Month: July 2011

The Science of Single: A book review for people who don’t like book reviews

A block from Meze, where we’re meeting, I see him.  Forget that he took it upon himself to disprove my height-calculating formula by rounding up not two, but three inches; I can tell by his uncertain stance that he’s actually not The One.  He was so good on paper, but that’s the unfortunate circumstance of dating online; you aren’t privy to the nuances that make a person who he is: the confidence—or lack thereof, the chemistry—or lack thereof, the hair—or lack thereof.  There was no full head of thick, spongy waves.  Nope.  He had a monk spot—a white beacon of bald capping off his dark curls. (The Science of Single) And so begins yet another disappointing date in Rachel Machacek’s The Science of Single: One Woman’s Grand Experiment in Modern Dating, Creating Chemistry, and Finding Love. Needless to say, “Dr. Dreamy” was not the end to experiment that Machecek feared he’d be but this doesn’t stop her from trying her luck at Match.com, eHarmony, speed dating, singles events, self-help books, a dating coach and even …

An Epidemic of Serial Daters

I was talking to journalist Nick Paumgarten about his recent piece on online dating in the New Yorker when it hit me— okay, I wasn’t actually talking to him per se (I was sitting at my desk logged into his “author chat” over at newyorker.com and talking “to” him via a heavily moderated comments box)—but here’s what I came up with: serial dating is becoming a thing. Not that my generation is the first to embrace the quantity vs. quality approach to dating but we’re the first to do it with the assistance of Facebook, Twitter, MySpace and, best of all, Match.com.  I used to think I was the only girl in the world to obsess over my dates as I do—the spreadsheets, the “types,” the “manthropology,” if you will—but according to Paumgarten’s piece in the New Yorker, I’m not alone. Evidently he interviewed a woman who has dated fifty-eight men since her divorce (fifty-eight!  I wonder if her mother was able to furnish her with a new outfit for each one…) and she “maintains …

Italy, Crazy Ideas and an Invitation

Before I pick up where we left off yesterday with the contents of Date #7’s email, I need to explain something: I love Italy.  I love pretty much all of Europe actually (except Frankfurt—Frankfurt has never done it for me) but Italy holds a special place in my heart.  This for three reasons: 1)      Italy contains the city of Florence.  Florence is my favorite city in the entire world. 2)      Italy produces wine.  And cheese.  And some of the greatest bread I’ve ever tasted.  (In case you’re wondering, the second greatest bread I’ve ever tasted comes from Finland but something tells me you’re more interested in the contents of Date #7’s email than my take on Scandinavian baked goods.) 3)      Italy provides the backdrop for my favorite film of all times: Under the Tuscan Sun. (In case you’re not up on your post-divorce, expat memoirs, I basically want to be Diane Lane in Under the Tuscan Sun.  And thanks to a recent conversation on our favorite films, Date #7 knows this). So, getting back to …

Red Wine + an Unlimited Text Plan + an Eligible Bachelor = Italy, of course!

Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt your regularly scheduled programming to bring you the following announcement: I am having a heart attack.  Like seriously.  I mean not seriously seriously—as far as I can tell all of my vital organs are all in good working order— but something fairly substantial has happened in the ongoing saga of me and Date #7. A few nights ago, I attended my first wine tasting at Bistro Romano, the Italian restaurant in Society Hill that’s hosting the show I’m co-producing this fall. Having attended several wine tastings before (including this one with my grandmother) I know the drill: I will always prefer red wine to white. I will always end up tipsy and craving raw cookie dough. I will always resort to drunk-texting before the evening is out. Seeing as I still have the phone numbers of at least a dozen previous dates stored in my cell phone, I’m pretty much perpetually on the brink of disaster. But it’s okay—I like living on the edge.  It makes wine tastings with one’s …

Kat’s Wedding Index

Three: Number of times I got teary eyed during yesterday’s service. Three: Number of times I got teary eyed during yesterday’s reception. Eleven: Number of hours spent in 5-inch heels. Four: Number of new blisters acquired. One: Number of cake slices consumed. Five: Number of cake slices I wish I’d consumed. Three: Number of former Richter family babysitters in attendance. Three: Number of times the aforementioned babysitters asked “Are you old enough to be drinking???” Two: Grand total of single men present. Three: Number of minutes it took Landlord to get the scoop on said men from the bride. Twenty: Number of dollars Chauffer wagered that I’d not ask one of them to dance. Twenty: Number of dollars earned during the “Lady’s Choice.” One: Grand total of songs danced to with someone other than my mother. Zero: Total numbers of phone numbers requested/exchanged. Five: Number of times I felt tempted to send Date #7 a weepy “I miss you” text. Zero: Number of times I actually sent Date #7 a weepy “I miss you” text. …

Would You Rather: Jordan Almonds or an Online Dating Subscription?

Today I’m going to a wedding.  Not my own, obviously, but that of my former babysitter/art teacher/next door neighbor.  I have mixed feelings about this wedding, not because I have any doubt that the couple in question will be very happy together, but because I’m egocentric-to-a-fault even at the best of the times and seeing as I’ve just lost my wingman, this is not the best of times. The entire Richter clan was invited to this wedding, including Landlord, Chauffer and Tech Support.  Tech Support, aka my younger brother, was supposed to be my partner in crime for the evening but due to an unexpected turn of events, his boss is sending him out of town for the weekend. Typical. There are few things I hate more in life than flying solo at a friend’s wedding.  In fact, flying solo amidst a sea of happy and soon-to-be-happy couples ranks right up there with my hatred of pigeons, zucchini, eggplant, eggplant disguised to look like something else and tourists who walk four-abreast on the sidewalk. Needless …

The Back Up (Husband) Plan

“If we r both single when we both r 50 we marry?” It’s just after 9:00pm in the US, which means it’s just after 3:00am in Norway and my friend Ove (who you may recall from his appearance on My Single Male Friend Friday a few months ago) is just coming home from a night out.  He’s been drinking, which means his English is a bit more… creative than usual, but he’s awfully endearing when he’s drinking and tonight is no exception. “Sure,” I tell him.  “But 40 would be better.” He agrees, based on the logic that “we r still young and beautiful at 40.”  (Whereas we’ll be “old and ugly at 50.”) I’m tempted to remind him that he will be nearly-50 by the time I’m 40 (so I’ll probably have to trade him in for a younger and more “beautiful” model) but I resist the urge because if I am still single at 40, Ove would make for a good fall back husband.  I’d get bilingual kids with EU passports and dual …

These Boots Were Made for (Jay)walking

It took me a long time to figure out that being a girl comes with certain powers (and by a “long time” I mean approximately 24.5 years so this is still rather new for me).  Sure, I’ve flirted my way to a drink or two over the years, and I’ve started to accept help with my luggage when I’m traveling but I’ve never been able to talk my way out of a speeding ticket or into a nightclub simply by virtue of my sex. (Then again I’ve never gotten a speeding ticket but I’m pretty sure you have to be at least “C” cup to talk your way out of a citation.) Nonetheless, I’ve recently discovered that being a girl—even a flat-chested girl—does enable one to get away with certain things. Radical things. Dangerous things. Extreme things. Thing such as jaywalking. I may not have cleavage but I do have legs and this time of year, they’re out in full force.  When walking into Center City, I used to stop at every corner and wait …