Month: December 2010

Skating and Dating

Here’s a tip: if you’re rather touchy about your ice skating skills (or lack thereof in my case), do not agree to hit the rink with a man who just happens to coach ice hockey in his spare time.  It’s not often that my dates leave me feeling completely discombobulated without the benefit of alcohol.  I teach dance for a living!  And I can do just about anything in heels: tap dance, hike, even ride a bike.  Granted, my last biking-in-heels adventure culminated in me trying to extricate my lace-up stilettos from the chains of my bike while balancing on one foot on a rather public street corner in Oxford, but still. Unfortunately, I’m not nearly as adept in skates as I am in stilettos. “When was the last time you went skating?” Potential Soul Mate#1 asked as I tottered my way onto the rink last night. I’m not sure what prompted this question.  Granted, there were toddlers zooming past me but it’s not like I spent the whole time clinging to the wall.  “When …

A Precipitous Predicament

I’m going to blame the snow.  On account of Philadelphia’s first real snow storm, I got a little stir crazy on Sunday night.  And because my most recent foray into the world of online dating has endowed me with half a dozen eHarmony pen pals (each more intriguing than the last) I was also feeling a bit frisky.  Why invite PSM#1 for a frolic through the snow when I could instead call upon PSM#2? Especially since PSM#2 has been writing me lovely, novella-length emails for ever since we were “matched” a week and a half ago… And so it was that I decided to introduce a new contender into the equation.  “Would you stop emailing me and just ask me out already?” I punched into my keyboard Sunday morning (yes, I know, I have a real way with words).  I proffered some excuse about my computer screen making my eyes hurt due to my relentless sinus infection and hit “send.” A few minutes later, I had my response, a phone number and an invitation to …

My Third Date with PSM#1

For Christmas I received, amongst other things, the Bath and Body Works 2010 V.I.P. Bag.  It contained (also amongst other things) a bottle of Twilight Woods Men’s Shower Gel.  “Great!” I thought.  “The next time I have a man over to spend the night, I can present him with his very own bottle of Twilight Woods Men’s Shower Gel!”  (I will lure him in with my new Secret Wonderland Fragrance Mist and he’ll be so impressed by my coordinated His and Hers shower gels that he’ll drop to his knees and propose on the spot—either that or he’ll wonder just how many men have helped themselves to a dollop of my Twilight Woods and will flee the scene.  I will keep you posted.) Speaking of keeping you posted (like that segue there?) I’ve been remiss in my duties.  To date I have been on not one, not two, but three dates with PSM#1.  He even deigned to enter the Chocolate Lounge at Continental last week where my all-female co-workers and I were taking full advantage …

Christmas Day at Casa Richter

About halfway into our appetizers at Ikko Hibachi Restaurant on Christmas Day, my grandmother asks, “So Katrina, do you have any special men in your life?”  Because it’s Christmas, I decide to spare her the truth; she nearly had a heart attack three Easters ago when I informed her I was dating a Jew. The afternoon follows its usual course: my brother produces a tote bag from beneath the table and proceeds to fix himself a margarita (just as he has every year for the past three years in a row).  My grandmother acts as though she’s never seen a margarita before and begs him to make her one too (just as she has every year for the past three years in a row).  My dad talks to my grandfather about cars and I ask my grandmother the same question I’ve asked her ever since my grandfather and she “rescued” two feral kittens from the stream behind their house: “How are the cats?” “Susie and Maggie are doing fine, thank you,” she says. “Didn’t you …

Christmas Eve at Casa Richter

“Five bucks,” my brother says.  “Final offer.  Take it or leave it.” “Leave it,” I reply.  It’s Christmas Eve at the Richter house and my brother and I are engaged in our usual holiday ironing negotiations.  Every Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas he paws through his closet to come up with some sort of an outfit that will pass muster (aka meet with my mother’s approval) and every year, on account of his inability to hang his clothes properly, his dress shirts look as though they’ve been through some sort of mummification process. “Come on Kat,” he whines.  “I’m only asking you to iron two shirts: one for church tonight and one for dinner tomorrow.  That’s $2.50 a shirt!” “Nope.” I stand my ground and crack another egg into the bowl of whole-wheat chocolate chip cookie dough I’m whipping up for our Christmas Eve dessert. “But you did it last year!” he protests. “I was unemployed last year,” I remind him.  “Now I have a job.  Five actually, and I plan to enjoy my week off.” …

An Unexpected Development

He called just to talk.  I repeat: he called JUST to TALK!  After a mere two dates!  I was on my way home from work last night when my phone launched into a rather unexpected epileptic fit and nearly hurled itself from the center console of my Zipcar.  (Yes, I’m a Zipster.  Yes, I love it.  And no, I’m not really bothered by the fact that I don’t own a car because until the day comes when I’m a best-selling author and can thus afford a customized yellow Mini Cooper that runs on bio diesel and will facilitate my participation in high-action chase scenes a la The Italian Job, I don’t want one.) Because I spend the majority of my waking hours teaching, I keep my phone on vibrate, hence all of the ricochet action when PSM1’s name appeared on my screen.  (I also keep it on vibrate because I’m a bit of an old lady when it comes to my beauty rest.  Yes, I was thrilled to receive an invitation to an old friend’s …

PSM1 Times 2!

Something wonderful has happened.  I awoke Sunday morning with a splitting headache—and not just a my-sinus-infection-has-turned-into-a-proper-cold-headache (thanks to having spent every waking moment this past week amongst my snot-nosed, Tchaikovsky humming preschoolers)—but a bone fide hangover. “Hallelujah!” I shouted. Actually, it was something more along the lines of “What the f*ck possessed me to drink that many mojitos last night?” followed by an immediate, “Aspirin.  NOW!” But either way I was pleased.  A Sunday morning hangover, you see, is the mark of a good Saturday night and seeing as I’ve spent the past two Saturdays alone in my kitchen smashing candy canes with a hammer and decorating sugar cookies with candied pearls and a pair of tweezers, I’ve been in dire need of a good Saturday night out. It all began last Thursday when Philadelphia received its first dusting of snow and I received a text from PSM1.  “The roads are a mess,” he wrote, “I might be running a bit late.” This was rather providential seeing as I was still on my way home …

T-24 Hours

Hold onto your hats folks: in just 24 hours I will be back on the horse, or the wagon or whatever word normal people use to describe yet another round of adventures in serial dating.  As previously noted, I’m going the eHarmony route this time, and what a circuitous route it’s been! One of my readers advised me not to set myself any lofty “30 dates” goals this time around because unlike Match.com, eHarmony likes to prolong the courtship process.  Well, he was right.  Between all of the multiple choice questions, the “must haves” and “cant stands” and finally the free response answers, it’s taken me a week to set up one date.  One!  At this rate, I’ll be lucky to find a boyfriend by the time I’m thirty, less alone someone to kiss beneath the Penn’s Landing fireworks on New Years. But I’m going to be all about quality this time around, not quantity, at least that’s what I’m telling myself.  Plus, my winter wardrobe is not exactly up to snuff.  It’s easy to …