All posts tagged: Oxford

07h_OurTown

Writing Wednesday: The Non-Social Butterfly

It’s time for a little confession.  I know my blog makes it seem like I lead a very glamorous life but the truth is, I’m not very good at socializing.  Neither is my brother and it’s weird because our parents are essentially the Homecoming King and Queen of the entire neighborhood.  Everybody loves them, everybody wants to come to their parties, and they go out drinking more often than I do (which is pretty sad, considering that I’m the one still in my twenties). I used to blame my ex-boyfriend for this.  He was perfectly content to sit home and watch videos or play board games, plus I was always visiting him in New Jersey instead of spending time in Philadelphia.  Most of time, he was willing to go out but I always knew when he wasn’t enjoying himself.  He’d go out because it made me happy, not because it made him happy, and we started going on fewer and fewer dates.  I told myself I was okay with this because we were saving for …

Bad News

Well folks, I’m afraid I’ve got some bad news.  Not they’ve-decided-to-stop-producing-fair-trade-chocolate bad news, or even I’ve-decided-to-join-a-commune-and-go-off-the-grid bad news but bad news nonetheless. You might have noticed that I missed Monday’s post, and those of you who have been following my blog since the beginning of my Great Date Experiment will have noticed that my posts have become shorter (and less exciting) of late. There are several reasons for this, and as much as I’d like to blame The Wedding Date (boyfriends make rather convenient scapegoats, don’t they?) it’s not his fault—at least not entirely.  I’m writing for several online magazines these days and between all of my students, I’ve got thirteen tap routines to get finished up and polished in time for this year’s recitals. My co-producer and I also received some unexpected news last week: Remember that grant application you submitted months ago but never thought you’d actually get? Well, you got it.  We want you to produce a show at City Hall.  And we want it in exactly one month. With so many …

The Real Reason I Want(ed) to Go to Europe

You want to know the real reason I love to travel?  Sure, I’m into museums and history and discovering that my way of doing things isn’t the only way but really I like the girl I become when I travel: fearless, self-sufficient, confident, and—get this!—I almost never get lost when I’m somewhere else. I still get turned around on my way to New Jersey (which is bad, seeing as The Wedding Date lives in New Jersey) but give me a passport, a plane ticket and a map?  I’m fine. (Seriously.  I spent nearly two months on my own in Europe when I was seventeen and I only got lost once.) The new-and-improved me that suddenly springs to life when I’m abroad, however, is only half the story.  Because with it comes my new-and-improved ability to meet people and by “people,” I mean of course men. Even when I was seventeen and had a boyfriend, I met all sorts of men when I was abroad.  There was my flat mate in Sevilla, then the Polish student …

My Stickiest, Mitchum-worthy Moment, Part 1

As promised, here is the story of my stickiest situation.  (Click here if you missed yesterday’s post but would still like your chance to win one of two $150 gift certificates, courtesy of Mitchum, to a department store of your choice!) Not surprisingly, my sticky situation had to do with a boy.  Also not surprisingly it took place in London. In order for this story to make sense, I need to explain that before I went to school in London, I spent a year at Oxford.  And although there were several years in between during which I lost touch with most of the people I met as an undergraduate, I did reconnect with a few when I returned to the UK for grad school and one invited me to join her new book club. Ours was one of the worst book clubs in the world.  We started strong (Jack Kerouac, to be specific) but our meetings quickly turned into a monthly excuse to sit around drinking wine and discussing our love lives.  Not that I’m …

Speed Dating: An Accident (waiting to happen)

Okay, I know I just finished writing “enough is enough” (and subsequently cancelling all of my online dating subscriptions) but my little “breakthrough” took place after I’d already committed to a night of speed dating.  (Leave no stone unturned, and all that.)  For those of you who’ve somehow managed to escape the many trials and tribulations that comprise dating in the 21st century, speed dating is the Russian Roulette of romance.  You pre-register (in order to ensure that there are an equal number of men and women), dress to impress, head over to your local bar and take a number. If you a girl, you’re lucky: you find a table, take a seat and wait for the men to come to you.  The men have to make the rounds, sitting down at the start of each “date” and moving on to their next victim/PSM at the sound of the bell. You make small talk for a minute or two with each prospect (hence the “speed” part of speed dating), mark their name or number on …

The Story of the Man Behind the Flowers (Finally!)

About a week and a half ago, I woke up at 5:00am and found myself consumed—oddly enough—by both terror and hope.  Why?  Well, naturally, I blame Match.com.  Two weeks ago, I received a message from a man who, at 13 years my senior, lie just beyond the realm of my “Kat, be sensible about older men!” resolution, and, to make matters worse, he mentioned that he was reading Madame Bovary. (A note for those of you who don’t know me personally: older men have been my downfall since my senior year of college, and possibly even before then.  Despite my online persona, I’ve always been rather mature for my age, hence my complete and utter disinterest in boys who might, you know, actually understand my wanderlust, my post-college soul-searching or the fact that buying a house is the furthest thing from my mind right now.  But I don’t care, because boys my age are stupid.  And they have cooties.) So the Bovary Reading Bachelor and I exchanged emails, then phone numbers and before I knew …

Darling? Seriously?

There comes a time in every relationship when it becomes advisable—even necessary—to commence the use of terms of endearment.  I’ve answered to everything from “darling” to “my little bhabaganoush” over the years (mainly because my boyfriend at the time enjoyed teasing me about my hatred of eggplant), and I’ve doled out several ingenious creations of my own (most of which, embarrassingly enough, have been based on whichever Bath and Body Works scent I’m currently sporting).  But there’s a time and a place for such flirtatious familiarities, and a few days in to an eHarmony relationship seems just wrong. Date #4 used to call me “honey” and “sister” and a variety of things in French which I never understood but in which I nonetheless took great delight.  (Google led me to believe that they were mostly fruit-related.)  He once left me a voicemail that began, “Kat, hey honey, its So-and-so” and because he spoke with the conviction that only a sizeable collection of cufflinks can provide, I allowed him to wax poetic.  (And listened to said …

Frequently Asked Questions re/ Frequent Online Dates

I’ve been getting quite a few questions about my little experiment, although seeing as I’m gearing up for my fourteenth first date since the beginning of August, “little” no longer seems like the right word.  Since I’ve have a break for the past two nights (by which I mean I’ve been working instead of dating), I thought I’d take the time to respond to your questions, and maybe figure out what the heck I’m doing in the process. (Please note that this “experiment” is a work in progress, it’s about as scientific as the “crack” cookie recipe my flat mates and I “invented” during grad school and, above all, it’s meant to be lighthearted.  If you’re looking for a highbrow meditation on modern feminism, I’d be happy to post a few of my old Oxford reading lists but something tells me that if you’re reading this, you’d rather just enjoy your morning cup of coffee with a side of humor.) Question:  What happens if someone wants a second date? Answer:  I put them through my …