All posts tagged: dating

one way

What Happened Last Week

I’m sorry for last week—for getting you all excited about my return to “regular” posting only to leaving you hanging with a single, solitary, charming-but-rather-daft post about shower curtains. The thing is I have this friend. And three months ago she met this guy on the internet (Plenty of Fish of all places…) and now they’re talking about spending the rest of their lives together. We keep telling her she’s crazy—sure, he’s a great guy, and no, there aren’t any obvious red flags, but isn’t this all a bit premature? Granted, he has yet to officially ask, and she has yet to officially say “yes,” and they’re having all sorts of sensible discussions about the logistics (the pros and cons of premarital cohabitation, the financial ramifications, the legal) in addition to the implications of “putting a ring on it” (isn’t the whole practice just a bit anti-feminist? A bit Wedding Industrial Complex?) but we’re still rather concerned on her behalf. Especially because on Thursday morning, after one such discussion (which was less logistical and more …

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Relationship Days Off

It’s time for another confession. I promised myself that I would never again let my life revolve around a boyfriend, and I’m keeping this promise, but PIC and I are spending a lot of time together. And because he works downtown (and I live just a short subway ride from downtown), he stays over more nights than not. This is a new thing for me. I’ve never not been in a long distance relationship before. TWD lived 90 minutes away near the Jersey shore, and even though the European was local, he lived and worked in the suburbs and rarely had time to get together during the week. Plus, this is my first time living on my own. This is the first time it’s been okay for me have a boyfriend spending the night for days on end because I’m almost 30 years old and it’s my house. It’s been lovely: the elaborate dinners, the learning of routines, the non-stop make out sessions, and we had what was, quite possibly, the greatest Valentine’s Day weekend …

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On My Team

I’ve spent the better part of my life wondering if love is real or not. On good days, I think it’s a feeling, an emotion, an action, perhaps even a scientifically verifiable state of being if I listen to enough NPR. But on bad days, I think it’s just something we poetic types go on about, something that the rest of the world buys into, something we spend our entire lives trying to achieve and we dress it up with engagement rings and wedding gowns to prove to everyone else that we’ve found it. Then I met PIC. (You had to know I was going to say that, right?) Each time I’ve had a new boyfriend, I find myself thinking, “This! This is what love feels like!” But this time it’s different. It was a weeknight when I invited PIC over to my house for dinner for the first time. I know how to make approximately four proper dinners, and I’d chosen the most impressive (Thai peanut satay chicken) but as I got the preparations …

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Introducing P.I.C.

We’re on the train, the new boyfriend and I, heading downtown from his apartment in the suburbs. I’m writing a blog post on my phone and he’s reading Time Magazine. “You need a name,” I tell him. He looks up. “For my blog. It’s been almost three months.  I need a nickname for you.” I toss a couple of ideas into the air but they’re all lame or to obvious or too cumbersome. He suggests “The One” (sort of in jest but not really… more on that later) and finally it hits me. “I’ve got it,” I tell him. “You can read about it tomorrow.” So here it is: PIC, which stands for (obviously) Partner in Crime. And that, quite truthfully, is exactly what he has become, whether we’re scrubbing rose petal stains out of a fancy hotel duvet or painting the spare bedrooms in my house. A woman walks onto the train with a bedazzled ski hat. “Look at that,” I whisper, “that is ridiculous. I’m all about rhinestones but you have to know …

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Above Average

The average American male, upon finding himself in the kitchen of a woman he’s just met on the morning after their second date, would probably skedaddle when faced with the prospect of meeting said woman’s father. But he doesn’t skedaddle. In fact, when my dad arrives, 8 minutes ahead of schedule, he simply says hello and offers him a cinnamon bun from the tray I’d made for breakfast. It is then that I realize he’s not your average American male. (Our first date had given me a few clues but this confirmed it.) And when the contractor arrives a few minutes later, he follows us from room to room, not getting in the way but just listening as I explain what I’d like to have done: new ceilings throughout the entire downstairs, new walls (sheet rock or skim coat), a new full sized window to replace the current Hobbit-sized window at the front of the house, new French doors to replace the window overlooking my back deck, a square arch to replace the fake Styrofoam …

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The 12 Hour Marathon Date

You know those people who go on first dates that last like for 12 hours? With men they meet on the internet? Those people confound me. Especially because those 12 hours are followed (depending on the severity) by at least 48 hours of “Oh my God, he’s THE ONE! He really is this time, I just know it!!!” and then those 48 hours are, in turn, followed by another 72 of “He’s such a jerk! How could I have been so stupid???” If you’re like me (i.e. trying to be a decent friend) you refrain from saying things like, “Duh. What did you think was gonna happen?” Instead, you open the consolatory bottle of wine and keep to yourself the fact that 12-hour first dates with men from internet are just bad policy. They never end well. In fact, considering everything I’ve gleaned over my years of online dating, I would go so far as to say that 12-hour first dates with men from the internet should be avoided at all costs. Which is why …

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The De-Stringing

So where were we? Right. The street corner, Starbucks in hand, him asking to see me again and me saying yes. The only problem is that this is late November, which means we’re coming up on what I like to refer to as my Ultimate B*tch Period, courtesy of The Lady Hoofers and our annual holiday concert. As most of you know, I’ve spent the past three years directing a small dance company. Because we’re a small dance company (7 First Company dancers, 4 Apprentices and no real “staff” to speak of aside from our lone—albeit fabulous— intern), “directing” really means producing shows, running meetings, designing costumes, contracting musicians, balancing the budget, managing payroll, choreographing repertoire, recruiting volunteers and carting everything to and fro the various theaters in which we perform and—oh yeah—dancing. Making matters worse, I often get really brilliant ideas in the midst of it all. Ideas like, “I know! To save the company money I will MAKE all of the costumes we need for the show’s new opening number” or “Wouldn’t this …

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Quite Possibly My Last First Date

As the bus crawls towards Rittenhouse, it dawns on me: this might possibly be my last first date. Not because of anything in particular in his profile or the messages we’ve been exchanging (although I do like him quite a bit on paper) but because of me. I finally have my sh*t together. I’m wearing jeans and we’re meeting at a cheap Mexican place for happy hour tacos and margaritas.  Part of me wishes we were going someplace fancier, but really only so that I can brag to my friends about it. (The truth is I can’t afford any place fancier right now, not with the house, and I don’t want to assume that he’s going to pick up the tab so one dollar tacos are actually a much safer bet.) The date itself doesn’t blow me out of the water.  There’s a bit of an awkward kerfuffle as we make our way to the booth and he seems a bit nervous, but its a safe date.  A date with potential. He’s tall, and cute, …