ONE BILLION DOLLARS!

August 11, 2011

ONE BILLION DOLLARS!

I recently reconnected with a Scottish friend I met while studying abroad at the University of Edinburgh. He just moved to New York and we talked about my year of boozing and making out with men with cute accents. Man, can I just say how much I loved living abroad as an American; I felt like I was in a sitcom the entire time.

He asked if New York dating is really like it is on tv and the movies. I told him what I tell every person who asks that question: Imagine Sex and the City, make everyone less unattractive and much poorer, take away the happy endings and retain all the weirdness. There, you have New York dating. Patti Stanger of Millionaire Matchmaker described the perils of city dating perfectly–New York City makes Sex and the City look like a cake walk.

Scotsman: How is this so?
Me: Well young cricket, let me tell you a story.

Several years ago, I went on a few dates with a man I met at Brass Monkey. This was before the bar was considered cool and required a wait time. Really? Is that what the young kids are doing these days? Waiting in line to get into a smelly bar?

Our first date was amazing and I thought I had met my husband for the following reasons:

• We talked about books. HE READ BOOKS.
• We talked about art. HE LIKED ART.
• We talked about the opera. HE LIKED THE OPERA.
• We both liked Manhattans. HE LIKED BOURBON.
• His goal was to live half time in New York and half time in London. HE WANTed TO LIVE IN A SITCOM TOO!!!!

It was a while before our next date because he kept canceling. But man did he try to make up for lost ground. He got a private table at the Modern. And he mentioned the following things over a lavish five course meal and a $500 bottle of wine (yes, you read that right–$500):

• He thought he could introduce me to his parents.
• He said I was the classiest girl he’d ever met.
• He invited me to fly to England to watch a Manchester vs. Chelsea game.

But it all came crashing down when he asked me the following fatal question: How much do you think I’m worth in cash?

Me: Um, what?
Future husband: You know, how much do you think I’m liquid?
Me: I’m sorry, I’m not understanding the question.
Future husband: Well, I’ve done really well for myself . I mean, what do you think a guy like me, a young mergers & acquisitions investment banker who can buy a vintage bottle of Stagshead Leap Cabernet, is worth?

I still really didn’t get it. I felt like he and I were getting along because we had similar personalities. And I’d like to think that my personality would never tolerate such peacocking. If a friend of mine ever asked me that question, I would immediately assume that he/she was fucking with me. The answer would either be zero or ONE BILLION DOLLARS. And this billion dollars would have been obtained because of something amazing, like investing in Google stock early or winning a law suit that involved a severed pinky finger.

So I answered.

Me: FIVE BILLION DOLLARS! (with a shit eating grin)
Future husband: Um, no. (with a pissed off look)
Me: One billion dollars? (less enthusiastically)
Future husband:  Less.
Me: One million dollars?
Future husband: Less.
Me: A half a million dollars?
Future husband: Less.

Okay, now it’s stupid. I’m never going to have a half a million dollars, but in New York, anything less is nothing to brag about. I bet you my building super has more than that (I’m serious).

Future husband: I actually have $200,000. (totally exasperated)
Me: That’s stupid. Why don’t you put down on an apartment?

Shockingly, he was not my future husband, nor was he even a future bang buddy. He was the future dunce who just spent over a thousand dollars on a date with girl who didn’t sleep with him and at the end of the night was worth less than $199,000.

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