“Forget about a puppy!” Ivy teased when I told her what I hoped to get for Valentine’s Day. “How about a hubby! I bet your father wouldn’t say no to a hubby!”
What do you want for Valentine's Day? A puppy or a hubby? I'm leaning towards the puppy...
Ivy was probably right — my father sees no reason to bring another dog into the family, but I don’t think he’d object to the addition of an able-bodied human male to watch football with. Well, bad news daddy, it looks like you’re going to be paper-training a terrier long before you’ll be welcoming a son-in-law.
Then again…maybe not.
Thanks to a weekend in Dallas, my mother has written a new marriage mantra which she is convinced will produce my prodigal rich husband in no time:
If you buy it, he will come.
Buy what, exactly? The wedding dress, of course. Surely, there’s a superstition about that, Mom.
The trip to Dallas was for business rather than pleasure, but if there’s one thing I’ve learned it’s never let a little business get in the way of a good shoe sale. Neiman Marcus was broadcasting a designer footwear clearance that weekend, and Dallas just so happens to be the Neiman Marcus mothership. It was a good thing I brought my big suitcase.
The Kevan Hall wedding dress conjured in a dream found in Dallas, Texas
Inside the famed department store, the sea of shoppers parted allowing me a clear line to survey the couture ahead. There, radiant under a single spotlight, stood the wedding dress I had seen only in a dream. Equal parts Victorian and modern, it was perfectly me in beige-pink lace.
“So are you planning a wedding?” the sales associate asked as I gently fingered the beading on my way to a price tag.
The real answer was “no,” but because I didn’t want the woman to think I was some crazy, desperate single girl who spent her weekends trying on wedding dresses for no one, I lied.
No matter where I went in the store, I couldn’t shake the dress from my mind. Not even Diane Von Furstenburg could hold my gaze. I had eyes for nothing else.
“I think you should just buy the dress,” my mother whispered when 20 minutes later she found me back in the bridal salon, dazed and drooling.
“Well, it’s not like anything else has been working for you. Let’s see if they have it in your size.” Sometimes, my mother is a bad influence.
So at the end of the trip, there were no size 8 1/2 Manolos or Louboutins, Jimmy Choos or Diors packed into my over-sized Delsey roller bag. Instead, just a receipt for a fairytale-sized confection of silk and satin and the promise of my mother’s voice saying “if you buy it, he will come.”
The best-laid, over-ambitious plans of mice and single women often go awry.
3 guys. 3 dates scheduled, snowed-out and rescheduled…all for one Friday. Could it be done? The men and the proposed timetable seemed agreeable: one date would be with a doctor for a professional NY sports team who had an afternoon off. The second would be early evening drinks with a guy I had had crush on when I 17 . The last would be dinner with a guy I had uncharacteristically made-out with at a bar. I had the dress, the shoes, and the stamina. They had the charm and the credit cards. What none of us had going for us was the weather.
It was a romantic winter wonderland... but a winter wonderland condusive for 3 dates in one night?
I woke up Friday Power-Date Day to a raging blizzard. Hand-sized snowflakes blurred the trees 10 feet from my window and coated the streets. Date 1: snow-checked, again. Dates 2 and 3: pending.
By early evening, the snow had relented and the streets were being cleared. It would not have been impossible to forsake the new designer pumps in the name of sturdy boots. It would not have been impossible to head out into the night for lightweight flirtations buoyed by liquid fortification. I called Bachelors 2 and 3 — the winter-weather advisory was still in effect until morning. Should we meet wearing our snowshoes or cross-country skis?
3 guys. 3 dates scheduled, snowed-out, rescheduled, snowed-out, and rescheduled.
My dates now canceled, I was content to be snuggled in alone. With my phone turned off and my sweat pants on, I turned my TV on and tuned in to TLC. Sometimes, hot cocoa tastes better when enjoyed along side other guilty pleasures… like wedding-themed reality TV.
Outside, one snow storm settled while another loomed in the coming week.
Somewhere in the city a couple was grateful for sloppy street cleanups giving them an excuse to be snowed-in for a weekend together.
Inside my living-room, a “Say Yes to the Dress” marathon raged and I was a willing, if not unexpected captive.
What to do when your date gets snowed out? Watch a "Say Yes to the Dress" marathon, of course!
Sometimes when you’re expecting bad news, the best thing to do is run away.
That’s exactly what I did in March of 2009 when I was in the thick of writing my masters thesis and awaiting responses from a handful of PhD programs. Given that the recent economic downturn had significantly reduced university endowments, I wasn’t optimistic that I’d be a paid student come September. I thought bad news would sound much better when received on a beach with a margarita in my hand. Inspired, I threw a polka-dot bikini and flip-flops into my car and drove 1,200 miles from New York to South Beach, FL for an early spring break.
sometimes bad news sounds much better when you hear it on a beach, with a margarita in your hand
It was a good thing I had such foresight.
While I was in South Beach, every PhD program I applied to sent me a rejection letter. Needless to say, I consumed a lot of margaritas that week.
Spending 7 days in the Florida sun, replenishing my vitamin D stores while getting to know the bartenders at my hotel may have temporarily raised the spirits and enlivened the soul, but once I was back home in a gray and slushy city, holed up in my smaller-than-a-dollhouse studio, the debilitating sting of the rejections set in.
100 pages of writing sat between me and my MA and for the first time in my life, I faced an uncertain future. I felt useless. I had no power to go back and change anything — not the topic I had spent 18 months researching, not the character of my fellow applicants, not the shape economy — yet I felt the need to change or exert power over something.
transforming into a horse of a different color is one way of asserting we're in control of our life... maybe
And so, in an attempt to gain temporary control in my life, I booked an appointment with my hairstylist.
Ladies, we’ve all done it before — broken up with a guy or had some traumatic experience that compelled us to bee-line to the salon for a makeover. Redefining our appearance is a way of asserting a new take on life and exercising power over our future. Sometimes we add bangs, sometimes we go platinum, sometimes we get botox, sometimes we get bangs, go platinum AND get botox.
I went orange.
I walked into a salon on Madison Avenue with long brown locks and hoped to walk out with spunky curls spiked with scarlet. Instead, I hit the pavement with short tendrils the color of pumpkin pie.
I walked into the salon with long brown locks and walked out with short pumpkin-colored tendrils. So much for taking control...
Under the warm lights of the salon, I thought this was exactly what I wanted — a total overhaul, a brand-new, “in your face, future!” me. It wasn’t until I met a friend for lunch that I realized the irony: at the end of the day, my little act of self-empowerment didn’t empower me at all — I asked for red highlights and got a florescent carrot top.
“Your hair is orange!” she cried, knocking over her iced tea in a visible state of shock.
“I know. I thought I needed a change.”
“Don’t you think it’s a little… err…. extreme?”
“It was only supposed to have highlights.”
“It’s a lot more than highlights… and it’s orange. And you’re orange. Where have you been all week?”
“Florida.”
As I sat there, munching on a biscotti, recounting the reasons behind this sudden transformation into a horse of a different color, reality set it. I may have mitigated the rejections by running away for a week. I may have tried, in vein, to assert a sense of control by changing my appearance. But at the end of the day, I stood at a cross roads, and orange hair and a margarita-spiked tan wasn’t going to make it go away.
It was time to go back to my apartment and get writing…
And maybe, en route, pick up a box of Clariol Nice n’ Easy in Chestnut.
Successful Relationship blogger? What do I tell him? Deny thy blog or confess its fame?
“You may not want to lead with the fact you have a blog about dating,” my friend Jake kindly advised me as we sipped lattes and commiserated over our recent dating droughts.
He had just brought to light an interesting dilemma: When you’ve made something of a name for yourself writing about love and its aftermath, do you deny thy blog, or confess its fame? Will guys think you’re clever or dub you as trouble?
“On the other hand,” he continued, “this whole blogging thing might just be the making of your love life. I’m worried that with your recent success, you won’t stay on the market long enough to keep They Told Me to Find a Rich Husband going. Seems now it’s a sooner, rather than a later, that you’ll land your Mr. Big.”
A recent slew of “Can I take you out for a drink?” messages from They Told Me to Find a Rich Husband’s male readership helped me make up my mind and lent a modicum of credibility to Jake’s alternative forecast.
Who would have thought that blogging about dating would make me a hot date ticket?
“What do you do?” — It’s a question we’re always asked when we meet someone and a question I always answer with caution.
“I consider myself a writer on the verge of landing a paying day job.”
“What do you write about?” The inevitable follow up question.
“Dating and relationships… I have a blog.”
Their eyes open wide, an eyebrow rises, a half-smirk curls upon their lips and they lean in a little closer.
“What’s it called? Maybe I’ve read it,” they coo.
“They Told Me to Find a Rich Husband.”
Usually, the next thing the guy will do is take a sip of his drink and pause. “So, do you want to be that Millionaire Matchmaker lady?”
“No…no, I don’t really care about other people finding rich husbands. ‘Find a rich husband‘ — that’s what people tell me to do. I’m the only person I’m really interested in. Blogging is a selfish business”
Pause.
“So does that make you a real-life Carrie Bradshaw?”
We ladies all think we're Carries chasing our Mr. Bigs. Turns out, guys are out there chasing their Carries.
Carrie Bradshaw — she’s the shadow-casting pop-culture icon we who write about dating in New York can never escape. As I chuckle and shrug, part in acceptance, part in denial, his next move is typically to put a hand on the small of my back to pull me in closer. The look in his eyes is telling. He sees his pseudonym in print.
“Carrie wrote a column called ‘Sex and the City,'” I’ve been known to reply. “I moved north of the city a few months ago. If I turned my blog into a column, eventually I’d have to call it ‘Celibacy and the Suburbs.'”
“Well, we’ll have to fix that, won’t we?” Before I have a chance to process or respond, his hand is up the back of my shirt and his tongue is searching for my tonsils. Hold your horses there, Cowboy!
“When you write about me tomorrow, make sure to call me ‘Mr. Hottie,'” more than one guy has said. If they only knew…
Apparently, the prospect of being the subject of next week’s post can be something of a turn on. Thank you, Carrie Bradshaw for making dating columnists sexy. Before you, we might have been considered raging feminists, and a dating no-go. It would just be nice if the men in this city didn’t conflate you with your side-kick, nymphomaniac Samantha Jones… because, as their roaming hands and steaming eyes make evident, it seems they always do.
45 minutes after meeting each other, they were off in the corner of the lounge lip-locked. A few days later, text messages inquires attempted to arrange a proper date — neither had the time and the exchanges ceased. A week passed and she awoke to a Facebook friend request, a miracle considering she never game him her last name. As she clicked “accept,” it occurred to her that they might have done things totally out of order…
Back when I was a bright-eyed student enrolled in Art History 101, I was given an assignment to write a short paper on a painting housed in New York’s Frick Collection. I settled on a series of 18th century baroque panels by the French artist Jean-Honore Fragonard entitled “The Progress of Love.” Floral-ridden and chocolate-box-esque, the 4 tableaux track love from its uncertain beginnings to a happy ending. Beginning with “The Pursuit” the artist takes us through “The Meeting,” “The Lover Crowned,” and “Love Letters.”
It’s been a long time since I thought about these paintings, but as I compared dating notes with a few girl friends who recently acquired/deactivated boyfriends, I decided the scenes set among the frilly, baroque gardens of earthly delights needed a 21st century make over…
The Pursuit (the attempt at seduction):
She's out with her girl friends, but that doesn't stop him from making his approach.
In Fragonard’s day, when masquerade balls were probably the 18th century’s closest approximation of OkCupid, The Pursuit really only happened in the flesh. Today, technology grants us endless ways to approach (stalk?) our future lovers, but at the end of the day, we still prefer a good chase in the real world…
Much Like Fragonard’s leading lady, today’s heroine is out with her girl friends when He makes his approach. He catches her off guard — the last thing she had on her mind tonight was getting lucky. He nonchalantly slips in next to her at the bar and leads with a corny pickup line because he figures it’ll make her laugh. It does. The usual questions are asked and answered. He offers to buy her a refill. She accepts. There’s an occasional arm touch or shoulder tap. Her friends drag her away – they have places to go! She won’t give out her number. But shouts back her name, spelling it out for him. If you want to find me, you’ll find me, she tells him. Lucky for him, he has a good memory. He tracks her down on Facebook. A friend request. Accepted.
She’s out again with her friends, a drink down the hatch when they convince her to message him and find out what he’s doing that night. The doors are wide open. Messages fly back and forth for the next few days. He’s busy. She’s busy. He’s busy. She’s busy. Radio silence. A week passes, then finally he tries again. They agree to a proper date…
The Meeting (the moonlit assignation)
The Moonlit assignation, or the First Date
First dates don’t happen on weekends anymore. Weekends are reserved for real friends. Weekends allow you to behave out of character. Weekends have consequences.
They agree to meet on Tuesday night, after work, for drinks and dinner. She has a 9AM meeting Wednesday morning with a big client — the perfect built-in out for when things start to go rough. He’s decided she’s worth impressing and takes her some place upscale but understated. By now, they’ve both forgotten what the other person actually looks like in real life, and are surprised to find they’re attracted to each other.
He’s nervous and spills her drink. The ice is broken, literally and figuratively, and the subsequent conversation is lively. Before they know it, the maitre d’hotel is kicking them out — it’s closing time. He wants to kiss her. She’s sorry it’s a Tuesday, hugs him instead (what restraint!) and they agree to meet again.
Love Letters (the continuation of a happy union)
after the meeting comes the love letters... or love texts
In Fragonard’s series, this actually comes last — the happy couple send letters to reinforce their eternal love for one another. Today, I’m not sure how many people exchange handwritten love letters any more. However, the exchange of love notes in 2010/11 take on many forms, thanks to BBM and text messages. Fingers shoot across miniature keyboards in rapid-fire, concise exchanges. “Wanna come over?” “what r u wearing” “;)” NC-17 camera phone images strengthen the lust, while the occasional “i miss u” or “dinner 2nite?” tug at the heart strings.
The Lover Crowned(they finally get it on)
When she was 18, her mother gave her a copy of “The Rules.” Recently, she’d been watching “Millionaire Matchmaker.” Both advocate waiting until a relationship turns monogamous before sleeping with the guy. She always felt this approach got her into more trouble than it was worth, but she’s been trying to stick with it. They’re a few weeks into things and out to dinner when he asks her if she’d like to join him at his sister’s wedding next week. Gulp!
“So..um…what’s up with us?” she asks, knowing that she’s about the meet his whole extended family. Is she “a friend” or “the girlfriend?”
The verdict? She’s the girlfriend…
They go back to his place. Clothes fly off — in the morning, there’s shirts in the kitchen, pants in the living rooms and trails of random garments hanging off the furniture. Thank goodness it’s a Sunday morning.
Finally, she gets to close the book on The Rules.
Next stop? The Swing?
Fragonard's "The Swing"... I don't think this one needs an update 😉
I don’t know if you realize this, but Kathleen is a problematic name. It’s rarely on those iridescent magnets or “gold” nameplate necklaces you find at drugstores. There’s an overstock on Katherine and Catherine, but rarely a Kathleen. People aren’t used to the name and hearing it confuses them. It took Buckie 7 years to remember my name was not Kaitlin.
When I was 9, all of my friends were developing nicknames — Danielle was becoming a Dani, Jessica was turning into a Jess, and everyone wanted to call me Kathy. I know a grown-up Kathy who played golf, voted Republican, believed in creationism, and liked Florida. No, I couldn’t be a Kathy. My father thought it was cute to still call me Poo-Poo Head. No, that wouldn’t do either.
“Your name is Kathleen. If we had wanted to call you Kate or Katie or Kathy we would have named you Kate, Katie, or Kathy,” my parents said when I whined about not having a proper nickname. “Don’t ever let anyone call you Kathy.”
Apparently, my mother almost called me Ashley. If you knew me, you know I could never be an Ashley.
Am I Kat tonight or Kathleen?
It wasn’t until college that the need for a nickname would turn into a full-fledged identity crisis. On the first day of orientation I met Mike and we instantly became best friends. “Can I call you Kat?” he asked. “I like to have nicknames for all my girl friends.” Sure, why not! College, I decided, was a time for reinvention and so I likewise decided to accept Kat as my new identity.
But given “Kat’s” newness, I was awkward with introductions and never fully embraced the adopted persona. Soon, I found that all my teammates and athlete friends were the ones that called me Kat while everyone I met outside that community called me Kathleen. Kat became not my new incarnation, but an alter-ego. It was all very confusing.
By the time I finished grad school, Kat had faded to the name I gave at Starbucks when ordering my venti latte.
The truth is, my parents’ adamant rejection of a diminutive form of my name had instilled in me a general distaste for nicknames and pet names. Whenever a guy calls me “Honey,” I cringe inside, while a “Baby” makes me feel like a cheap teeny-bopper. Once upon a time, there was a guy I would meet for drinks that insisted on calling me Kitty. He didn’t last long. Though, maybe the biggest problem I have with being called Baby or Honey or Kitten or Pumpkin is not that its a pet name — it’s that it’s insincere and impersonal.
How many people in your life do you call Hon or Sweetie? I bet far more than the number you call Kathleen.
They Told Me to Find a Rich Husband 