Month: August 2010

Of Canceled Dates and Cruising for Mates

Last week, a certain eligible bachelor called to cancel on me for the second Friday night in a row.  Now I ask you: what’s the point of registering for Match.com, creating a profile and enduring first dates with eight different men in the span of one month if you’re still going to spend your Friday nights alone? Granted, said bachelor had very good reasons both times (in fact, I gave him a very good reason the first time) and he apologized profusely, but still. For the first two weeks of my Match.com experience, it was Date #3 who held the Position of Honor (aka, my Friday night Plus One).  But since Date #3 decided to opt out of my “experiment” around the same time that Date #4 proved to be a rather deadly combination of genuine kindness and unconventional sexiness (convenient how that worked itself out, no?) I decided to bestow the honor of my Friday night Plus One upon him (Date #4). As per his instructions, I penciled him in for Friday.  Make that two Friday’s actually—two in …

Is This a Booty Call?

While I’m busy educating the masses on things to avoid while dating (Sugar daddies, simultaneous suitors, spaghetti on a first date, etc.) I’d like to offer a few remarks on the subject of the booty call— in particular, “When is a call not a booty call?” It took me a while to understand the basic premise of the booty call.  For a very long time, my comprehension of this pheromone phenomenon was similar to that of Supreme Court Justice Potter Stewart’s comprehension of pornography, as espoused in the 1964 case of Jacobellis vs. Ohio.  “I know it when I see it,” Justice Stewart said. One of my old architectural history professors used this very same line to explain the tenets of Federalist design.  “It’s hard to describe,” he said, flipping through his collection of slides.  “But Federalism is just like pornography: you’ll know it when you see it.” He was right. I know Federalism when I see it.  And Justice Stewart was right too; I know pornography (and recoil in horror) when I see it.  …

He Might Be a Sugar Daddy

It’s Sunday morning and believe it or not, I did not go out last night.  Instead, I spent the evening painting my nails in anticipation of today’s rendezvous with Date #4.  Nevertheless, I’ve dusted off a little something from the archives for this morning’s dose of dating amusement: a first date disaster like no other. In the spirit of Jeff Foxworthy’s “You might be a redneck,” I offer the following diatribe: He might be a sugar daddy. I’m talking about the older man, the philandering but powerful older man—in particular the philandering but powerful older man who wants you to be his mistress.   And before we get started, I should report that just typing the very word “mistress” makes me cough and sputter. When I was younger and very much enamored of Belle Époque Paris, I thought it might be cool to be somebody’s mistress, albeit in an abstract rather Bohemian, Moulin Rouge, “Hi, I’m Toulouse Lautrec and I’d like you to meet my girlfriend” sort of way.  But there are several things wrong with …

Decisions in Dating

Today marks Day #27 of my online dating experiment.  Ethically speaking, I’m doing the best I can; I’m posting every detail of my love life on the internet, for crying out loud!  And while I’ve withheld a few juicy tidbits for the sake of propriety, I think I’ve gone above and beyond the rules of disclosure.  Although, to be perfectly honest, I’m not really sure what sort of “rules” apply in the world of online dating.  Match.com is like a parallel universe, in which you have drop down menus for rejections and the ability to wink at the click of a button (and given my abject inability to wink in real life, I’m a huge fain of virtual winking).  As far as I can tell, it’s entirely acceptable, if not entirely normal, to cast a wide net on Match.com, at least in the beginning. But what do you do when your net pulls in… well, more than one good catch?  How do you narrow it down?  The first few weeks of my “experiment” saw me entirely …

Gay on the Go for iPhone???

I’ve just discovered the ultimate gay-dar.  It’s called Grinders and it’s an iPhone app.  Now you might be wondering why on earth I would care about the “Gay on the Go” iPhone application, being neither gay nor the owner of an iPhone, but I’ve been searching for a reliable gay-dar since I was seventeen.  It was then that I wasted an entire summer angling to “accidentally” bump into one of the fine arts students at Pratt Institute.  My summer at Pratt did the trick in terms of my career (yesterday’s horror story at Temple University notwithstanding).  I woke up one morning and said, “Mom, Dad, I want to go to arts school and become a fashion designer.”  They said something along the lines of, “No honey, trust us on this one, you don’t.”  To which I responded, “I had the best gown at the homeschool prom three years in a row [Note: this was no easy feat; we had a rather well attended homeschool prom]!  That gun metal silver renaissance gown I made?  Sheer genius!  …

My Worst Date to Date

I’m wearing my lucky red knickers because this date is the most important date of my life thus far.  This date happens to be with the dean of the university where I was supposed to be teaching this fall and he—God help him—doesn’t even know that this date is going to take place. We did not, as you might have guessed, meet on Match.com.  In truth, we’ve never met but his office sent me a contract last month, which I signed and returned immediately, so excited by the prospect of teaching a real course at a real university that I abandoned all plans to return to London. I’m wearing my lucky red knickers because yesterday—a week before said course was scheduled to start—I received an email from the head of the department informing me that it would have to be “postponed” until the spring due to an administrative glitch. Postponed?  Due to an administrative glitch?  This is unacceptable.  This is an outrage, at least that’s what I’ve been telling myself all morning in the hopes …

Cross Polination in the World of Online Dating

I’m back at the library and— Ohmigod!— the girl who has just sat down on the computer in the front of me is cruising Match.com!  She looks normal enough.  There’s a certain stigma about the sort of people who have to “resort” to online dating.  I like to think that I, being the fabulous, charming, socially adept non-Cyclops that I am, have blown this stereotype out of the water, but that doesn’t stop me from peering over the top of my laptop and wondering, “What is wrong with her?”  She’s not in the greatest of shape.  In Match.com parlance, she’s “about average,” “curvy” or even “a few extra pounds.”  Her hair looks like she’s trying to do dreadlocks but they’re not quite working for her yet, which is probably why she’s shoved the entire mass into a baseball cap (which, in turn, is probably why she’s been forced to “resort” to match.com). Still, it’s only a weekday afternoon.  And this is the public library, not Rodeo Drive— story time, actually, has just ended— so if she …

The Art of Removing Your Bra in Public

I’m in the library.  The underwire of my bra has somehow poked through its casing and is now stabbing me in the cleavage (or rather in that hallow space just above my breastbone that would be my cleavage if I actually had any).  Too make matters worse, I’m seated across from an adolescent boy who has yet to discover the wonders of deodorant; then again, maybe he knows it exists—maybe his older brother, for example, uses deodorant?  If so, I wish said brother would advise our man to avail himself. I’m tempted to tell him that he’ll never get a girlfriend if he doesn’t.  He’ll wind up on match.com, in fact, and he’ll have to spend the rest of his life sitting in the library and watching anime cartoons on his laptop (which he’s been doing for the past three hours).  In order for me to offer him a little bit of friendly advice on the subject of personal hygiene, however, (“Dude!  Did you know they make this thing called antiperspirant nowadays?”) I’d have to …