August 11, 2011


Posted in Awkward moments, Dating, New York at 3:39 am by biancas & bourbon

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 7, 2011

You’re definitely going to hell

Posted in Dating, New York at 4:56 am by biancas & bourbon

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.”
Me: Oh…
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.

July 5, 2011


Posted in Awkward moments, Dating, New York at 7:06 pm by biancas & bourbon

First, apologies for the delay of this post. I’ve been on vacation canoeing, beaching and sunning. If it’s any consolation, I’m covered with deer-fly bites and burns. Yum, sexy?

Second, I have news: I have a crush on a boy.

Can you believe it? What poor human being has the unfortunate luck to be liked by me? Especially now with my skin being red, blotchy and bumpy. Before you start scouring my Facebook profile and yours to speculate who he is, I promise you will never guess correctly.Why is this worth mentioning? Well for me, having a crush on a boy is about as rare an occurrence as the appearance of an albino koala. It’s not crazy weird, but perhaps unusual enough that you would tell your friend, “Hey, today I saw an albino koala.” And to the delight of you, the reader, me having a crush usually ends in entertaining disaster. The last time I had a crush, the following happened (and I will go into further detail in a 3-part miniseries):

  1. Kickball empires were crushed
  2. My self esteemed seemed irreparable for a very long while
  3. And I ended up with a bruise that went from my upper mid-thigh to my mid-calf (don’t get any sick ideas)

Part of the reason why my infatuations often end in disaster is because I am so awful at flirting. By the time I have mustered up enough courage to say a mere “hi”, the entire world has smelled the pheromones wreaking from my pores putting undue pressure on both me and the object of my affection. For example, the last time I talked to the current crush, I was not subtle and my friend asked later, “Were you flirting with him?” Now, I am embarrassed and will never speak to this current crush ever again.

I used to be so much better at picking up boys. I don’t exactly know what changed, but I’m pretty sure it has something to do with me no longer wearing backless shirts and hot pants…well, outside any way.

Whenever I ask my dude friends about how to remedy this, they often reply with the following: JUST TELL HIM YOU WANT TO FUCK. I’m sorry, what? My friend Jacob clarified: “You have to make clear that hooking up is in the realm of possibility.”

Um, okay.That sounds difficult, and not within my communication skills.So everyone has these silly summer goals that often times seem unrealistic, like losing 20 pounds, reading 4 books a week, cleaning out the walk in closet. Mine will be to coyly flirt with at least 3 guys a week, randoms of course so that there is nothing at stake. Although with my luck, they’ll end up working at my place of employment.

So help me out. What’s your move?

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