclusion of dinner, I’d learned what his favorite body parts of mine were (and neither of them happened to be my brain).  “I want to date you…” he said, “but I have a feeling you’re a real prude.”  Huh.  Cue to watch the date go sideways.  I was strangely insulted.  I was flooded with rhetorical questions I never asked him, but I will ask you.

#1. What is prude-like about a short black skirt, knee-high boots with six-inch heels, and a cleavage top?

#2. Why does it make me a prude if I won’t act sexual on a first date?

#3. Why was my “prudishness” pushed on me like a character flaw?

This date was officially over.  I thanked him for the meal and said, “This prude has to go dance at a club now.”

“Where?”

“Never you mind.” I said.

“Can I come watch?” he asked.

“Only if we take separate cars.  You can come, I guess.  The club doesn’t open for another hour and a half.”

“We could go get a drink,” he said.

“Fine, but only if we can go to Aunt Charlie’s,” I replied.

Aunt Charlie’s is this magnificent hole-in-the-wall, teeny-tiny dive bar catering to the LGBT crowd and featuring drag queen revues on weekends.  It’s awesome.

I arrived after my date and saw he was sitting at the far end of the bar.  Between us was a group of eight to ten gay men in their late 20s and early 30s.  I pushed my way past the boys and joined Date #98 for a quick beer while we waited.

The berating of my character due to the prude flaw continued.  He pulled at my blouse to show me how I should wear it, if I wasn’t so prudish – and as he tugged, the top of the center of my blouse fell well below my bra.  Finally, I’d had it with this guy.  I turned around to my crowd of boys (decorative bra showing and all) and announced, “It’s time for a poll.  How many of you” – I raised my hand high in the air – “think I’m a prude?”

Cutie-pie boy #1 in his queenliest voice said, “Honey.  In those boots?  You… are… NOT… a prude!”

The others quickly followed suit, commenting on my bra, my skirt, being inside Aunt Charlie’s in the middle of the Tenderloin, one of San Francisco’s seediest neighborhoods.  Yes, it was well documented; the votes were cast, and the committee had ruled that I was NOT a prude.  And on that, I said, “Thank you, my friends.  Now, this prude has to excuse herself.  She’s got to go dance on a pole at the Power Exchange.”

Something to know about me: for recreation and elation, I dance on a pole.  I’m a pole dancer.  I’m amazing at it.  I can climb, flip, spin and more.  I’m better than most of the “professionals.”

I’ll explain the Power Exchange, since I’m assuming most of you aren’t making the scene.  You might guess it’s a bar.  It’s not.  Strip club?  Na ah; that would be too classy.  Give up?

The Power Exchange is San Francisco’s sex club.  Yep, that’s right – it’s a sex club.  It’s open Thursday through Sunday, 9 p.m. to 5 a.m.  I and other women (including transgendered women) get in for free; men pay big bucks.  It’s not fair, I know.  Sorry.  I don’t own the club; I just dance there.

The living-room area of this club just so happens to be home to San Francisco’s best pole available to the public.  It’s in the center of the room at the end of a long professional runway stage that’s under-lit.  At the back part of the stage there’s a second pole for practice.

I like to go dance there on the occasional Thursday or Sunday, and I always go right at 9 p.m., when no one’s there.  In other words, I go in during the off-hours when no one is around but staff – who are fantastic, btw.  They’re similar to bartenders and bouncers, and you just know they’ve seen every single thing.  They’re jaded, friendly, and they like me because I’m friendly with them.

The pole is located in what I would call the living room.  Remember keg parties in college?  Kids may have been kissing in the living room at a keg party, but the real action always happened in the back bedrooms (or so we see in John Hughes films).  Well… it’s like that in this club.  Center stage is me on a pole (if not dancing, I’m giving some other woman a pole lesson), and what else we’ve got going on there is usually some sort of deal-making session or transaction.  In other words, the living room is mostly talk, not a lot of action.  One might see a man trying to talk two girls into a threesome, or a group trying to coordinate potential play.  I don’t listen in – it’s not my business.  I focus on the pole.

This night I walked in, greeted my friends behind the counter, and headed into the living room toward the stage with the man formerly known as my “date” trailing behind me.

Two women in their mid-20s – hipster/vintage/goth girls – leapt up and squealed when they saw me.  “Our favorite pole dancer.  Yay!”

I gave them each a big hug, and I hauled one of the girlies on stage with me.  We worked out some easy spinning tricks to get warmed up.  She was extra large and thus shy about using her full body weight on the pole, and so I worked with her for a while.  I taught; we spun; I danced.  My life was perfect.

About 30 minutes into dancing, I found myself about 15 feet up in the air, inadvertently looking eye-level at someone in the second-story seating gallery.  When I realized he’d caught my eye,  I quickly looked away.  I actually make it a point not to look at men in the club because I don’t want to accidentally start something I have zero intention of finishing with them.  It’s just protocol.

So while I was dangling 15 feet in the air – upside down, mind you – I diverted my eyes to somewhere safe.  Normally, that would be down at the empty stage below me.  This time I chose to look over to my group of girls and ex-date.

The women were gone; it was only my ex-date… naked… completely naked… even his shoes and socks were off, naked… looking up at me… and masturbating.  Nice.

All I could think was, dude.  It’s the living room.  I know it’s allowed and all, but it’s not cool.  Put your shoes on – that’s unsanitary – and put that thing away or take it to the back room.  (Further proving his point – I’m a prude.)

I lingered in the air as long as possible but eventually popped down off the pole, at which time I gathered my bag off the stage and proceed to leave.

“Wait!” he called out, erection in hand.

“Um, no.  You should stay.  Have a nice time,” I said without making eye contact – protocol.

“Wait, you can come over here and talk to me while I finish,” he remarked.

“Nope, I didn’t sign up for this.  I’m out.  Have a nice night,” I said directly, but in a monotone.

Second date? What do you think?

Note to the fellas – providing criticism isn’t always helpful or appreciated

So, I woke up this morning to this email from Eric, in Yosemite:

“Wendy,
 You are my singled out for today. Thought I would share a few comments on your pics. The first one is sorta nice. The second one with you sitting is great! Really great! The third one is a total waste, as it shows nothing about you other than you don't do the self pic thing well. And the last pic is just - okay. I'm sending this because I like your look and reading your profile, but that self pic just ruins it for me. 
Eric”

Gee, thanks. So I was left with three thoughts:

1. How does he like my “look” if he doesn’t like 3 of the 4 photos?

2. The ones that were “sorta nice” and “just okay” are professional shots – which tells me I’m mediocre at best. Thanks Eric, probably why I’m still single.

3. The self pic is my only body shot. It was no use to him was all I needed to know. I’m not his type.

My response? Ordinarily, I’d be able to take this in stride (as I have dozens of times before), but at this point… fuck it, I’m out. I took down my profile altogether – I quit. I can’t take it anymore. It’s Just Lunch can fetch me the remaining four dates to get to 101.

Pay attention men – criticism to a woman is a totally different experience than when you are criticized. We always take what’s said straight to the heart – regardless of the source.

p.s. this is a photo of Eric from his profile.

Date #90 - "Did I Mention I Have Six Kids?"

His Age: 47
His City: Two (Oakland and Wine Country)
Setting: Brick and Bottle - Corte Madera

So "It's Just Lunch" (IJL) has this policy, where they set you up on the date by making a reservation at a restaurant with both of your first names only. The staff are instructed to bring separate checks, so dates pay dutch, and no one knows anyone's name, to cut back on the stalking opportunities if you're not a match. The whole dual-name reservation scheme is brilliant! One doesn't have to look for the other at the bar, and make mistakes with strangers. This policy is also awesome since IJL doesn't let you see your date prior to the actual date itself.

I arrive at the hostess table (do we still call them hostess tables?). "Hi, I have a reservation for Wendy & Ken."
"He's here. This way, please."
I'm one minute late, so I'm not surprised. As I stroll behind the host, I can see I'm being led to the back, where there are three empty tables, and one table with a single man, waiting for company. He's at least 68 years of age, seriously overweight, glasses, red-faced, and jowly. Okay... here we go again!

As the host spread open his palm in that "Vanna White" arm-sweep, guiding me toward the table, I asked, "Ken?"

"No!" the single man said.

The host swiftly put me at a single table right next to him, and apologized softly to me for the mistake.

I pretended to read the wine list while I waited...

Moments later a handsome man approaches my table apologizing for being late. I thought we were having drinks, but before I knew it - after a quick confirmation that I drink wine and eat appetizers - he'd ordered a bottle of wine, and food. We settled in quickly, covering topics taboo to first dates. Once hearing I'm from Utah, he wanted to know if I was Mormon and began to discuss religion. He pressed what happened in my divorce and shared with me his divorce story. And we talked about discussing politics since this would be three of three, but then we got busy talking about other things.

He's handsome, but he's not my typical type. I'm intrigued. I think we can have a lot of fun together. And there's something to him - he could give me a real run for my money, I think.

He broke the rules and picked up the tab. (He's a rebel that way.) He asked for my number, and I happily provided it. Before I got out of the parking lot, I got a text thanking me for a great night. Thank you, IJL. You did me right!

Date #89 - Match Made By Blind Chimps

His Age: 57
His City: San Carlos
Setting: Palomino - San Francisco

My very first "It's Just Lunch" (IJL) date was late - and it was nerve-racking.

It's Just Lunch doesn't allow their members to see each other before the date. This is a totally stupid policy. I've spent 9 years talking to men about women through PAX and one thing I am super clear about is that men are visual. While sometimes men can grow on us, we women (mostly) don't grow on them - we're it or we're not.

Now, I know I'm a particular flavor, and I'm not everyone's flavor. You might even say I'm a bit of an odd flavor. Even so, I've been assured by the experts at IJL that they are professional matchmakers who take this very seriously, and match based on type. You can see their precision by reading the previous entry.

So I'm waiting.... First, I see the 6' tall man with a white ponytail to the middle of his back. Not him. Next, a handsome older man who is quickly joined by two women in their 50s. Another gentleman comes but joins a party shortly afterward. And as I'm about to be seated, #89 is at my side. Swiftly we're taken to a private booth table overlooking the Bay Bridge. I'm not his type; I know it in five seconds.

Never - on any date - have I ever been so mismatched.

Not being his type is actually a relief to me, and allows me to enjoy a lunch I'll now be stuck at for the next two hours.

My date is not a hip, Jerry Seinfeld 57 - no. He's a very old 57, and looks like a Mormon bishop, or a Republican Senator, or a conservative radio talk-show host from the Midwest. His jowly, red face is fairly expressionless through the entire event. He doesn't speak much and asks me no questions, which is always awesome. So I do double-duty probing for topics he'll engage in, while holding up both sides of the conversation. He doesn't bother to afford me the one kindness of ending the date quickly, and has a leisurely lunch of soup and half-sandwich as he watches me do all the heavy lifting.

Second date? I don't think so.

Underwhelmed.

It's Just A Drag

I'm wondering how easily I can get out of my "It's Just Lunch" matchmaking services contract. I joined just over a month ago, for a six-month membership. Big bucks were paid, so I thought I could have expectations and demands above what I was asking on Match.com. I had a wish list of three things.

1) he lives 30 minutes from my house
2) he's between 47-54
3) he's at least 6' tall

I know, I know, I don't want any grief from any of you about the height thing. I'm not small, and I like wearing 7" heels. If I really got to have it all my way he'd be at least 6'3" but we're in California, not the Rockies, so I'm flexible (obviously).

Week 1: nothing.

Week 2: "Hey Wendy, this is Sarah from It's Just Lunch. We have a date for you. We think he's perfect. He lives in San Jose [nearly two hours from my house], he's 56, and is 5'11"."

"Um... no."

Week 3: "Hey Wendy, it's Sarah. Okay, we got you someone. He's 37, lives in Walnut Creek [suburbs an hour and a half from my house], loves to play golf, and is 5'10".

"Um... no."

Week 4: "Hey Wendy, Sarah again. Okay, he's 43, 5'10", lives in Moraga" (an hour and a half from my house).

"Sarah, I'm gonna stop you right there. Here's the deal. You're striking out three out of three on every man you've given me. Are you telling me that It's Just Lunch doesn't have a single man over the age of 47 in San Francisco? I'm gonna pass again, and I'm hoping you can at least hit one of my requirements. This is a matchmaking service, yes?

"Hi Wendy, I have someone really great for you. He's 57, lives in San Carlos [an hour from my house], and is 6' tall."

What I said: "Fine Sarah, set it up."

What I wished I'd said: "Fine Sarah, fucking fine. I'm saying yes because you've worn me down."

It's Just Lunch

We'll just see.....