Tag Archives: online dating

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I Want to Date That Man

I want to date a man that’s employed.

And not just at some job that gives him some paycheck for some amount that pays some bills he has to meet every month. I want him to love what he does, considering he’ll spend far more time at the office than he will with me for the next 40 years. All of the fancy titles and all of the fancy things can’t compare to being paid to do what you love every single day and feeling that sense of satisfaction that your purpose in life is being met. I want a guy who has a passion outside of me, something that fulfills him that he achieves and aims for, something that drives him to be a better man, a better person. I want a guy with a salary that allows him to travel and explore, believe and endure, follow his dreams and his whims, wherever they go, and hopefully, with me in tow.

I want to date a man that’s interested in interesting things.

I don’t have to like what he likes or do what he does but I sure do want to learn why it makes him happy. He doesn’t have to read what I want to read or laugh at the same point in the same movie that we both love. No, I don’t want a man that’s just like me, or just like anyone. I want someone who is his own person, with his own thoughts and his own certain set of certain somethings that make him not only intriguing, but incredible. I don’t want to be the center of his world or the only thing he thinks of, I just want him to give me a piece of his mind, along with most of his heart.

I want to date a man that wants to crawl into bed with me after a very, very long day in the city.

On those dreary, cold and grueling days where stress was high and traffic was thick, when subways didn’t arrive on time or come at all, when rain came without a weatherman to blame. I want a man who wants my key on his keychain and who gives me one in return, a guy that doesn’t need to announce his arrival because he’s always welcome in my apartment on that block on the Upper West Side. I want to meet a man who wants strings attached, who wants to learn all of the little things and the big things that make me into the me that’s me. I want to date a man who doesn’t have time for the games or the interest to play in between the lines and instead, wants a place to rest. A place to bury roots and watch them grow. With someone he loves. With the someone that’s me.

I want to date a man that’s easy to be around.

In this big city with all of it’s frustrations and fascinations, there has to be a man that doesn’t show up drunk on the first date. Or one that cries. Or one that doesn’t mysteriously disappear after the third date. Or the fifth. A guy that doesn’t place himself before everyone, ensuring his needs are met before he considers anyone. I want to date a man who opens doors in stores, who gives up his seat on the subway, who says his p’s and q’s and can hold a conversation with my dad over beer and fishing poles. I want a guy that wants to hit the East Village for drinks and dancing on Saturday, with sloppy kissing in between spots, and wake up on Sunday to read The Times and drink coffee in Central Park. I want an easy, loving feeling that’s so damn hard to find in this anything-but-easy city.

I want to date a man… who wants to date me.

It’s the simplest truth that I often forget: what I’m most looking for is a little thing called chemistry. I like him, he likes me, we meet, we kiss, we date – and that’s it. That’s all it really takes – one moment, one (or three) drinks, one secluded embrace under a street lamp in the West Village, one tiny little brush of hands, one shared smile and all of that hard work, all of those annoying, delirious experiences, seem distant and unimportant. While so many other things do matter and should matter when finding your match, the most important qualification is finding someone who you can be on the same page with, time and time again, no matter how many twists and turns your life takes.

It’s not too much to ask to date a man you love that loves you just as much back. It’s asking too little to settle for anything less than that man.

This Valentine’s Day, write a self-love letter to yourself and it’ll be published (anonymous or not) on Confessions of a Love Addict! And you enter yourself to win a prize! Learn more here. Submit here. 

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The Best of the Worst Pick Up Lines From 2013

It’s true -I’m a little hard on men.

It’s not that I need a giant gesture or the perfect everything to be interested, but a clever — appropriate — message online or on an app goes a long way. Or dare I say it – in person? The easiest way for a man to steal my attention is to be sincere, say something intelligent and be a gentleman. More often than not, I’m reminded that these three things rarely coexist together – and when they do, you find one hell of a person worth going out with.

This year hasn’t been the best for dating, but it has been rather entertaining in terms of terrible, awful, no good dates — and even worse pick-up attempts. In the spirit of a New Year to come, I say let’s go out with the bad so we can bring in the great in 2014. From my experiences to yours, let’s get a final laugh at these sorry guys and move onto… the men!

My Worst Ones…
Wrong Bar, Wrong Time
While standing at a classy, expensive, upscale lounge, a well-dressed man came up to me and smiled. I smiled back, thinking he might be a good connection. He looked me up and down (blatantly) and then said, “I think we should just go ahead and fuck somewhere, let’s skip the introductions.” To which, I replied, “Hmm. I’ll pass” and ordered another glass of wine.

Ew. No Eye Contact
While staring directly at me for several minutes, sweating, he mutters: “I want to go there.” I promptly run away.

No Hot Chocolate For You
“How you doing so lonely and complaining of being cold?I am NAME and I wonder if you are ready to share a cup of hot chocolate with me….I promise I will not bite lol so don t e afraid to answer back.”

Noah is a 45-Year-Old Man in Florida Trying to Pick Up a 25-Year-Old in NYC
Message one:
“Hey, something about your profile caught my eye. I think it was the fact that you seem like you might be more three-dimensional than your photos, which appears to be a rare quality among the attractive women on this site…

Anyways, I’d like to learn more about you. I noticed you also enjoy travel, so tell me… if someone offered you an all-expense-paid trip to anywhere in the world leaving tomorrow, where would you head?

Noah”

Message two:
I realize that you’re probably in the middle of writing me a long, detailed response, but I just wanted to let you know, you don’t have to take that much time with me. You can just copy and paste one of the following:

1. Yes Noah you’re very hot, and unfortunately your email got lost in the sea of jackasses, but I would love to get together with you.

2. You’re very hot but you’re not my type, and good luck with your search.

3. I don’t think any of this is funny, and I take myself way too seriously, and I actually have to go now cause I have a therapy appointment… but yes you are very hot.

Wait, What?
“Quite shocking modesty and overwhelming eloquence apparently indicative of a fascinatingly eclectic persona… And what did you dream last Sunday by the way?”

At The End Of Our Date…
…that was going well (in my opinion), he asks: “So my place isn’t far from here, I’d really like to have sex with you.” I blankly stare back and him and say something like, “Um, I don’t think so, but thanks for the drinks.” He shrugs his shoulders and go, “Oh well, I have a date tomorrow night, too.”

Not a Chance For a Friend
After having a mediocre date with a guy, he texted me the next morning to ask me for another date. I politely respond (instead of ignoring) that I actually saw more of a friendship connection and his response: “I definitely have enough friends, but I thought you’d make a good sexual partner. Maybe I’ll see you around.”

Your Worst Ones…

Did He Really Just Say Breast Milk?
“I can see you breastfeeding my kids one day.” Fortunately, I was quick enough to come back with, “Um, I think my milk just dried up.” – Jess

Cheesy Baseball
A former baseball player came in and said “I know you can fix broken bones but do you have anything to fix a broken heart?” –Courtney, an athletic trainer

No Sir.
I was 19 years old and waiting for my flight in the Salt Lake City airport. A 40-ish year old guy sits down next to me and says, “Hi. My name is Dave. I have 6 children, am recently divorced & looking for a new wife. Are you dating anyone?” – Angela

Glove Size?
“Do you know what they say about penis length? You know that it is directly related to glove size. Check out my gloves? So what are you doing tonight?” I WISH I WERE KIDDING. –Ryn

Sexual Misconception
“I know you’re sexually attracted to me, and that’s okay because we’re human and it’s natural.” –Allison

Christmas Misfortune
“No lie, heard this from a super drunk guy who approached my group of friends one night: “I bet you taste like a candy cane on Christmas morning.” – Jennifer

Would Rather Be Lost
“Hey girls. Are you lost? I have a compass.” Said to my roommate and me shortly after moving to NYC while looking at a map, trying to find a bar that we had visited before and she wanted to return to for her birthday. Sadly… I dated that guy. His pickup lines didn’t get any better. Neither did he. Live and learn. – Whitney

Not Romantic At All
“You’re a writer? How interesting because my favorite genre is romance, and I’m looking to romance you, pretty.” Vomit. –Gigi

He Said What?
“Heyyo, how you doing? You know that if you were the gas in my butt, I would never fart for fear of losing you, cause you’re the shit.” –Danielle

Just Look at the Ring, Bud
“So, are you and your husband serious, or no?” –Nikki

Go Away Fratty
I was dancing and singing along to “I Knew You Were Trouble” with a friend at an NYU bar, when two guys managed to swoop in between us, effectively ending our dance party. “I know why you’re singing this,” one of them told me. He was cute in a preppy way, but my TSwift jams are NOT to be interrupted. “Why?” I said. “Cause you knew I was trouble when I walked in.” Dude, your shirt is from Vineyard Vines! I didn’t know frat guys were edgy now. –Carina

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Something So Very Special

I found myself angry and upset, not sure why I wanted to cry and yet, hoping I didn’t let a single drop out while riding the uptown train on Saturday night to the home that doesn’t feel like one on the Upper West Side. I wasn’t drunk — or I suppose, I’m not drunk, is a better use of words considering I’m writing this at 1: 25 a.m., with every intent of publishing it on Monday.

On my blog, this blog, this very public, yet insanely personal blog that I happen to share with everyone I do and don’t know. This blog that is supposed to be about learning to love myself with or without a man. That’s supposed to be about being totally fine with being totally single, totally fine on my own, not letting men affect me, letting them come and go with their douchebagery-ways, their terribly disappointing manners, their shortcomings that aren’t supposed to matter to me. No matter how many times some man gives me five minutes or two weeks of hope, only to take it away in a second, or by falling off the face of my iPhone.

I was actually supposed to have a date tonight — a second one, which if you’ve read earlier posts you would know are my favorites. Merely because they are often so rare, with so many first dates that bore or well, traumatize you. So when some random guy that happened to be intriguing enough to agree to see again proved to be uncompromising and pretty much only in it for sex, I made plans with K, then met up with J and her guy, and the night went on. I went on – unaffected, perfectly content, not upset that some man couldn’t meet me in the middle, couldn’t get enough energy to make an effort to impress or even see me.

But I was frustrated. I was upset.

Maybe not by this specific man or this specific situation, but that these types of things happen so often that I find myself incredibly exhausted of talking about them. Much less writing about another failed date to share with the world. If I was honest, as I am here on these pages, I’d admit that I don’t want to date. I don’t want to go out on a Saturday night. I don’t want to spend unnecessary money on unnecessary vodka tonics in the hope that my next one will be free. I don’t want to stay out so late and be so tired the next day I can’t go for a run because I held onto the possibility that I’d stumble across someone worth talking to over loud music in a busy, sweaty bar. I don’t really want to do any of it at all.

But I do it anyway.

Because I refuse to give up, because I refuse to become completely bitter or to stop going after what I want. Because I don’t want to listen to everyone who says the best things come when you’re not looking because when are you ever not looking? Because the best dating advice can’t simply be to have fun and let it come, because that feels utterly impossible, month after month, year after year, date after date, date, date.

That can’t be the answer. If there’s any answer at all.

I started writing this blog to not feel just like I feel right now, writing this blog. Hopeless. Annoyed. Angry. Frustrated. Sad. Unworthy. Disappointed. Impatient. I never wanted a lack of a someone to change who I was or to let anyone be so important that they mattered. But maybe that was a pipe dream, something that can’t be ignored because everyone feels that way sometimes, at least anyone who is single post-college in a city.

As I walked myself west while all my friends went east, I did everything I could to hold in the tears. I looked up at the full moon in disgust, cursing it for not bringing the change to my life I so desperately need. I noticed all the tall, thin, gorgeous girls in heels, laughing into the night, so different from me, the not-carefree, unhappy woman struggling down Houston. And as I walked, not making eye contact or slowing down, I saw a store called Something Special.

And I thought of all the fairytales that have undoubtedly made me rather naive. The love stories my mom would tell me, the romance I’ve craved since I knew you could crave such impossible things. I was always promised something special, something fascinating. Something that was unexpected and life-altering. Something intoxicating and breathless. Something so different from the rest.

Something worth all of this waiting.

But when that day comes, or as the cynic in me phrases it, if that day comes, who do I want to be? Do I want to be this desperate, defeated girl? Do I want to be scared and disappointed in every man and frankly, in myself? Do I want this pitiful self-confidence or this pouty attitude around my friends, my family and on this train, angrily typing this blog?

Or do I want to be someone special?

Someone who admitted her failures and yes, handled her emotions as they came, even when they came stupidly and sometimes far too soon. Someone who stood up for herself without letting herself give up in the process? Someone who lived her life instead of waiting on some man to come to build it with? Someone who wanted to cry on a Saturday night it someone who wanted to dance?

If I want something so very special, don’t I need to start believing in and acting like I’m someone special?

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You Can Be a Bitter Bitch

It came out after a bottle of white wine a few strongly mixed drinks.

I could tell that after she said it, she questioned if it was the right word choice or if she should have been so frank. Our conversations are based on the best fundamental I think two women could ever build a friendship on: utter, complete, sometimes-too-deep, honesty. But when you just had another sucky date with yet another definitely-not-for-you guy, it might not be the thing you want to hear.

“I’m so optimistic! And I’m putting myself out there! I’m doing all of the right things and it’s just not working! It’s so unfair,” I blurted out in a dark, loud bar in the Flat Iron district. With lazy eyes and a careful smile, she said the big B word that no girl – single or not – wants to hear.

“But Linds, you do realize you are a little bitter these days,” J said slowly, taking a quick sip of her Jack and diet.

Even though somewhere, deep down in this overly-idealistic, terribly romantic heart I know she’s right, the word hit me like a bag of bricks. I’ve spent my dating career (if you’d like to call it that) and the links on this blog trying to be exactly the opposite of bitter. I do everything I can to push my spirit high and let my freaky hopeful flag fly high and proud, putting all those naysayers to shame. I promised myself that no matter what the future held or how many men I’d have to date before I found my mate, I’d never believe that forever-and-ever wasn’t possible. Surely, if I trusted the universe and all of its powerful ways of tying two ends of fate together, then my reward would be a tall, handsome man with a loving heart and heavy savings account. Right?

But two years later — and especially after the last few months that have sincerely been void of any pleasurable success at all — I have been a bit down. And if I’m as honest with J and this blog as I am with myself, then I need to admit: I haven’t given up completely, but I’ve been doubting far more than I’ve been believing lately. I’ve thrown all expectations out the window and most of my dreams about what I think my next relationship will be have been all-but crushed by my utter lack of interest in anyone. I thought that maybe I was just a girl who knew exactly what she wanted – and wasn’t willing to settle or wait around (Mr. P taught me that valuable lesson) – and that I was more than a little picky, but what I really am is someone who is dating. And perhaps failing at it. And definitely kind of hating it.

And maybe getting a little bitter about it.

After one last round with J, the clock struck way-past-midnight and I grabbed a cab to take me up the west side highway all the way home. And like I’ve done too many times to count in my New York life, I rolled down the windows to feel the cooling summer air, ripe with smells I no longer can distinguish, and I cried. Even though I sincerely had nothing to cry about, and even though tears don’t even faze me much anymore, I let it all out. I cried for all the reasons I’m angry at myself for being angry about dating. I cried for the men who pissed me off and the ones who looked so right on paper, only to turn out so wrong. I cried for all the ways I’ve tried to be available, for all the times I’ve gone out on a Saturday night when I didn’t want to, for all the men I gave chances to that I shouldn’t have. I cried for all the things that everyone always tells you when you’re single and that no matter how good-intended they were, no phrase, no reassurance has ever made me feel any bit better.

But more than anything, I cried for the only reason that I’m so freakin’ frustrated. And that even though I swore I’d never become one, I’m somehow a bitter bitch about the whole damn thing. I might hate it, and as my grandmother would say, being bitter isn’t the most becoming look a lady can wear – but sometimes, it’s the only thing that fits.

There are many ways to write relationship advice and multiple ways to go about finding the right person. You can read this blog and do a Google search on anything at all, looking for the right way or trying to figure out the right time or how to do the right things that will get a man interested in you. You can put yourself out there and you can keep going out with guys until one turns out to be more than just a guy. You can have tantrums on Gchat, on the phone with a friend from home or while sitting next to your best friend in a bar downtown at 2 a.m. You can read self-help books, make an online profile and play by the rules or throw them out completely, and nothing – not one little thing – will change your annoyance. You’re still going to be annoyed after you have five first dates that amount to nothing. And you’re going to question yourself. And the type of men you select for yourself. And you might find yourself knocking down that shield of optimism and greeting negativity instead.

You might find yourself sitting pretty like me, trying your best to keep your head held high and your calendar somewhat open, even if your hope is a little lost. But if you do find yourself in my shoes, I think you should own it.

Let yourself let it all out and say all those things in your head that you fight, let those “what if’s” come out to play and let your imagination lay low. Get mad and get upset, reject a free drink from some guy you’re not interested in and peace out after one round with one guy you’d never want to see again. Say no to dates because you just can’t stomach another one, and instead, stay inside and try that absurdly hard recipe. Tell your friends and your family that you can’t take it anymore and be a little jealous of the ones who have seemed to find their perfect person. Roll your eyes at the couples walking slow in front of you on the way to work and come up with all the ways being single is actually awesome. (Because sometimes, it totally is.)

And then after you’re finished playing the role of a bitter bitch, stand up and take off that hard, scary, sad exterior, and even though it’s harder than anything you’ve ever had to do, try to believe again. Even if it’s just for one night, for one more date, for one more minute. Put that bitter bitch to bed and try to find yourself again. Just like you gotta believe he’s out there, you have to remember you’re out there too, happy and thankful that you went through all the men – and all the bitchy parts of yourself – to find one another.

Or at least, to find your way away from bitter and back to (somewhat, maybe, possibly, kind of) hopeful.

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I Know Better

The second I saw him, I knew this night was a waste of a brand new dress from Urban.

I really did know better. I really had been here before. This, actually was precisely the reason I stopped going on online dates. It was why I deleted all of those accounts. I had met too many people who seemed like Mr. Everything on paper, er, on screen, only to spend five minutes before searching for the closest exit. But after a few months of duds met in real life, not the digital romantic playground, I decided to give it another go, let myself give clicking yet another chance to help me find someone I just might click with.

But again, I knew better. I knew how this likely would play out. And I was right.

We had spent the last few days texting up a storm. He seemed interesting enough– educated, tall, from the Midwest, new to the city, likes running and has a dog. He remembered to follow up and was somewhat funny, at least iPhone to iPhone. He suggested margaritas on Friday night near our respective apartments, and I didn’t need much convincing. It was raining when I arrived, appropriately five minutes late, and I saw him standing with an umbrella.

He wasn’t six foot. My shoulders were wider than his. He couldn’t make eye contact and didn’t hold the door open for me. He isn’t actually living in the city, but interning. He couldn’t hold a conversation longer than I could exhale out of nothing more than utter frustration. He didn’t ask about what I did or what I like to do, or anything at all, frankly. He kept talking about how he likes to get drunk, whipped through his drink in a hot second, and I quickly came up with an excuse to leave. As I walked back to the restroom, I stopped the waitress to ask for our check and something in my step, or maybe my tightly-sealed pursed lips, made her sense something wasn’t quite right. With a thick Queens accent she asked if everything was okay and I jokingly whispered that yes, except that I was on the worst date in a very long time.

She laughed as she offered, “I’ve been there. I’ll bring you a shot, on the house.” When I returned to my seat, there was a tequila and lime waiting. Without explaining to the terrible date, I took it down in one swift swoop, and I left that heaven-sent waitress a 35 percent tip in return.

After awkwardly leaving my date (without physically running away), I stopped at a place on my block for a drink. It wasn’t even 10:30 at night, and feeling ten years older than what I really was, I decided having an extra pint would satisfy my FOMO. Or at least, drown it. Plus this particular bar attracts a younger crowd that’s not common to the Upper West, and I wasn’t about to waste flawless makeup and a sexy dress on that pitiful example of a date. Maybe at the very least, I thought, I’d flirt with a stranger and feel like the night meant something after all. The only place at the busy bar was smack dab in front of the tab, smushed between two couples and looking over the discarded plates of naked chicken wings and leftovers of spinach and artichoke dip that someone didn’t finish. I took a deep breath and said my P’s and Q’s to sandwich myself in between, and as if I was a regular, I asked for their signature pilsner.

I really did try my best to salvage whatever night I had by looking interested in the game that was on. Or smiling at the very few men that were without women — and without wedding rings — at the establishment. I tried to look away from my phone, even as it lit up with words of encouragement and frowny faces from my friends about my no-good, terrible date. But with a little more than a gulp to go, I grew tired of the woman to my right throwing her hair in my face as she laughed at jokes that weren’t amusing, and the duo to my left who seriously couldn’t keep their eyes or tongues off of one another. I gave the scantily dressed bartender a dollar and headed — okay, hurried — to the sanctuary of my apartment.

And though I write about relationships and I’m generally level-headed and somewhat realistic about the dating scene in this city, the flood of disappointment, of frustration, of total annoyance came over me the second I was finally alone in that elevator, heading up to the 7th floor. I melted onto my bedroom floor, not even taking off my high-wedged heels, not even turning the air conditioner up in a scorching tiny space that’s only bearable because of the low setting I maintain for Lucy while I’m away. She jumped into my lap and cuddled herself around my arms, as she usually does, and with that first warm embrace all night, I let myself cry.

Just a little.

I let myself spiral around the tornado of  what if’s and the waves of jealousy over my friends, who spent their Fridays at concerts and beaches and double- dates and dinners with men that they not only love but men who undeniably love them back. I let myself curse that stupid bus where I met the last stupid guy I cared for, and somehow, I’m stupidly still affected by the aftermath of our breakup. I let myself mull over the fact that it’s been two years since I broke up with that guy, and two years since I’ve given a second-thought to or had butterflies with anyone else. I let myself consider what my life would look like or how it would feel if I was in fact, single and never married, never had  children. I let myself believe that I could muster up the courage to find a way to be happy flying solo, forever.

And then I let myself dream about that gentle, safe harbor that I often imagine when I’m feeling desperate, it’s my happy place where that handsome man, whoever he is, lives with our blue-eyed children in a brick estate with a thick, green lawn, where plastic-y toys, tiny shoes and love are spread about the house. I let myself shed that black cloak of professionalism and realism that I wear in the city that doesn’t value romance or blush-colored ideas about love —  because focusing on bigger, worldly issues is respected much higher than matters of the heart. Or of emotion. I let myself think about the things that a girl my age is far too young to think about when I have so much living, so much life ahead of me. I let myself let go of those fears that being happy in a relationship isn’t possible or that relationship is so far away that I shouldn’t waste time worrying about it now. I let myself believe that my next great love — possibly even the love — is actually much closer than what I predict. I let myself let it all go as I let myself fall apart…

Just a little.

And then I picked myself up off the floor and washed my face. I buried myself in my new white down comforter that I’m brave to buy with a dog. I settled into the stillness of the night, the quiet that’s so rare in Manhattan. I looked outside at the building tops that I’ve grown accustomed to, and I spread myself out in my Queen oasis that I’ve become comfortable sleeping alone in, often in the dead-center of the bed. And though I know better, I decided that tomorrow was another day. And the day after it, another chance. Perhaps the one that follows, another man. And even if I know better than to believe in love after so many signs pointing to never-happily-ever, I’d rather have faith in what I don’t know than in the thoughts that bring me to the harshness of a hardwood floor on a Friday night.

I do know better, but I don’t know enough to give up.