All posts tagged: single

Venn-AwkwardHug

Date 2, Part 2

Okay, getting back to last Sunday’s date. I do not throw up. Nor do I retreat. I keep putting one foot in front of the other, ignoring the throngs of people crowding the perimeter of the park and telling myself, “I used to be good at this. I used to be GREAT at this. How hard can it be?” And there he is: smiling, on time and wearing a striped dress shirt. He appears, for all intents and purposes, to be normal. Two arms, two legs, ten fingers and presumably ten toes (although I can’t tell this for sure because he’s wearing dress shoes). He’s been reading my blog and he’s warned me—for the sake of my ongoing ethnographic inquiries— that he’s going to give me a hug hello (and teases that I can make of that what I will, anthropologically speaking). Secretly, I’m glad of this because it saves me the trouble of wondering if I should hug him, kiss him or shake his hand. (And let’s be honest: if he’d left me to …

masl13_1980_latina

Throwback Thursday: The Latina Barbie

I know, I know. I’m supposed to be posting about the culmination of Sunday’s date in Rittenhouse Square. But I haven’t finished writing it yet. So here you go in the meantime: a little blast from the past (from 2010 to be exact). For the last time, “No, 42 Year Old Bald Man with Four Children and a Beer Gut: I will NOT be your ‘Latina Barbie!’” It’s my own fault. Having dated four perfectly lovely men and found myself rather enamored of three of them, you’d think I’d be content to leave it at that. But I’m only eleven days into my three month match.com subscription. Think of all the crazy stories I’ll miss, the outfits I’ll never get to wear, the restaurants I’ll never get to try if I call it quits now! And so, for the sake of my morbid interest in cyber chemistry and what makes people click, I’ve thrown myself back into the games of “making connections” with renewed enthusiasm. After enduring more than a few awkward conversations on the …

The End, the Beginning and a Question from The Wedding Date

On Friday night, I feel asleep watching Star Wars.  Again.  This is a problem because The Wedding Date (my current beau for those of you just tuning in) is obsessed with Star Wars and made me watch one scene three times in order to fully appreciate the fact that one of the storm troopers hit his head while crossing a threshold in the Death Star. Maybe, just maybe, if we hadn’t had to watch that scene three times, I would have made it all the way to the end but this is what happens when you go from serial dating (18 months, 30 men and 75 dates at last count!) to focusing your “manthropological” research on one particular individual.  First you decide to go running the day after New Years, then you agree to watch Star Wars.  Pretty soon you’ll be playing Runewars and going to gaming conventions (and gaming conventions, as far as I’m concerned, are the beginning of the end). Speaking of the end, I’ve got some loose ends to tie up from …

My Marie Claire Debut: What Every Man Wants to Hear

It was the moment every single man dreams of, which is why I thrust my chai latte at The Wedding Date and ran towards the “woman’s interest” rack when I saw that the new Marie Claire had come out. Why the sudden obsession with Marie Claire? Well, a while back I received a message from the articles editor in response to a blog post I’d written; she asked for an interview and I readily agreed.  Upon learning that the article would come out in the February issue, I started stalking the newsstands early last week. On Tuesday, I checked at the grocery store.  They didn’t even have Marie Claire. On Wednesday, I check at the library—they had it, but only the January issue with Angelina Jolie on the cover. On Thursday, I dragged my co-producer to Victoria’s Secret after our lunch meeting and whined, “When is the February issue going to get here???“ “I’ll check my Kindle,” she offered.  “I got a free subscription for Christmas.”  But there was Angelina Jolie, again. On Friday, I …

Remind Me: Why am I Going Speed Dating AGAIN?

I got a bit distracted during yesterday’s post.  As such, I forgot to explain why I’m going speed dating in the first place.  Lest you think it’s because I’m bored (or simply short on men to occupy my time), let me assure of the contrary: I’m not.  Between trying to wrap-up this year’s classes and prep for the show I’m co-producing this fall, I am pulling my hair out and aside from this blog, I haven’t put pen to paper in weeks.  (I’m actually a little embarrassed to be attending the Philadelphia Writer’s Conference this weekend because I feel like I don’t have anything to show for myself.) But back to dating. It would seem that My 50th Date’s regard for me has fizzled out (not that it was particularly hot to begin with).  I haven’t heard from him since the day after we went rock climbing and although I’m sure there are plenty of logical explanations for this, I’m going to go with this one: he was appalled by my poor mountaineering skills and …

Brunch, in Theory

Brunch seemed like a lovely idea at the time: a leisurely stroll into town, a cup of coffee while waiting for a table at Beau Monde and a round of crepes at Philadelphia’s premier French bistro (just in time for Philadelphia’s International Festival of Arts, I might add, the city-wide celebration of all things Parisian). I’m very into Paris—not as a city, but as a concept—and I’m very into brunch—not as an everyday thing but as a weekend treat—but here it is 8:30am and I’m not even dressed yet.  My date will be here in half an hour and I’m still sitting at my laptop in my robe with nary a scrap of clothing or make up on my person and I have no idea what I’m going to wear because originally we were going to go on a picnic but then the weather decided to go all April-showers on us so we switched to brunch instead.  (Obviously I can’t very well wear the same thing to brunch that I’d planned to wear to a …

Then Again, Maybe Not

It’s been over 36 hours since I sent my cheeky little text to PSM#2.  Not that I’m counting, but if I was I’d have come to the conclusion that he’s just not that into me.  Either that or he’s been staked out in front of his computer for the past three days, Googling his little heart in search of my blog; naturally he’ll have collapsed from exhaustion and lack of nutrients by now. Despite all evidence to the contrary, I don’t really care.  That’s because earlier this week, on way home from Miami, I realized something. I love airports.  I love airports so much that I enjoy spending three hours at the departures gate: sipping wine if it’s after noon or drinking coffee if it not, flipping through the best sellers in the bookshops and imagining the day when I’ll find my work amongst them, checking out the men in the sports bars, admiring my color-coordinated hand luggage whenever I catch my reflection in the windows… Few people, however (including my brother) share these passions.  …

From Disaster to Divine Transcendence

Thursday night’s rendezvous with Date #9 was rather disastrous; although I managed to avoid bleeding to death by way of my toenail injury, I got caught in a torrential downpour, lost on my way to the restaurant and trapped in a one-way street Bermuda Triangle of Death while trying to find parking in the suburban Twilight Zone that Date #9 calls home.  Suffice it to say, I arrived completely flustered, soaking wet and twenty minutes late, thereby rendering Date #9 rather pissed off. In my defense, I had reserved a Zipcar for 6:00, thereby giving myself an hour to make what should have been a 30 minute trip.  Date #9 offered to give me directions but I’m rather sensitive about my ignorance of the ‘burbs, plus I sensed that he was busy at work and I didn’t want to appear incompetent or needy, so I told him I would be fine. After 45 minutes on Broad Street, however, it occurred to me that I was not fine, and that I am in fact rather incompetent …