Tag: Dating

I’m Sorry, I Can’t Meet You for a Drink. It’s the Post Season.

On By KathleenIn Bio Pics, Dating, New York CityLeave a comment
I travel with a Yankee garden gnome named Jorge.

Most girls would scoff at the thought of staying home on a Friday night to watch a baseball game in lieu of meeting a witty, model-good-looking, 6-foot, D-1 ball player turned Ivy-League Law student turned successful litigator for drinks.

But then again, I’m not like most girls. I’ve got my priorities straight.

The first app I downloaded was MLB Lite. I travel around the world with a Yankee garden gnome, tenderly christened Jorge. There are 3 pictures on the pushpin board of my office at work – one of a Japanese maple, one of the old Yankee Stadium, and one of Alex Rodriguez at the plate, from behind.

Is it really a surprise that when faced with a choice between the first game of the American League Division Series, the NY Yankees vs. the Detroit Tigers, and a first date with Mr. Perfect on Paper that I would chose Game 1?

The photo hanging over my computer at work -- A-Rod at the plate, from behind. Thank you telephoto lens

My diehard allegiance to the Bronx Bombers has been both the impetus and executioner’s axe of many a potential relationship. I once dated a boy who worked for the YES Network with the principal aim of securing season tickets. “What team do you root for?” is one of my 10 essential “get to know a person questions.” I can accept Phillies fans. Mets fans I have little tolerance for. Blue Jays fans I forgive because they’re probably Canadian and have no alternative home teams to root, root, root for. Red Sox fans?

Well, see exhibit 1:

Me: “I’m tired of dating smart boys. Enough with Rhodes Scholars. I want someone stupid.”

Friend: “Well then, I’ve got the guy for you. He’s a Red Sox Fan!”

Me: “Perfect.”

It's the Post Season, and my team has a 28th World Series to win

To some men, a girl who rain-checks dinner because she wants to watch “the game” at home with her friends (and garden gnome) is the holy grail. To others, it’s confusing — who wears the pants in this romance?

As the grounds keepers pulled the tarp over the Yankee Stadium infield Friday night and news filtered in that the game would be postponed, a friend turned to ask if rescheduling drinks with Mr. Perfect-on-Paper was worth it?

“Did you see C.C.’s last inning?” I cried.

To this she could offer no retort. A first drink with Mr. Perfect-on-Paper wasn’t going to be the only date rescheduled in October. It’s the Post Season, after all, and my team has a 28th World Series to win.

The 50 First Date Project: Like the Bachlorette, but a Blog and Classy

On By KathleenIn Adventure, Bio Pics, Dating6 Comments
I may not be Drew Barrymore, but in the movie called "My Life," I'm still the leading lady

One girl, 50 First Dates — it’s the kind of thing only attempted in a Kate Hudson or Drew Barrymore movie.

I’m neither Kate Hudson nor Drew Barrymore, but in the movie called “My Life,” I’m the charmingly quirky leading lady who is perpetually single, frequently comic, rarely dramatic, and always up for a challenge.

One girl, 50 First Dates — it sounds like an act of desperation.

I prefer to think of it as part-ironic critique of today’s process of finding a mate, part-viable alternative to online dating or a friend’s/family member’s/co-worker’s ill-fated match-making plans…and part-cure for writer’s block.

So, what is the 50 First Date Project and how does it work?

Let’s face it, sometimes the First Date is the best date of any relationship.

What: The 50 First Date Project will become a sub-column within They Told Me to Find a Rich Husband as I meet selected Candidates for first drinks, first dinners, and first adventures. Think a literary version of the Bachlorette, but hopefully with less trash and more real-world insights into the way we date and fall in love now. Candidates don’t have to be potential Prince Charmings — potential date disasters are, in fact, encouraged to apply.

Who is the Candidate applying to have a first date with? Meet Me here.

Candidate Criteria*: Know or are a single guy between the ages of 25 and 40 who lives in the NYC metro area and searching for love? Think he/you will provide an entertaining first date story? Then apply to be a candidate for a First Date using the form below!

The application is considered incomplete until receipt of at least one tasteful photo, which should be emailed with the Candidate’s name/method of contact in the subject heading to: theytoldmetofindrichhusband@gmail.com.

← Back

Thank you for your response. ✨

* Applications will be reviewed on a rolling basis. Men seeking a one-night stand should look to Craigslist. 2nd dates or steady relationships are not automatically ruled out by the mission statement of this project.  In the event that one of these first dates turns into something significant, the project will go on hiatus. Not every first date will be documented on They Told Me to Find a Rich Husband. No real names or identifying photos will appear in any 50 First Date Project related posts.

They Warned Me I’d Find Love, the Summer 2011 Edition

On By KathleenIn Dating, Love, New York City, relationships2 Comments
The mating rituals of Banana Slugs give new meaning to the term "cock-blocking"

The Ariolimax columbianus, more commonly known as the Banana Slug, is ubiquitous in the rainforests of the Pacific Northwest. The Banana Slug is a hermaphrodite. When mating time rolls around, Banana Slugs engage in an act called “penis jousting.” Somehow, the slugs fight until one slug’s penis gets knocked off. The winner gets to be “the man.” The loser has to carry the eggs.

“Banana Slug mating rituals sound a lot like a Friday night in a Manhattan bar,” I told my guide as we sloshed through the green squishy stuff that covers the floor of the rainforest on Meares Island, a small island off the coast of Vancouver Island, British Columbia.

Cock-blocking had suddenly taken on a new, more serious meaning.

My guide chuckled and, lost in the mental comparison I was drawing between slug life on Vancouver Island and the NYC dating scene, I slipped on a cedar plank.

Whoosh, slap, squish, thud <– Those are the sounds an eco-tourist makes as she falls in the forest.

There's a lot of green squooshy stuff in the rainforest. Where's my mountain man to help me up when I fall?

Down the trail, a fiance hoisted his fallen fiancee back to her feet —  another victim of the squooshy green stuff — while I flopped around, clumsily trying to make it onto all fours without eating anymore lichen in the process.

Where was my mountain man in shining plaid when I needed him?

A few days earlier, I arrived in the great Canadian City of Vancouver ready for 10 days in the woods, away from work, domestic duties, and dating in the city. Or so I thought.

As soon as my rental car drove across Vancouver’s city limits, my phone started beeping relentlessly. The little blue light that illuminates whenever I have an OkCupid message was flashing like a lighthouse beacon in a hurricane. When they warned me I’d find love on this Canadian adventure, they weren’t kidding.

Hello, Mr. Vancouver. I knew I had a lot to look forward to on this vacation...

Warning! New matches ahead! Warning! New messages!

I opened the alerts icon in disbelief. I had been in Vancouver not more than 30 minutes, and already my inbox was overflowing.  There were notable similarities between the Vancouver men and the Brooklyn men OKCupid frequently found for me (why are they always in Brooklyn?!) — beards and plaid, in all their incarnations, were the standard uniform and a commitment to “sustainable living” was high on lists of interest. That’s where the similarities ended.

Good-bye hipster. Hello mountain man.

Good-bye bike-riding, semi-unemployed, struggling artist. Hello banker-turned-kayak-instructor who plays in two hockey leagues, sails on weekend and skis in the winter.

I knew I had a lot to look forward to on this vacation. And apparently, it wasn’t just the sea-kayaking.

Never Trust the Zodiac When You Want to Fall in Love

On By KathleenIn Bio Pics, Dating, Love, Mr. Right, relationships, romanceLeave a comment

In my teen years, every crush was measured against the horoscope. I believed that the alignment of the planets dictated my soulmate and was quick to consult the stars. But when every so-called perfectly-paired Virgo, Taurus, and Scorpio I fell for in high school proved duds, I retired my astrology chart.

Then this past April I met Zev, a sensual Scorpio with a scorpion tattooed on his neck and his zodiac symbol stamped on his forearm, and I became 13 again.

“You know, Cancers and Scorpios are a perfect match,” he said as he took a long sip from his scotch and soda.

Cancers and Scorpios make love like it's an Olympic sport. Maybe, I'd make it to London afterall.

I rolled my eyes. He persisted and pulled out his smartphone to show off a website that proved his point.

“The Cancer-Scorpio match is a match made in heaven” it read. “The the two of you could literally see fireworks.”

He leaned over and pointed to the screen with a wink: “the two of you will make love like it’s an Olympic sport.”

I admit, I was intrigued and agreed to dinner a week later.

Dinner was where things with Zev ended.

So much for “this passionate connection can develop into the perfect marriage.” As I adjusted my skirt and stomped off into the pouring rain, I promised I would never trust the Zodiac again.

When the next boy came around and our connection was as deep as it was instantaneous, I couldn’t help but wonder: is this written in the stars?

Enter the “daily horoscope” app for my smartphone.

Water-sign + water-sign = deluge

Apparently, two crabby Cancers make a terrible match. Water-sign + water-sign = deluge. Forget bad romance. Think a Chernobyl romance, overwrought with “I feel…” and moon-phase-induced emotional mood-swing nuclear spills.

“You run the risk of mirroring each others weaknesses…A marriage would be work for this pair” — that’s the way the astrology site phrased it — a euphemistic way to say, you’ll need more than a pre-nup going into this, you’ll need an excellent lawyer, or hell, an army of lawyers…and a box of tissues…and a therapist.

Bummer.

I shrugged and considered the unfavorable forecast. True, we had quickly committed to sharing our feelings about, not only each other, but everything — from the challenges of our respective workplaces to our inner-deepest reflections on love.

This type of display was totally out of character for me. I refused to believe that our instant connection wasn’t endorsed by the celestial bodies.

I googled “astrological compatibility,” and read until I found a glimmer of hope to cling to. 4 result pages in, I found it: “On the whole, this is quite a good match…and the sexual chemistry with be high!”

Phew!

I bookmarked that astrology page and decided it would be the only one I’d consult…at least, until the deluge.

Insert Groom Here

On By KathleenIn Bio Pics, Dating, Family, insights/observations, Love, Mr. Right, relationships2 Comments

“Married women don’t get enough credit,” my mother said one afternoon a few weeks back. “Marriage is all about being able to deal with assholes.”

I don’t know what my father had done that day, but clearly, it wasn’t good.

With my great-grandmother's wedding ring in hand, I suddenly felt the weight of the generations.

My mother’s wisdom is always appreciated, but that day’s insight may not have been what I should have heard the night my cousin Julie arrived from Canada with my Great-Grandmother’s wedding ring.

Julie passed the generations-old, Irish-made gold band on to me in an understated ceremony in my kitchen, over a beer. I think the theme from Riverdance was playing from the Bose in the background, then again, my memory could just be over-romanticizing the significance of the scene and the transcendence of my Celtic heritage.

“I don’t doubt you’ll put it to good use,” she said as I slipped the ring out of the silk sack and onto my finger.

Mistake. I was stuck with it as we headed out the door. Cute waiters were no longer fair game – I was, for the night, a taken female.

Starring down at the ring through dinner, watching my finger change colors from peach to blue, I grew strangely sentimental and slightly anxious. Few things have been passed successfully through the generations in my family – a blue vase and a fetish for hats – and to have my great-grandmother’s wedding ring bestowed on me was to have an unexpected amount of pressure on my shoulders.

I guess I was going to have to get married after all.

Another Blue Moon and a bar of soap when I got home made removing the ring somewhat less painful than I had anticipated.

A week later, my friend Julia posted on my Facebook wall: “I had a dream you were engaged!” And then last week a woman stopped me at the cross walk for a chat. She was eager to make a friend and seemed slightly crazed from the hot summer sun. Midway through my story about my hat, she interrupted me: “You’re going to get married. I just know it! You’re going to get married.”

It seems the voices have changed their tune from prescriptions (you need to find a nice rich husband) to premonitions. Luckily, I don’t put much weight in the predictions of raving women on crowded street corners.

Then again, the soothsayer in the crowd advised Julius Caesar to beware the ides of March… and, well, we all know how that turned out.

I don't necessarily put much weight in the perdictions of raving women... but then I remember Julius Caesar

How Complimentary

On By KathleenIn Bio Pics, Dating, insights/observations, Love, Mr. Right, relationships, romance5 Comments

“I just don’t understand how you could want to be with someone who’s always telling you how beautiful and wonderful you are. Doesn’t that get tiresome?”

I admit, when a guy gives me a compliment, my response is very Miranda Hobbes -- skeptical.

This was my mother’s response when I told her the guy I was dating had a way of stopping mid-conversation to tell me he thought I was “gorgeous” or that “no other woman in the room came close.”

I looked at her in a way that suggested she should be put in a straight jacket and sent to Bedlam. Last I checked, it was nice for a boy to call a girl pretty every once in a while.

But, I’ll confess: when a guy tells me I’m beautiful, my response is very Hobbesian… Miranda Hobbes that is. The “Sex and the City” starlet always took Steve’s outpouring of niceties with a grain of salt — her inner cynic couldn’t help it.

Talking to Annie a few days after another absurdly perfect date, we realized  that modern women have been ruined — we’ve been raised to be Mirandas, distrusting of compliments, skeptical about sincerity. When I hear “you’re beautiful,” an internal eyebrow raises and the compliment is met with a tidal wave of skepticism. Why’s he saying that? What’s his deal? Is there really spinach on my face and he’s trying to tell me there’s spinach on my face without directly saying “there’s spinach on your face?”

It's hard for my inner cynic to shut-up... but slowly, it's learning

It doesn’t help that I matured in the company of men — compliments were frequently followed by a request for my economics homework.

Eventually, Miranda wised up — Steve really did just like her that much…and as it turned out, she really liked him that much.

As for me? Well, I think my inner cynic is starting to shut up and accept this for what it is — something nice. I’m not sure I’ll ever be good at taking compliments, or that the voice in my head will ever totally stop saying “you’re lying” when he says “you look wonderful,” but if there’s one thing I have decided, it’s that hearing “you’re beautiful” and “I like you” will never get tiresome.