Month: October 2010

My Third Date with #17

He bought me flowers.  Flowers!  The timing of their presentation, however, was rather problematic in that I’d just asked, “So, how was your day?” only to be led to a table in the back of the sushi restaurant marked “reserved” upon which a bottle of wine and the bright pink bouquet were waiting.  When faced with such a veritable onslaught of romantic accoutrements, I lost my ability to speak.  I also lost my ability to listen, which was unfortunate because Date #17 was telling me about his most recent client meeting and as he works in a field I know nothing about, it’s hard enough for me to follow the conversation when I’m not singing to myself, “He bought me flowers!  He bought me flowers!  He bought me flowers!” It’s not that I’ve never been on the receiving end of a floral transaction before, it’s just that it’s been… well, a rather long time.  Three years, come to think of it, and I’ve had two boyfriends since then, which just goes to show that I …

The Mystery Man Revealed

I know what you’re all wondering.  After reading about the careful construction of my thirtieth date outfit, my discussion of Austen over pancakes and my decision to accompany my evidently enlightened mystery man for a stroll through The Piazza, you’re just dying to know, “But what about your thoughts on the history of tap dancing and its connection to American race relations?” I know, it’s a pretty fascinating topic if I do say so myself.  So fascinating, in fact, that I responded to a call for papers four months ago and submitted a proposal to write 10,000 words on the subject.  My proposal was accepted (fabulous!) but to date, I’ve written less than 3,000 words (not so fabulous).  I’d blame my dating habits, but really it’s the blogging about my dating habits that’s the real problem.  I’ve become incapable of constructing a complete sentence that doesn’t somehow include the words “martini,” “the Man from Marshalls” or “Match.com.” Having written a 20,000 word MA dissertation, I know how to do academic writing.  All you need is …

Thirtieth Time’s a Charm, Part Duex

And so to continue with my thirtieth date: although I’d be much fonder of brunch if it was socially acceptable to drink raspberry chocolate martinis at 11:00am, the menu at Honey’s proved to be more than tolerable.  After some deliberation, we both selected the whole wheat berry granola pancakes and, in accordance with acceptable Saturday morning beverage conventions, two cups of coffee. Secretly, I’d hoped he’d order the pumpkin and maple syrup pancakes, thereby giving me an excuse to sample the less-than-healthy fare without compromising my complex-carbohydrate loyalties.  His chivalry in this regard, however, was most lacking. As the waitress poured our coffees, we talked of literature and religion, managing to skirt around the more controversial disputes of our age, but finding ourselves in actual agreement on several key issues.  And despite my unfortunate preference for hair products over Harper’s Magazine and the rest of the high brow publications meant to improve one’s chances of making intelligent conversation, I found myself able to keep up, and, more importantly, actually enjoying myself. When our pancakes arrived, …

Thirtieth Time’s a Charm

I have a confession to make: Monday morning’s post took me a rather long time to write—three days, in fact— because the men in my life refuse to let me finish writing about them before they make their next moves.  I really wish they would stop doing this.  Don’t they understand the basic conventions of good storytelling?  How am I supposed to steer this tale towards its happily-ever-after conclusion when my main characters refuse to cooperate? Next time around, I’m going to stick to dating inanimate objects (they’re easier to control, and no, that’s not a sexual reference).  Until then I shall simply confess that was I while I was busy recounting my most recent conversation with the Man from Marshalls (and wondering if Date #17 would ask me out again), I managed to plan, reschedule and finally execute my thirtieth date! (Cue applause, confetti, fireworks, champagne, more confetti and more champagne… or rather coffee and breakfast cereal as it’s only 8:30am but make it a good cereal, not something healthy and cardboard like; this …

Based Loaded

It’s Monday, October 25th.  This means that I am exactly one week away from the end of my Match.com experiment.  As I’ve no plans to renew my subscription (who knew dating 17 different men could be so exhausting?), I have just seven days in which to find myself a date to the Annual Hooper’s Island Black Friday Martini Bar Soiree.  Considering that a weekend in the middle of nowhere with a girl’s immediate family is probably not the average American male’s idea of fun, I’m going to have to find someone who cares enough about me to endure post-Thanksgiving festivities with my folks—someone vaguely resembling a boyfriend. Or someone who just really likes martinis (but I’ve never been all that keen on becoming a Bond girl). My folks are cool, don’t get me wrong (and even if they weren’t, they keep a well stocked liquor cabinet), but rare indeed is the man willing to accompany a woman to her parent’s house on the Eastern Shore, especially when he’s going to be banished to the guest …

Twenty Nine Dates

Last night’s dinner with Date #17 brings the grand total up to 29 dates.  And seeing as the Man from Marshalls has already invited me to “hang out” after work, it looks as though I’ll be coming to the end of my official thirty-date experiment in just a few hours.  That said, I feel that an experiment of this magnitude deserves to end on a higher note than whatever the Man from Marshalls manages to conjure up between now and then.  (I doubt, for example, that this “hanging out” will take place anywhere fancy enough to require high heels on my part.) In the meantime, I think it’s time for me to get back to the hard science of dating.  And by “hard science” I mean numbers.  Proper social scientists always manage to cram a few charts into their reports and so, in the spirit of qualitative research, I offer the following: Number of times the Man from Marshalls has called me—actually called me, as opposed to text messaging—since the Fairmount Park Incident: 4 (Let …

A Familiar Feeling

The morning after Date #17 takes me for dinner in Center City, I awake with a familiar feeling.  Being that it’s been some time since I’ve been on a first date, however—let alone a first date to a Steven Starr restaurant—I can’t quite place it. Is it a crush?  Date #17 is awfully cute—much cuter than his Match.com profile would suggest, actually.  As I step into the lounge at Alma de Cuba and notice a rather well dressed businessman seated alone at the bar, with a glass of cabernet sauvignon and an obvious first date demeanor, I realize that Date #17’s profile picture does not do him justice.  Being the benevolent dating guru that I am, I consider advising him to change it, but then I realize that if he does, all of the other girls on Match.com will find him and I’m not that benevolent.  I’d rather keep this undiscovered diamond in the rough to myself. So yes, it could be a crush that I’m feeling. But it could also be that peculiar brand …

Trouble in Camelot

I’ve reached the five-date mark with the Man from Marshalls and despite the fairy-tale encounter that gave birth to our relationship, there’s trouble in Camelot.  I won’t go into the details (at last not all of them, seeing as there’s an actual human being on the end of this equation who may or may not be reading) but we’ve somehow skipped right through the honeymoon phase and into the Danger Zone, in which two people with little more in common than their Sou’ Philly zip codes must determine whether or not a mutual admiration for Vietnamese coffee is enough to sustain a relationship. Don’t get me wrong: if there is any coffee capable of bringing two such disparate souls together, it’s the French stuff made with sweetened condensed milk that they serve at the Vietnamese restaurant on Washington Ave., but what if the restaurant were to close?  What if I were to overdose on condensed milk?  What if one of us was to develop diabetes or discover we were lactose intolerant?  Or worse still: what …