Seniors | boomer in the city | Were not communicating!

Why not try JDate again? I’ve had it with shlepping alone to parties, seated at bar mitzvahs with nine women complaining about their kidneys. It’s time for love.

I compose an ad: Author, 78, would like to meet a mature professional man of any age. No jerks wanted. If you’re hung up on age don’t call. Please don’t lie about your age.

I submit my post on, along with my air-brushed photo from an old press packet, and click send.

A week passes. I receive one pathetic email from a 25-year-old tattoo freak who loves “older women.”

“It’s a nightmare,” I tell my 70-year-old friend Lorraine Blum on the phone.

“Serves you right for telling your age!” she shouts. “At our age the good men are either married, dead or gay. Men think past 40 is a disease. Like they’re so gorgeous.” She sniffs. “They want ‘Sex in the City.’ Seventy-eight is a lousy demographic.”

That night I get an email from Nathan Igor, a 71-year-old dentist. His photo looks nice and he told me his age. We decide to meet for lunch the next day at La Cucina on Union Street.

I arrive at the restaurant. Bebe the owner greets me as though I’m a guest in her beautiful home. You see everyone — from KGO radio host Ronn Owens to groups of seniors celebrating birthdays. And the food is delicious.

“Do you want to sit in the garden?” Bebe asks. She has ink-black hair, warm hazel eyes and a beautiful ageless face.

“I’ll sit by the door. I’m expecting a blind date,” I confide.

She smiles. “Good for you. If you don’t take risks you get nothing.’’

I sit facing the door. Sunlight spills onto the walls, creating crisscross patterns. It’s hot. Too hot for San Francisco. I fan myself with the painted fan I bought in Chinatown.

The door opens and a slim man with puffy salt and pepper hair stumbles across the room. We shake hands. He’s very thin and way older than 71. He lied, I think.

Without a word he scans the menu, and without asking what I want he orders a hot dog. “No fries, no tomatoes,” he bellows to the waitress. He shares that he’s watching his weight. When he talks his teeth make a clicking sound.

I order a BLT.

Over iced tea we start the usual Q&A routine: Where do you live? Children? Grandchildren?  

He shrugs. “My dog, Frank, is the love of my life,” he says suddenly.

“How long were you married?” I try to keep my voice cheerful.

“Forty years.’’ He pauses. “I’m a communicator. The woman couldn’t communicate, except when she wanted my money.’’

He rants that people don’t know how to “communicate.” He spent the morning trying to communicate to a “moron” about his phone bill, and the moron transferred him to the “serenity department” — “What the hell is that? I just wanted an adjustment on my bill.”

“Shame,” I say.

He rants that banks are part of jihad, that the drought is here to stay, the food chain is tainted, and that we’ll all die from salmonella. He complains loudly that he tripped over a “stupid suitcase on wheels” and is suing the woman who was dragging the luggage. Elevators are dangerous, doctors are corrupt and our government is conspiring to kill us, he says.

Not once during his diatribe did the man ask me a question.

He knocks age as “rotten” and says most women “lie about their age.”

He shoves his hot dog down his throat and then complains to the waitress that it wasn’t “grade-A meat.”

After lunch he has the nerve to tell me that I’m a “nice lady” but not “a communicator.’’

“A communicator is a rare animal,” he says. “I’m a communicator — and believe me I know when someone isn’t.’’

That night I’m on the phone with Lisa, a 67-year-old film producer. She wants to know about the date. I tell her that he never once asked me a question. “I’ve had it with online dating,” I say. “I’ll trust serendipity.”

“All they want are those Botoxed blonde ‘Real Housewives of Beverly Hills’-type of babes,” Lisa continues. “They want you to look like you’re in a wax museum.”

We promise to talk the next night and I get ready for bed. I wash my face with apricot scrub, tie my hair in a pony tail, take Citrucel, Excedrin PM, and hurry to bed.

I listen to the traffic outside my window — it’s loud tonight, but I like the noise, the sirens and the people yelling at God.

I slip into sleep and dream I’m dancing the flamenco with a Jewish man my age, and he turns his head like a clock and bends me back and my knees don’t creak and his teeth don’t click … It’s heaven.

Barbara Rose Brooker is an S.F. native and the author of “The Viagra Diaries” and “Should I Sleep in His Dead Wife’s Bed?” Her new novel, “The Rise and Fall of a Jewish American Princess,” will be released this month.

Barbara Rose Brooker
Barbara Rose Brooker

Barbara Rose Brooker is a native San Francisco author. CW is making a pilot for a TV series based on her book "The Viagra Diaries."