Month: May 2011

Life Lessons from a FASHION Director?

Ladies and gentleman, I have an announcement to make.  Three actually.  The first is that I spent Memorial Day at my parents’ place in The-Middle-of-Nowhere (Hoopers Island, MD) and am still wading through the comments on Saturday’s post; suffice it to say, the vast majority have left me speechless (and for a variety of reasons). The second announcement is that I’ve had another break through. I was sitting in the living room when it happened, eating chocolate chip cookie dough from a bowl and watching my new favorite show.  I’m not sure what’s more embarrassing: my penchant for salmonella poisoning or my love of mind-numbing reality TV (I mention neither in my online dating profiles). I guess I should just tell you the name of the show, and the nature of my “aha” moment, and let you decide. The show is Say Yes to the Dress.  (For those of who have yet to discover the very finest Netflix on Demand has to offer, it’s a TLC reality show that chronicles the daily shenanigans of Kleinfeld’s …

It’s Time to Tie the Knot– just “knot” for me

It’s starting again.  I scraped through the first round of weddings—the post-college round—by the skin of my teeth.  Always flying in from somewhere, always just after a breakup and always mourning the bride’s departure from my roster of available wing women, I won’t say that I exactly enjoyed the first round. In fact, I pretty much hated it.  (Probably because my friends’ weddings always corresponded with that time of the month and I’m wont to cry on a good day.)  But no matter: this next round—the post-grad school round—is going to be awesome. I know this because I’ve reached the point in my life where I don’t need much more than a drink, a killer dress and a pair of heels to have a good time.  Boyfriends, although desirable, are like any other accessory: fun but certainly not necessary.  There are always groomsmen.  Besides, one’s happiness should not be dependent upon a designer bag or a Plus One; one’s happiness should come from within.  (By which I really mean I’ll put an ad on Craigslist …

My Own Personal Memorial Day

In honor of Memorial Day and the fact that I’m too busy relaxing to write, I thought I’d pilfer a bit of amusement penned by Yours Truly exactly one year ago. This was written before I was Freshly Pressed for the first time (which means it will be new to all but the most loyal amongst you), before I’d quit my job at The Shop and before I’d launched my online dating “experiment.”  I’ve come to refer to this period of my life as The Dark Ages and I entreat each and every last one of you to please shoot me if I even think about spending another six months as miserable as I was during the time that I wrote this. A year later, I can look back and see that I lost a part of myself during those six months—and I don’t just mean the part of myself that would go rock climbing or backpacking through Europe as opposed to getting all gussied up for a night at the Union League.  I mean …

A Question from the Hot Tub: Would YOU Date Me?

By the time you read this, I’ll be sitting in a hot tub overlooking the Chesapeake with a drink in hand—preferably something cool and alcoholic (even if it is only 8:00am)—and reading one of the Victorian novels I discovered while cleaning my room last weekend.  Today marks my first day off in three weeks and I intend to enjoy it. But enough about me and my bikini— let’s get down to business, shall we? When that radio produced from the CBC called last month to pre-interview me about my “dating spreadsheet,” I quickly realized that my story wasn’t quite what she was looking for.  (This was because I recognized her technique.  It’s called “Ask the same question over and over again, only ask it slightly differently each time.”  This is the same technique I use when I’m in journalist-mode and my interviewee isn’t giving me what I want.) So I tossed her the name of the Spreadsheet Master himself (fellow blogger Dennis H.) and lo and behold, Dennis managed to snag a proper interview.  I’d …

It’s all Relative, Except when its NOT!

I’m chatting with my friend Ove from Norway about Date #7 (the man from across the state who I’ve never actually met) when he asks the obvious question: Why don’t you just drive out to wherever it is that he lives and meet him? Well, this may be an obvious question for a Norwegian (you can read all about my thoughts on Scandinavian dating culture here and here) but for me? “No way,” I respond.  “He has to come to me.” Ove shoots a bevy of emoticons my way and types, “You are too traditional, Kat.” And so I am.  I am American after all and the so-called “land of the free” is also the land of the Pilgrims.  We’ve come a long way since 1620—feminism, for example, has been invented; ditto automobiles—but there is no way I am driving across the state to spend the weekend with a man I’ve never met. According to my latest WordPress subscription notice, I have quite a few international readers these days so I will pause briefly for …

Close Encounters of the AWKWARD Kind

It was bound to happen sooner or later.  In a city the size of Philadelphia, there are only so many single men, so many bartenders and so many routes one can take from Old City to South Philly.  This is the problem with dating locally— or perhaps with serial dating, come to think of it.  All I know is that after my little “encounter” earlier this week, I need to either A) stop dating or B) go back to long distance relationships. Let’s start at the beginning, shall we? A friend from the Philadelphia Writer’s Conference invites me to join him for a meeting in Old City.  It has something to do with civic engagement and the arts and since I’m still struggling to develop a life beyond Match.com, I say “Sure, why not?” (Additionally, there are going to be free drinks.  As such, this is a no brainer.) I’m wearing my very best power outfit: floral print dress, red heels, red scarf, red chopsticks in my hair and red earrings, all paired with a …

Seriously, Why Me?

Note to self: do not wear hoop earrings while attempting to teach preschoolers how to jump rope.  I nearly lost an earlobe yesterday—several times, actually—and our poor tropical bird mobile looks even worse than it did when I first found it tangled and forgotten about and shoved under a box several weeks ago. Why am I teaching my preschoolers to jump rope?  Believe me: it wasn’t my idea.  I’m all about ribbons and scarves and beanbags and soft things that do not have the capacity to turn into lethal weapons when placed into the eager but inexperienced hands of my five year olds. But jump ropes? Jump ropes are almost as bad as basketballs.  And basketballs are almost as bad hockey sticks.  And hockey sticks—well, there’s a reason I keep them hidden. At the request of my boss, however, I’ve devised an entire week’s worth of lesson plans dedicated to the art of jumping rope.  One of the parents has organized a Jump Rope for Heart fundraiser this coming Friday and although I think this …

After He Invites Me In…

So, getting back to Saturday’s date: after flailing around at the rock gym, we go for Mexican food, drive back to his place and decide, after several awkward suggestions, to head downstairs and watch a movie. Now everyone knows that “watch a movie” is code for “make out” and this is fine by me.  It’s our third date and despite the lack of sparks, My 50th Date is growing on me.  He’s polite, he’s been a good sport about my split personality approach to rock climbing and he’s definitely cute. Part of me is still hung up on Date #7 (the man from across the state) but I’m trying to be less crazy these days and on this particular occasion, “less crazy” translates to “I will NOT sabotage this relationship simply because I’m not ready to run off and live happily ever after with this guy.” So I follow My 50th Date downstairs, take a seat on the couch and begin to wonder how exactly this is going to work.  Aside from our after-dinner kiss …