Dating | WhyDid.com

Setting the Mood: Any Man of Mine

By admin|August 12th, 2014|Setting the Mood|

On a “date” (and let’s use that term very loosely in this instance) that ended in a sex shop on Sixth Avenue last night, my suitor turned to me over bisteca per due at Morandi and asked, “What’s your type?” My initial response would have been, “Not you,” but I figured that wouldn’t exactly be conducive to getting through the rest of our meal without utensil related injury. My actual answer was that I don’t have a type and that’s not a farce. When I look back on all of my relationships- long term and very short lived- I’m basically an equal opportunity dater. From Wall Street bankers to musicians, athletes, writers, and tech nerds, I’ve basically run the gamut when it comes to careers and as far as appearances go they’ve been tall, short, dark, light, and everything in between. Of course there has to be an initial attraction whether it be physical or mental, but the reason my heart melted for each one of them comes from an intangible place. Even the worst of them (and that’s a tight race) had his wondrous moments and I hold a special place for each of them in my little black heart. That’s why this week, we are dedicating WhyDid to the men in our lives and all that comes along with them. So, ladies, let’s hear it for the boys.

Loro Piana Storm System Brushed Cashmere Baseball Hat, Illesteva Square Frame Matte Acetate Sunglasses, Marwood Striped Wool and Cotton Blend Tie, Vans for J. Crew Sk8-Hi Reissue Sneakers

xx,

WhyDid

WhyDid Wisdom: Reserve Yourself

By Kirsten|January 31st, 2014|WhyDid Wisdom|

Winter is the time of year when many of us yearn to couple up in order to stay warm and potentially lower our ConEd bills. A lot of my friends are what could be considered professional daters. I’ve stopped asking what any of their chaps’ names are because I can’t keep up and would need a very elaborate flow chart in order to stay entirely in the loop. I’m always in utter amazement as to how they meet all of these fellas because most of my male companionship comes from my dog, gentlemen playing for the other team, and re-runs of Frasier. Ironically, I think I’ve just cracked the code as to my singledom with that last sentence.

Anyway, unlike myself, you’ve been hitting the town and getting hit on, you little minx, you. And in the mix of things, you’ve met a couple of cuties who have actually made it beyond asking for your number in between swigs of Jameson and you’ve spent a handful of cozy dinners and Saturday brunches at Extra Virgin and Cafe Cluny with one, maybe two, in particular. You knew it was meant to be when he ordered another round of mimosas and declared that there may be nothing better in this world than a great chocolate chip pancake except for maybe a hammock on Alphonse Island. In your mind, you’ve already started planning your June wedding at the St. Regis and have named your first born child due early next fall (you decided on something gender neutral and inanimate). You’re a perfect match much like Domenico and Stefano, so you can’t quite put your perfectly polished finger on why your affections, and text messages aren’t being returned.

Ready for an awful truth?

(You may need a quaalude and a seat for this). Okay, you know that one guy who continues to text you after countless subtle blow offs, blatant verbal abuse and finally virtual radio silence? You know… the one who tricked you into giving him your number after you said you’d just take his and then called himself from your phone. Yeah, that guy. Well, you may very well be that girl.

I know. It seems highly improbable, even mind blowing, that anyone male, female, or house plant could possibly resist your feminine wiles, biting wit, and Pilates body. But alas, as hard as it is to wrap your pretty little head around, you may have found the one and only human this side of the galaxy not interested in you or the Illuminati conspiracy theories.

Fine, maybe you didn’t bamboozle your way into his Blackberry (who still has one of those, by the way?), so let’s use another example. You know the sort of goofy handsome guy you went out with from Goldman Sachs? While he was perfectly nice and in “theory” should be a totally perfect partner completely capable of rearing healthy children and providing a stable lifestyle for your future family, there was just one problem. You didn’t feel any of that wild, crazy, I must have you more than this season’s Céline. He didn’t do anything wrong, per se. He was a perfect gentleman and has since then been hitting you up to have a second, third, and final date… before that wedding he’s planned in his head complete with future (already named) child.

Yep. It’s all starting to click isn’t it?

We’ve all got a few of those guys lying around much like the Federal Reserve has a few spare bricks of gold. They’ll never get used, but it’s nice to know that they’re there for security’s sake and all. At one point, there were so many “code names” in my phone that I hadn’t really any clue who was calling anymore. I just knew I wasn’t going to answer under any circumstance. Not even after two dirty martinis. Okay, I have responded on occasion to these “reserves.” Sometimes because I’m just too nice and felt guilty leaving them hanging (passive aggressive much?). Other times I’ve just been totally bored in between checking Twitter and Instagram. There have been lonely nights in between relationships with people I actually liked. And sometimes my friends and I think it’s downright hilarious. Call me a mean girl if you want, but your nose may be growing at this very moment. You’ve totally done the same thing. We all have. And whether you admit it out loud or not, I want you to realize that it’s entirely possible that’s what is going on with you and Mr. Perfect.

While it can take women a little bit longer to warm up to a potential mate, guys know what they want almost instantly. They are hunters by nature and when they see something they want, they go for it. Full force. It’s science. A guy can sway us to the other side after a couple of dates by revealing a shared love of cheese, a dark sense of humor, or just general kindness and good behavior. Inversely, a guy can be completely smitten with a girl and she can crash and burn merely by being a bitch. Don’t be a bitch.

I’ve been given a hard time for having fairly high expectations, and while I may be asking a lot for wanting a 6’0+ gentleman with great style, a sense of humor, brains, charisma, love of small white dogs named Smitty and a handle on his personal finances, I don’t think common courtesy is too much to ask. I certainly do expect my potential love interest to have the capacity to craft up a cohesive text message using the proper your/you’re and two/to/too, let alone actually grasp the concept of dialing my telephone number for voice on voice conversation. As a matter of fact, I don’t think any of that is too much to ask- and you shouldn’t either. I have been pursued hard, like verging on restraining order, so, I know the difference between being the “reserve” and the “jackpot.” If someone can’t even take a moment from his or her grueling life (barring he/she is doing volunteer work in a country without telephone wiring or toilets), that person is probably not particularly interested in you. At very least, you just aren’t ranking high on the priority list and well, that’s a problem.

Listen, it may be disappointing to realize you aren’t someone’s ideal match but, there’s no need to beat yourself up about it or shamelessly and repeatedly throw yourself at someone who just thinks you’re “ok for now.” (Remember DBDG?) Essentially he’s doing you a favor by self eliminating. It’s like Darwinian dating. Instead of wasting any more time on someone who doesn’t see how absolutely spectacular you are, you can keep on stepping… right on towards your true “Mr. Right.” (And you should probably throw in a hair toss or two). You wouldn’t jam your feet into shoes that don’t fit (I mean, maybe), so why would you try to force a connection that just isn’t there? All that comes from that is uncomfortableness and corns. Just repeat to yourself, “No answer is your answer.”

So, next time you are staring at your gold iPhone imploringly, just remember that poor ol’ chap you’ve renamed “Never Gonna Happen” and reserve yourself.

xx,

WhyDid

Coincidentally saw this video this afternoon post-posting. All too fitting.

WhyDid Wisdom: When Your Fixer Upper Becomes a Human Wrecking Ball

By Kirsten|July 11th, 2013|WhyDid Wisdom|

Hi. My name’s Kirsten and I love to save things. That’s right, I’m the girl who found just about any and all types of stray animals and wanted to keep them. Wild bunnies, frogs, lizards, birds, and even hermit crabs—you name it, it was coming home with me. I’m the girl who brought in her rescued baby squirrels to third grade show and tell. Yes, squirrels. Some might say I have a penchant for rescuing things, taking in the lost and forlorn. My parents were certain I’d become a veterinarian… or zookeeper. I probably would have had it not been for ninth grade biology and that whole dissection of a frog thing. Well, turns out the same little blonde who fed baby bunnies with an eyedropper when she was eight graduated to her own species as she got older.

Without fail, I seem to find those who are wounded, lost, or troubled for friendships as well as romantic relationships. I don’t seek out the wayward and wandering, but without fail, that’s who I find. It concerns me they say, “like attracts like” because if that’s the case, I must be completely insane. Whether it be an alcoholic, narcissist, schizophrenic or sociopath (I specialize in sociopaths), I’ve opened up my home and heart to all sorts of human personality defects. After many tears, broken hearts and promises, I started to realize my pattern. Admission is the first step in the road to recovery, you know. After my last breakup and a “pal” who couldn’t seem to pull it together, I made a mental note to be more wary of those telltale red flags.

So when my dear friend, ironically the same one who introduced me to my ex-fiancé– which should’ve been my first clue– brought me to a SuperBowl party hosted by another one of her friends, I wasn’t expecting to meet anyone of dateable interest. As our gracious host came over to introduce himself, I found myself attracted to his boyish charm mixed with nonchalance. My friend must have seen the glimmer in my eye because she immediately put her hand on my arm and warned me, “He’s not your future husband, but he’s definitely a good time.” What sealed the deal for me was his reaction to a gaggle of bitchy girls foreign to the East Village who pitched a full fledged fit over his inability to switch the sound from the evening’s playlist (bonus points for a shared love of gangster rap) to Beyonce’s halftime performance. Somehow phone numbers were exchanged and so began the dysfunction.

Heeding my friend’s warning, I hadn’t taken things very seriously. It all started off as some kind of joke. A form of entertainment for me and my girlfriends. I shrugged off the 3am dinner invitation. We laughed about the 13 missed calls ranging from 2 until 7am. The nonsensical text messages that poured in well past my self imposed curfew were topic of discussion over frittatas and mimosas. The strange promises that we’d some day be taking our children to Epcot seemed like silly ramblings, but somewhere along the way, I fell for this little lost bird. And I fell hard.

Sure, his clothes never quite matched, but in the most endearing manner. I never knew what he had been doing all night or where he’d spent the evening doing it. I couldn’t be certain where he’d be the next day or when I’d hear from him next. We could barely make it through brunch without a minor to moderate meltdown. But as I looked at him lying in my perfectly pristine white bed, long lashes, perfect teeth, floppy brown curls, and long limbs, I was hooked. The moment he walked out of my door with an inaudible adieu, my heart ached. I wanted more. And the cycle repeated. Over and over again.

After one particular raucous evening out, one might say that I could be labeled as “intoxicated.” Let’s not play Mary Magdalene, we’ve all been there. The problem was when we returned back to my apartment, my little lost bird said to me, “Maybe we should hang out some other time when you’re– less wasted.” The tables had turned. The caretaker had become the responsibility, the charge. I awoke the next day not only feeling hungover, but confused, hurt. How could someone who I’d been not only tolerant but nurturing of, turn his back on me in my time of need? That’s the pattern though. In a functional relationship, partners take turns with the ups and downs. As a zookeeper, you’re always going to be making sure the elephants have clean water and the tigers have fresh meat. They won’t bother worrying about if and when you take your lunch break or how you slept last night. To be a successful zookeeper, you need to make sure you’ve taken care of yourself before you take a step into the lion’s den, otherwise you’ll become their lunch.

And so, painful as it was, I had to let my little lost bird go, at least until I could reconfigure my own wellbeing. I can’t lie, however. If a hippopotamus with a sprained ankle and narcotics dependency showed up tomorrow, I’d make room in my queen size bed for him to recover. This time, I’ll just make sure my own deficiencies are handled first.

image via

WhyDid Wisdom: Judgey Wudgey Was a Bear…

By Kirsten|June 6th, 2013|WhyDid Wisdom|

It’s very rare I bat even an eyelash at a guy when I’m out on the town. Partially because I’m a bit shy, but mostly because I rarely come across anyone the slightest bit bat worthy. But on one particular evening, I was feeling flirtatious, not to mention that I knew my marled grey sweater dress was hugging my curves in precisely the right places and my hair was on a whole new level of Pantene Pro-V commercial bounciness. I might have also had two glasses of champagne, but that’s neither here nor there.

So, when I saw a guy at the table next to ours who did not resemble a Wall Street douchebag just let loose from his trading desk (unmistakable by their unbuttoned custom tailored shirts, pressed grey trousers, and shiny black Ferragamos), I gave him the ol’ eye. Even more so, I gave him the eye, eyebrow and half smile—my signature move. Message delivered. This tall, handsome, man of a man took his time, but made his way over to me to say, “hello.” Names were exchanged, leading to the standard, “Where are you from?” question. Him: New Jersey, Me: West Virginia. We took digs at each other’s respective hometowns and a bond was forged.

Bonus points for his ability to not only dish it, but take it. Double bonus points for texting me the moment he woke up the next morning (which was awfully early for the record) and having saved his number with both first and last name in my phone. I never go out with someone sans knowing his surname anymore—but that story is for a different day.

After snoozing for another hour or so, I did what every twenty-first century woman in her right mind does… I first searched for him on Facebook to see if we had any overlapping friends, but found no relevant matches. Up next, Google. Due to his fairly common name, I had to think of another identifier that would make him more Googleable. Oh, right, he told me he reverse commuted for work, so I typed in his name along with the city where he worked and, “BAM!” there he was.

Oh no. How could this delicious dreamboat be a … carpet cleaner? I’ve never even met a carpet cleaner. There had to be some mistake. Except there wasn’t because the same number listed on his website was the number so sweetly saved in my cell phone. After discounting him for his less than desirable job title, I texted with him casually and one Monday night while having cocktails with a friend, Mr. Dreamboat suggested we come join him at Hudson Bar & Books (the irony is not lost on me) since we were down the street and we were essentially neighbors.

Having exhausted the people watching at our current watering hole, we obliged and found him sitting at the bar enjoying a Manhattan and a stogie. He was warm and gracious towards my friend, a gay gentleman with a biting sense of snark. We toyed with him by telling him my friend was the host of an after hours radio show about sex to which he asked thoughtful questions. My friend asked Dreamboat what he did and his answer surprised us both. He ran a janitorial business. My carpet cleaner was now a janitor? When I asked what might be considered blatantly rude questions to his face, he didn’t flinch or get defensive, but instead answered them in earnest.

Wow, he’s a genuinely nice human. Wow, I’m a bitch.

As he walked me home, he told me about how he’d started collecting art and couldn’t figure out where to hang a vintage mirror in his new apartment. He told me he’d just seen a great movie and I was half expecting him to tell me something embarrassing and low brow like Iron Man, but instead he named a movie I had never heard of playing in a theater I didn’t even know existed. Perhaps I’d judged Dreamboat a little too quickly.

This earned him a kiss goodnight. One that must have been impressive because my doorman gave me a high five on my way through the lobby.

Things continued on casually. Texts here and there, a date planned and then canceled and a run in with him during brunch at The Standard followed by a boozy Saturday afternoon with my friends mixing with his—one of which I had dated five years prior and another who may or may not have been a high end hooker. Not much transpired past that day, not due to my lack of trying though. As we’d been judging Dreamboat for being less than desirable on paper, he’d written me off for his own reasons. Probably for being a sarcastic snob.

During one of my marathon phone calls with my dad, he was quick to remind me that sanitation is recession proof and while I’m sitting here writing this in my robe, he’s on vacation in the Dominican Republic. Dick Smith, always thinking of things I didn’t.

Point being: careful when making judgments and remember that you, too, are being judged… even by your janitor.

xx,

WhyDid

Why Did or Why Don’t: Let It Burn

By Kirsten|March 20th, 2013|Why Did or Why Don't?|

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before: Boy meets girl. Boy and girl fall in love. Boy and girl break up. Girl proceeds to ruin boy’s life. They say hell hath no fury like a woman scorned… and I happen to know there’s a bit of truth to that. Not that I’ve ever gone all Carrie Underwood on anyone… well, except that one time, but in this day and age, breakups and their pretty personal details have become quite public.

For instance, the adorable Selena Gomez stopped by David Letterman this week where she was promoting Spring Breakers and dropping bombs on Justin Bieber. During the interview, Gomez points out something she and Letterman happen to have in common and it’s a real zinger. She delivers the line so subtly and sweetly that it’s hard not to want to give her daps, but is dissing your ex publicly awesome or just kind of immature?

Now, I’m no Wizard of Waverly Place, but clearly, I have a very public vehicle for the purpose of spot blowing. Fortunately for the past loves of my life, I have an almost incomprehensible amount of restraint when it comes to dishing out the deets of what exactly went down during our time together. (You’re all very welcome). However, there are certainly times I have most definitely wanted to lay the story perfectly straight for my love life spectators and perhaps help a sister out in the process. As a matter of fact, my ex’s ex (we following that?) is the producer for a very popular morning radio show. While she and her cohorts did make some commentary regarding her breakup (at which point I received some pretty unpleasant Tweets from their fans), the references were somewhat vague. Looking back, I wish she’d just been blunt about the level of douchedom that went down or that I had just gone ahead and called into the show myself. Sure would have saved me some time.

So what do we think? Acceptable to ruin someone’s day publicly? Or totally tacky?

It’s not me, it’s you.

xx,

WhyDid

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