The Linguist

The Linguist - Marcus. We made a plan to meet for drinks at the Kimberly Hotel. As I am hustling over to the bar in a cab, I get a call from him that the Kimberly is closed for a private party and we should meet at Houstons instead. Seriously? Houstons? It's not actually called Houstons anymore, but it's essentially the same thing.

I wait at the bar. I watch him come in, and look feverishly around, trying to find me. One of the simple joys I find with blind dates. He finds me, says Ciao and kisses me on both cheeks. Did I mention that Marcus is a nerdy Jewish boy from Manhattan?

We decide to change locations, and head to the Four Seasons which is also closed for a private party. Slightly deflated, Marcus continues to tour me around the midtown hotel scene, showing me around as if I'm a tourist, speaking a few different languages as he goes along. We settle on Bull & Bear at the Waldorf.

It is here, as I gulp dirty martinis, that Marcus enlightens me to the Vesper Martini, the chosen drink of 007. Then I learn that Marcus speaks Portugese, Spanish, and some other language. I stopped paying attention at this point, especially since I didn't understand what he was saying to me. What possesed this man to start speaking languages I couldn't understand and why did he think this was a selling point?

As he double kisses me goodnight and mumbled something else in another language, he shuts the cab door on this evening. Arrivederci! Adios! Adieux! Boa noite!

Dating or Work?

There is a lot of talk about how you approach dating should be how you approach your job. I get this on an intellectual level, but as a therapist, in practical application, I should not be doing therapy on a date, but sometimes it is just inevitable.

Last night, I went on what I hope to be my last Match.com date, for the specific reason that they seem to get worse and worse. Jon came to meet me for margaritas - tequila should make everything better, right? He comes in exasperated and very distraught, sits down at the bar and instantly starts off with how much he hates blind dates and how terrible Match.com is, believing it unfairly judges him. I sense his anxiety and switch into therapist mode, working to disarm his anxiety and get him feeling more comfortable in this "holding space."

He refuses to talk about his work, swearing he will not let it define him (he's an investment banker). He talks about how he hates being positive and is about to "break up" with his therapist, asking for my opinion on this.

I have enough whiny, depressing people I have to listen to all day, the last thing I need is to do this on my dates too. No matter how many margaritas!

Brace Yourself...

As I write this, I need to put it out there, that the continued string of great material a.k.a bad dates, has led me to cancel my Match.com membership. Brian added to this, as did the comment from my sister as to "where do I meet these guys."

So Brian and I messaged back and forth via Match.com. Nice guy, 35 years old, lawyer, good family, you know... the usual. He set the date for Slainte on the Bowery on a Thursday evening. A lovely little Irish bar that I had passed many a time. I was a little tired but powering through, as I am getting ready I hear my phone ding. A message from Brian...

"I should warn you that I had braces put on my lower teeth this week. I feel like an adolescent"

What the hell am I supposed to do with that? I obviously can't cancel on him now! I try to neutralize, as any good therapist would, making a joke about a corn on the cob eating contest. I get to the bar, which is invaded with sports teams, seriously, we are the only ones not in matching jerseys in from the local kickball game. And there is brace face.

It wasn't all that bad. I probably wouldn't have noticed. He was clearly uncomfortable. I continued to make little jokes, and then asked - Why now? Why get braces now. My mistake (especially before a cocktail)! He proceeds to tell me about his jaw issues and his head gear, rubber bands and wax. The conversation never gets better. I down two Abita Purple Haze (best part of the evening) and let him know it was nice meeting him.

Best to you, Brace Face!!

Mr. Vanilla Vanilla

I met a very nice guy on Match.com who seemed nice enough and had a quick and witty email banter,(isn't it sad that this becomes a bonus?) Our first date was fun, drinks on the Lower East Side although he was little quiet and nervous. I figured, why not try one more date, see what happens.

He takes me to Sweet Revenge (www.sweetrevengenyc.com), a great little cupcake spot in the West Village. They pair amazing artisan cupcakes with wine and beer. Coming from the gym and also being a girl that wants to eat, I was hoping for dinner on our second date, but cupcakes and wine it was. I begin to realize that this boy is kind of a zero. He really has little to add to the conversation, is very nervous, and not all that exciting. This thought it punctuated by his order of a vanilla vanilla cupcake. I mean really, they have the most spectacular options, and this guy, orders the most plain cake he can find.

I might not be the most exciting person in the world, but know I am definitely not vanilla vanilla. By the way, I ordered the Sweet Revenge - Peanut Butter Cake, Ganache Filling with Peanut Butter Fudge Frosting. Yum.

The guy who made me microwave fish...

So this little fish tail had such promise! The back story: Met a good catch at the break fast for Yom Kippur. Tall, handsome, good job, funny, well educated and Jewish. Not too shabby. I inquire to the mutual friend, he gets my number, calls, and a date is set for him to cook me dinner the following week (his idea). I am curious at first. Cooked dinner in his apartment for a first date? My friends ensure me that he must be a good cook to invite me over for a home cooked dinner on the first date.

Armed with a bottle of wine, I head over to his apartment. As I am knocking on his door a very cute man is walking down the hall towards me. I look back at the door and realize, this is my date. Much cuter then a remembered! Problem is, he is getting there as I am, which means I have to watch him cook for me, quite a strange feeling when I barely know him.

The wine is opened and poured (on the heavy side for me). He made a lovely tomato mozzarella salad, with toothpicks for bite size snacking. While steaming some green beans he started to season some fish. I am halfway through the bottle of wine at this point, standing in the door way of his kitchen just watching. Out come the Ziploc steamer bags from the drawer and the fish go into the bags and into the microwave. 4 minutes later - dinner.

He sheepishly tells me I am not supposed to see this part, it is his secret, I tell him I see nothing and his secret is safe. I start the second bottle of wine and continue with this date that I believe is going quite well.

After one massive hangover and one week - no phone call. He will be forever known not as "the nice Jewish boy I met break fast", but as "the man who made me microwave fish for dinner"...

And I'm back...

After a few months hiatus, where the bad dates were no longer funny and became simply depressing (or non-existent), I'm back. Part at the urging of my friends, who continue to eagerly await the stories from my dates. Mind you these eager friends are all in relationships. Partly from the muted beep on my blackberry indicating the following message in my inbox this morning.



New message from CoolTallGenius


CoolTallGenius says:

hi - I think i'd enjoy sleeping with you. Just a hunch. -Jake (read more)


View Message


There was nothing more to read. That was it. Does "cooltallgenius" really believe this will work? Curious to respond to see if this does work for him. Something tells me no. Something also tells me Jake is neither cool tall or a genius. Thank you OK Cupid, for tipping me over the edge just enough to bring back the blog.

Marketing to my Uterus...

I have recently realized that there is a new marketing push out there - to my uterus. No longer am I the target of maxi pad and tampon companies. Oxy Clean and Clearasil see no use for the likes of me. Not even Match.com or theknot.com look my way. But pampers, Babies R us, Buy Buy Baby, and Luv's just can't get enough these days.

And today, the pièce de résistance... As I walked into the foyer of my apartment building, there is a shoebox sized package with my name on it. Courtesy of Similac. 2lbs of formula - one for bone strength, one for fussy and gassy babies. SERIOUSLY?!?

How about sending some free condoms, maybe some free samples of my birth control! These are things that I need, not two pounds of formula. Just because I'm over 30, does this mean I'm automatically qualified for this shit? How about sending me a date instead, then the formula in a few more years...