August 11, 2011
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.
July 28, 2011
When Barney Stinson announced that he would make Lemon Law a thing, I’m sure it sent bloggers into a frenzy. Some probably expressed outrage while others agreed it would save everyone a lot of time and heartache.
For those of you who don’t watch How I Met Your Mother, the Lemon Law is as follows: When you buy a car, you have the opportunity to return it in the event that it is a lemon. One of the show’s characters Barney hoped to apply this to dating. You usually know within the first five minutes whether you’ll sleep with your date. So why prolong the inevitable further?
I am a huge supporter of the Lemon Law, especially in the world of online dating. Sure, the downside is that your feelings may get hurt. But it’s a tough world out there cookie, and best you know now. Plus, time is a precious thing. Think about what you could have been doing instead of pinching yourself to stay awake during the last half hour of that date with dull guy number 200.
Let’s just take the documented tidbits of my dating history and see if the lemon law would have helped:
- My work husband–definitely yep
- The brain injury–obviously (and I wouldn’t have cried that evening)
- Stank–probably not, but I blame that on my lack of logic during those three months; let’s just blame it on alcohol
- And I’m sure it would of have helped everyone in my eavesdropping series
July 7, 2011
It would be selfish to withhold the following funny awkward moment just because it didn’t happen to me. This actually happened to one of my best friends Jacob.
Jacob and I go way back, and throughout our friendship we have been trying to help each other get some. I don’t know any skanky girls and he doesn’t know any willing guys, so most of the time we just offer each other words of encouragement. But frankly he doesn’t need any assistance, and this was especially the case when we both lived in New York where women are known to fall into men’s laps. In 2008, it was reported that single women outnumbered single men by 210,000.
Regardless of Jacob’s advantages, I am always one to help a bro. So when he and a coworker hit it off a few years ago at a happy hour, I encouraged the initial date.
Her name was Renee and she was a sweet southern belle who didn’t know her left hand from her right. She often talked about her ex-boyfriends, knitting projects and apple pies. I ran into her in the elevator bank and asked if she had any evening plans. Renee blushed and said, “Well, I have a date with your friend Jacob.” Unbeknownst to her, I already knew this; I had just spoken to Jacob on the phone.
The next morning, Renee and I sat in a meeting and she avoided eye contact with me the entire time. This was strange because the day before she was so eager to go on and on about her three jars of freshly homemade mango salsa. After the meeting, I rushed to my desk and called Jacob.
Me: What happened?
Jacob: Ugh. She’s a Jesus freak.
Me: Well yeah. I told you about that already.
Jacob: But she’s a weird Jesus freak.
Me: Splain senor.
Jacob: Well, I said something about the goddamn South and she got all offended.
Me: How does that make her a Jesus freak? She’s from Florida. That just makes her from the state of hanging chads.
Jacob: Yeah, but it was what she was mad about. She was mad about me saying “goddamn.”
Jacob: She said that I could say “god” and could say “damn,” but I wasn’t allowed to say them together–“goddamn.” Then I said that since she is a Christian and only believes in one god, then she must believe that only one thing can damn. So if anything, “goddamn” is merely redundant.
I was never invited to eat mango salsa in her cubicle ever again.