We made it to Friday again, kids. And Amen to that. Not only are we blessed with a 3-day weekend, but you get the added bonus of a “sucks to be them” tale of dating woe. What more could you ask for?
This week’s less than fabulous stab at romance comes to us from Dominic in Jersey City, and it involves a surprise addition to his date. Short(ish) and not-so-sweet, this one’s a real piece of work.
Karen, the multi-tasker: “I read this column every week, and nobody yet has been able to top my worst blind date. So I decided to send this one in. I met this girl on eHarmony and made plans to go out with her. She seemed close to my age (I’m in my mid 30′s) and her profile said she’d never been married. We chose a restaurant near her house and agreed to meet at 8:30.
When I got there, we introduced ourselves, got to chatting, but I noticed her acting distracted. She kept looking over my right shoulder, and after about a half hour of that, I decided to call her out on it. When I asked if she knew someone over there, I turned around in my seat to see what she was staring at. That’s when I noticed a kid sitting at a table by himself across the restaurant.
Before I could say something about it, she cut me off. ‘I’m sorry, yes, that’s my son over there actually.’ HER WHAT? I choked. She hadn’t mentioned having a kid, but even if she had who the hell brings their child on a date with them? She told me her sitter backed out at the last second, and her mother was too sick to watch him.
So, not wanting to break the date, she decided to take him with her, set him up at a table with some french fries and a comic book, and tell him to behave himself for an hour or two. I guess I should’ve been flattered? Um, not exactly.
I told her she couldn’t leave him over there, and she said ‘Oh no it’s OK, he’s nine, he’ll be alright like that.’ She tried to keep the conversation going for a few more minutes, asking about my job and changing the subject, but the kicker came when her kid accidentally set a napkin on fire from the candle on the table a minute later. She dove out of her seat and yelled ‘Trevor no!’ and a waitress had to come stamp it out.
Check please! That was my cue. I ended the date, threw some money on the table for our food – and his – and wished her luck. The moral of the story? I’m all for people multi-tasking, but if your sitter flakes, just reschedule. First dates are awkward enough without bringing your kids.”
Dominic: What comic was the kid reading, “The Adventures of Child Protective Services and the Really Bad Parenting Decision”? That’s a mother of a bad story. (Sorry, it was too easy).
Did she at least apologize profusely? Not only for bringing her child on a date, but for lying about his existence in the first place? Sounds like you dodged a bullet there. Just curious though, what were the waitresses saying? I can’t imagine no one in the restaurant reacting to a child dining alone (unless he was a really big tipper, duh).
I mean, if you were really hitting it off with Karen, I suppose you guys could’ve made the best of it and put the kid to work fetching you guys drinks from the bar. Nine is old enough to not spill cocktails, right? Or at least had a little fun with it and introduced yourself to him as his “new daddy” and then grounded him for the napkin stunt. No? Yeah maybe your way is better.
Better luck next time is an understatement, but thank you for sharing this with us. Here’s hoping your next date doesn’t come with a booster seat.
Well, well. It’s been a minute since one of these surfaced. But, we’re back with another triumphantly awful tale of dating misery – the only fitting way to ring in the New Year.
This time it’s from Meredith in Morristown, and though it doesn’t really fit the “online first date” part per se, it definitely fits the “horror story” part. Looks like someone should’ve asked Santa to bring him a new conscience for Christmas this year…
Mike, the Con Artist: “So I met this guy through a popular online dating site that shall go unnamed. We were talking for a few weeks, then we met in person several times, and things were going great. I considered us “dating” at this point, since it had been almost two months, and he’d stayed at my place several times.
One night after dinner when he was dropping me off at my apartment, one of my neighbors was in the lobby, noticed him in his car and recognized him. When I walked by, he said, ‘Oh, how do you know Craig (last name omitted)?’ Confused I said I didn’t, and who’s Craig?
My neighbor informed me that the guy who’s car I’d just gotten out of was, indeed, named Craig So-and-So, and that he’d gone to school with him, was in the same fraternity, and had even worked at his first job together years ago. I told him that no, this guy’s name was Mike and that we were dating. ‘That’s weird,’ he said, ‘we lost touch but I’d heard he’d gotten married. I guess he got a divorce?’ By the look on his face I assume the last part was an attempt to untangle himself from the mess he realized he’d just revealed.
Fast forward to me Googling him (his Craig name, that is) and finding his LinkedIn profile, where he worked at the same company that “Mike” told me he worked. He’d said that he didn’t have a Facebook profile, but when I put his real name into the search bar, voila! Craig (retracted) was on there, and so was a picture with his wife of 5 years AND THEIR TODDLER SON.
Are you f**king kidding me? I stewed over what to do for a few days, dodged his calls in the meantime, and then just decided to call him back and confront him about it. When he picked up his phone, I calmly said, ‘Hey Craig.’
He knew he was busted, and when I told him I also knew about his wife and child, he said it was more complicated than I thought, they were having problems, blah blah. But he begged me to talk about this later and was speaking in a frantic, hushed voice. I asked why, and he said he was at his child’s school picking him up. I lost it.
I told him to lose my number, and also that I had half a mind to call his wife and expose him. Then he lost it, and said I couldn’t do that because it would upset her too much and she was pregnant! No, I’m not joking, I wish I was. After that I said he wasn’t even worth it, but if he didn’t close out all of his dating profiles I’d report him to the site we met on.
We never spoke again, but when I checked a few days later, his profile was still up. So my friend shot him an email (she was on the same site) that read, ‘How’s your wife?’ and within hours he’d pulled his page down. And that, as they say, is that.”
Meredith: Whoa. You win the award for “most shameless use of an online dating profile” so far. A – - hole doesn’t even cover it, they need to invent a new insult for guys like him. This is usually the part where I make witty-slash-irreverent observations about people’s stories, but this one’s just straight up not funny. Seriously, what the hell is wrong with people?
Even scarier to me is that yours is the second story like this that I’ve heard recently. So I don’t know what’s worse, that this D-bag exists, or that he could start a club? Either way, I’m glad he pulled his profile down, and good for you for trying to out him (albeit via threats, whatevs). I have to wonder, though, if his wife was really pregnant or if he just used that to silence you?
I guess the moral of this story, if you can even try to find a silver lining here, is that you found out sooner rather than later. Better to be the one who outs the scumbag than the one married to the scumbag. Oh, and also, don’t trust anyone without a Facebook profile. Sometimes e-stalking is a good thing.
Here’s hoping that his son doesn’t turn out like his daddy, and for better dating luck for you this year. Don’t let someone’s complete lack of a moral compass discourage you from being open to finding love. It’s out there… it just doesn’t involve anyone with a preschooler or a wedding band. Yikes.
I’m sorry about what happened but hey, it can only go up from here, right? (God I hope so, or else I just jinxed the sh*t out of you with the universe). And for the rest of you, keep the stories coming, because as I always say, your awkward romantic run-ins are our enjoyment in the end.
Got a bad dating story? Like this one? Or this one? If you can top that (or just think yours is good for a laugh), email firstname.lastname@example.org. Get involved.
Another Friday, another chance to feel better about your own life. And to be really, really happy that you weren’t on this date. Frankly, I wasn’t sure if you guys would rise to the occasion and send me something worthy of following up last week’s All You Can Eat saga. But luckily for me, Jana from Connecticut’s heinous romantic encounter came along at the right time.
So I’ll turn the floor over to her, and thank my lucky stars that I’ve never gone out with someone who makes me wonder if I’m on a hidden camera show. If you could use a good laugh, you’re in luck. And speaking of laughs…
Eric, the attorney: “His email showed up in my inbox one day with the subject line, “hey cutie.” I should’ve known that I was in for it right then and there, but I’d hit a bit of a dry spell lately, so I responded anyway. After a week or so of emailing, he seemed normal (aside from his love of affectionate names). So, we set up a time to meet for drinks at a low key wine bar of his choosing. When I showed up, he had considerably less hair than his profile photo. (*Miss Wingman note: Balding, it’s nature’s great equalizer. Accept it or Bic it, boys, we’ve been over this).
We sat and talked for a short time about the weather, our jobs, and whatever else. It was all superficial chit chat until we ran out of the aforementioned chatter and slammed headlong into total silence. I mean it – an awkward, drawn out pause where neither of us could think of anything to say. Until he decided to fill the silence with the first thing that came to his mind, and he blurted out, “So I used to want to be a priest when I grew up…”
I choked on an ice cube. “What?” He repeated himself. Yup, this was really happening. After I questioned him at length about why any adolescent male would ever consider voluntarily giving up sex FOR LIFE, he explained that he wanted to help people. Great, now I felt bad. Then I suggested he could do it in other ways, like volunteering at a hospital, or becoming a fireman. At least firemen were allowed to have sex.
I should’ve left the awkward silence alone, because as soon as I made the joke I realized how big a mistake I’d made. Eric laughed out loud, but it was the most high-pitched, ridiculous-sounding hyena laugh I’d ever heard. And it was deafeningly loud.
Or at least it seemed that way in a quiet wine bar, because everyone turned and stared at us. I would’ve laughed myself at how any person could even make such a noise, let alone a male, since he just hit falsetto octaves only whales and dogs could detect. But I was too busy shrinking down in my chair, paralyzed with embarrassment.
Ten minutes later he did it again, this time even louder and for a longer period of time, while we were discussing an episode of “Saturday Night Live.” I shrank down even further. Oh, and he kept calling me things like “babe,” “sweetie” and “hon” all night. It was getting worse by the minute.
I know you’re probably thinking that having a bad laugh isn’t really grounds for calling it a disaster, but I swear – no amount of describing it could ever do it justice. It was a cackle straight out of a movie.
But after two hours of awkwardness so thick you could cut it with a knife, my cue to leave came when he got out of his seat and started reenacting a scene from Episode V of “Star Wars” in front of our table. With voices and sound effects. I wish I was kidding. You can’t make this stuff up – unless it’s in an episode of “Punk’d.” I begged him to stop, and then looked for the camera – he had to be messing with me. Finally, I ended up just telling him I had an early conference call in the morning and needed to head home.
He packed up his imaginary light saber, paid our bill and walked me to my car. But not before giving me one last taste of the hyena laugh while thanking our waitress. I was spared the misery of a goodnight kiss attempt, and called my best friend on the drive home. After I told her about the date, she asked if I regretted going out with him. I told her yes, but I had an even bigger regret – that I didn’t think to record the laugh on my iPhone while I had the chance. It’s OK though, I can still hear it when I want to. In my nightmares.”
Jana: So would you say it was more Paul Rubens as Pee Wee Herman, or Janice on “Friends”? Either way it’s no laughing matter (Zing!)
But seriously, I’m glad it wasn’t me on that date because I have no poker face. A few other things I wanted to address though… 1) He said he’d considered becoming a priest at one time? Maybe that has something to do with him not trying for a goodnight kiss. Consider yourself lucky, but not lucky enough to have avoided the “Star Wars” role play. Which brings me to 2) Was it at least the Darth Vader/Luke Skywalker “I’m your father” scene from The Empire Strikes Back? If you must geek out, might as well be to George Lucas’ best work.
3) Although I like your fireman suggestion, priests can have sex. Didn’t you know that? It’s just slightly more of a hassle, what with having to silence all those young boys for years afterward. (Kidding! I know, I know – in poor taste in light of the Sandusky trial, whatever). 4) I loathe cheesy terms of endearment like “sweetie” and “cutie.” Next time a relative stranger calls you one of those, remind them that women have nicknames for them, too. Only they’re a lot less affectionate.
And finally 5) I’m bummed that you didn’t have an audio file to attach with this story, but I’m more concerned that you were discussing SNL. Who watches “Saturday Night Live” anymore anyway? Next thing you’ll be telling me you watch “American Ninja Warrior,” too. Where are your standards, girl? But thanks for the story, and it sounds like you learned your lesson. For future reference, the next time you want to set up a date, make sure to do it over the phone.
Who doesn’t love some good competitive eating every now and then? Apparently, people on dates (and for good reason). Yes in the midst of this oppressive, sweaty heat wave we’re experiencing, I couldn’t help but sweat it out for the guy who sent in this latest dating horror story.
Meet Rob, the insurance salesman from New Jersey who thought he was taking a nice girl out to dinner, but ended up being the less masculine one of the pair. While Miss Wingman loves when guys send in stories for this feature, I hope none of you encounter anything like this on a date. Ever again.
Jen, the champ: I was set up with this girl through a friend of a friend, but we both had dating profiles on the same site. So I think technically it still fits your “Online Dating Horror Story” criteria. We’d exchanged a few emails and she’d sent me a photo of herself before we decided to have dinner one Friday night. I thought she was pretty, if a bit more athletic-looking than most girls I’d dated. Our mutual friend said she was “into triathlons” and played several sports in a corporate league. I had an ex who was a soccer player, so I thought nothing of it. Game on.
She suggested a sports bar near her house, and when I walked in I saw that she’d already gotten us a booth in the back. When she stood up to say hello, I noticed that she was a lot taller than I’d expected, and almost had bigger triceps than I did. That’s hard to do, I’ve played Rugby since high school.
We exchanged some small talk and sipped our waters while the waitress brought us menus. That’s when trouble started. Our waitress mentioned that, in addition to the specials, the bar also featured a sandwich called the “Big Daddy” that, if you finished the whole thing, would earn you a free meal.
The menu described it as “a colossal stack of gooey, fried awesomeness,” which was really a cheeseburger with chicken fingers, fries and more cheese piled 8 inches high, all wrapped up on “bread” that was really a pizza folded in half. Oh and it was doused in wing sauce, too. My date turned to me and shouted, “Let’s do it!” But the waitress said it had to be eaten by only one person for it to count. I was so freaked out that she would even consider it that it didn’t even really sink in when Jen told the waitress that she’d take the challenge herself.
What the hell was happening?
As I sat there trying to process that a female had just ordered a meal on a first date that even truck drivers couldn’t take down, I glanced at our waitress who shot me back an equally surprised/sympathetic look. “It’ll be great!” Jen told me. “I can out eat almost anyone, and this way I’ll be a cheap date.” Then she high-fived me (not kidding) and asked me about what I did for a living.
I couldn’t even concentrate on what I was saying because she began picking at this enormous scab on her elbow while I was talking (*Miss Wingman note: Ew. Just…ew.) When she caught me staring she said, “Haha, yeah – isn’t it gnarly? I got it playing kickball the other day. We crushed the other team though so it’s all good.”
I would’ve been tempted to get up at this point, but that’s when they brought out the Big Daddy on this huge tray. And handed Jen a bib. Yup – a bib. She was smiling ear to ear, I was exchanging confused looks with guys around me.
Then the waitress went over and rang this cowbell thing on the wall alerting the bar that someone was taking the “Daddy Challenge” and then people started watching and coming over to stand by our table to cheer her on. Within minutes there was a full-blown chant going as Jen dove into this enormous towering pile of food. If that wasn’t bad enough, she had sauce all over her face and hands (not to mention pieces of lettuce stuck to her bib) and when I offered her a napkin to clean up, she said, “Nah what’s the point? I’ll wait til I’m done, doesn’t bother me.” Holy sh*t. I was speechless.
As it turns out, Jen DID finish the Big Daddy. And even though I was grossed out and it was the least sexy thing I’ve ever seen a girl do, I had to hand it to her. It was impressive. But when the crowd subsided and they took away her plate, she realized that someone had taken her purse while she was eating. When she panicked and told me, my first reaction was, “Wait you carry a purse?” She seemed like more of a wallet in the back pocket kind of girl.
We alerted the bar and everyone looked around, but at that point it was a lost cause (on the purse front and the date front). I offered to give her a ride home since her keys were gone, too but she said she’d rather call her roommate to bring her a spare set. I stayed with her until her friend came, but then high-tailed it out of there. As I was walking out, I heard someone let out a long, loud burp and, without even turning around, knew it was her.
Ladies, I know even jock girls need love, too, but if you want a guy to be into you, don’t spend half your date with condiments on your face. Her name is still up on the wall at the bar, by the way.
Rob: This. Is. Awesome. I mean, not the losing her bag part – that’s a stomach-sinking feeling that all women have had at one point or another and it SUCKS. But the devouring a platter of food that would make most dudes cower part is pretty outstanding, you have to admit. On one hand, the scab-picking would’ve made me bolt for the door – I’m nauseous just writing about it. But on the other hand, you have to admire a girl who was so comfortable being herself around you that it didn’t dawn on her to be self-conscious. The only one horrified was you.
And yes, even not-so-girly girls need love, too. But if ingesting 3000 calories isn’t your idea of a fun first date, I totally get it. You’ve got to hand it to her, though. She was a cheap date in the end. And it sounds like she’d be a hit at parties, too.
The next time you go out with a woman who seems like she has more testosterone than you (the next time?), bear in mind how hard it must be for jock-ish girls to find a guy who isn’t threatened by them. I guess it’d be similar to skinny, frail guys who are man pretty finding dates too. I mean, I don’t go out with guys who wear a smaller jean size than I do, but I guess that’s what they made hipster girls for… Either way, better luck next time and to Jen out there – wherever you are – consider this me sending you a chest bump. Well done, girl.
I’m not exactly sure how it is we’ve wound up back here again, but my Monday gift to you is another tale along the, “He did what?!” variety.
We’ve already found ourselves marveling in the stupidity of the wall street dude who made a spreadsheet to keep track of his conquests-slash-online dating prospects (that turned out well for him). Which is nothing, I suppose, compared to the woman who advises other women on how to land a finance guy of her own (hint: be unabashedly opportunistic and don’t mind if he doesn’t care about you at all).
Then there was the argument for the need for an exit interview, which I fully support – albeit highly socially unacceptable. But it looks like we can again bask in the ridiculousness of this new dude’s behavior, as he takes the idea of some farewell feedback to a whole other level.
Enter “24-year-old Finance Guy,” who requests that his dates fill out a survey after they’re done dating. Is it creepy? Yes, but not as bad as the article portrays it. Is it worthy of social ostracism? Eh, maybe, the jury’s still out on that one. But is it a good idea? Absolutely, I give the guy credit for trying.
Suffice it to say that, if you’re going to try to implement the exit interview/survey strategy, it helps if you make it extremely funny, like this guy. Although I’m not sure he intended for it to be that way, to be honest. With phrases like, “Mike is very self-conscious about his hair, does he have reason to be?” and questions like, “Did Mike make a move?” that allows her to choose, “No, he was being a p*ssy” as an option, I almost applaud him for genuinely searching for opportunities for self-improvement.
Where he goes wrong? For starters, talking about himself in the third person. “Is Mike horrifying women by his weirdly megalomaniac tendencies?” Yes, yes he is. (And no, that question’s not really on there – but it should be).
I think the most amazing part, though, is that he asks the woman outright if she’s a feminist, “for informational purposes.” It’s as if he’s saying, “because if you self-identify this way, none of your answers are relevant because you’re a femme-Nazi.”
But my hands down favorite element is the last one, where Mike leaves room for women to draw him a picture if they’re so inclined. I wonder if any of the women have ever used that blank space to draw Mike a picture of some of the things that need improvement? Like his wonky hair. Or his less-than-toned butt (hey, he brought it up). Or his insufficient manhood (that one’s all me, but I’m sure I’m not the first one to suggest it).
I guess the moral of the story is that…there is no moral, honestly. It was just a highly amusing anecdote for your rainy day enjoyment. I don’t suggest for Mike to continue with this D-bag pop quiz, but I do think he deserves to be cut some slack. He’s 24. Do you remember what you were doing at 24? Yeah, we’re all miles away from those dating days I hope (or maybe not, some have come farther than others…)
So men, don’t give up the quest for answers and self-improvement. As I’ve said, figuring out why things went awry only serves to help you out in the future. We can all use some constructive criticism once in a while. But don’t do what he did, either. Unless you want to end up on a Gawker site, which is pretty much the only fate possible for you.
And women of Philadelphia, if you ever come across Mike, give him a high five from me. And make sure to draw him a picture.
Well well. What have we here? Another week, another chance to laugh at the misery of others. At least this Friday brings regulation tales of romantic disaster, instead of last week’s unexpected detour.
But though this week’s horror may be short, it is most definitely not sweet. Witness the stunning digestive pyrotechnics regaled by Sarah from Brooklyn. I’m not saying this is the worst thing that’s ever happened, I’m just saying that tossing out your shoes because someone tossed their cookies on them qualifies this as a pretty awful date. But I’ll let you be the judge.
Doug, the…oh hell, I don’t know what he does, but you won’t care either after you read this: “I met this guy on Match. He seemed normal, looked fairly handsome in his photos, and he lived within walking distance of my apartment. So, even if it didn’t turn out to be love at first sight, all signs were pointing to this date being smooth sailing. Though that’s not exactly how it turned out.
We agreed to meet at a restaurant in our neighborhood that neither of us had been to, but had been wanting to try. When I showed up, I wasn’t disappointed – neither by him nor the restaurant. He was polite, seemed somewhat intelligent and had a nice face. The food was Asian fusion, but neither of us ordered anything outrageous or unusual. He had some chicken dish and I ordered noodles.
While we were talking and getting to know each other, I gradually started to notice he was sweating. We both ignored it and kept on chatting because, other than that, things were going pretty well. But then he got very ashen, and all of a sudden the blood seemed to drain out of his face. I asked if he was alright.
Before I knew what was happening, he started to say, “I’m sorry, I’m not feeling well, I think- ” but didn’t finish his sentence. Why? Because he leaned under the table and vomited mightily. Yes, you read that right, vomited repeatedly (and loudly) onto the floor. The worst part is, he didn’t have time to get up and get to a bathroom, and I didn’t have time to react, so he ended up puking all over my shoes.
Not only did the people in the restaurant seem less than thrilled, but we had to make a hasty retreat, and as I put him into a cab he was apologizing profusely. It turns out something in his dinner was made with pistachios, to which he had a mild food allergy.
He ended up sending me a check to replace my shoes about a week later and emailed to apologize, but we never tried for a re-do on that date. I think we both just figured you really can’t come back from that. So be it.”
Sarah: What’s the matter, vomit date left a bad taste in your mouth? Sorry, it was too easy, I couldn’t resist. First of all, I’d call becoming violently ill a little more than just a “mild food allergy.” And secondly, more people should use the word “mightily” and more often – because anything sounds cooler when done mightily, even puking.
I’m sorry that his sickness spelled game over, but at least he was apologetic and tried to compensate you for what he ruined. I’m sure it’s a lot easier to replace a pair of shoes than walk that one off, from a pride standpoint. There are worse things in life than a publicly humiliating throw up session…I just can’t think of any right now.
Either way, don’t let one spoiled stomach sour you to the dating game in general. I’m sure he was sufficiently mortified, so try not to judge someone until you’ve walked a mile in their shoes. Or have thrown up on them, one or the other.
Just remember to look on the bright side, it could’ve been worse. At least your night didn’t end in an ER visit, statistically this probably won’t happen to you again…and at least you weren’t wearing flip flops.
Thanks for sharing, and better luck next time –MW.
One of my biggest joys since starting this website is when people I know send me items of interest that they think would be good fodder for Miss Wingman’s audience. It was through such an exchange with an educated female friend (who also happens to be hot, young and have a high-powered job, in case that comes into question) that I found an article that contains what I can only describe as the worst advice anyone has ever given about dating. Ever. Period. Game Over.
Sweet Jesus I pray this woman is joking.
When I finished reading this gem of stupidity, entitled “How To Date A Wall Street Man,” and stopped cackling uncontrollably (though it wasn’t intended to be funny), I knew I needed to respond. So consider this my formal rebuttal to one Samantha Daniels, the author of this ill-conceived Chickenhead Manifesto.
Photo courtesy: NY Times
Hey Samantha, just out of curiosity, what’s it like on the planet where you live? Remind me never to visit. I don’t know what scares me more, that this woman is Ivy league educated, or that someone actually published this article (and gives her air time frequently. God help us all). Her credentials boast “Professional Matchmaker and Dating Expert” among her titles, and she considers herself one of the foremost relationship experts in the field.
Just curious though, by whose standards? I’m always amused when I find other people who do what I do (though Daniels is a matchmaker, and I don’t run a dating service) and those people claim to be “The #1 leading dating expert” or “Voted World’s Best Wingman” or whatever. Um, last time I checked there was no J.D. Power & Associates for relationship advice, is there? Did I miss the US News & World Report issue that ranks broads who think they can help you find love? My bad, I’ll have to subscribe to that for next year.
But getting back to Daniels’ article, what’s wrong with her argument is that she’s basically telling women to look nice, say little and keep your hands folded politely in your lap while you nod and smile in your five-inch heels and plunging neckline. Don’t believe me? How do you explain this:
“While a Wall Street man tends to like a little bit of a challenge when it comes to dating, he still likes things to be convenient and easy for him // You need to be accommodating or his schedule and time constraints or he will get frustrated and find another woman.”
(*Smacks forehead with hand*) What?! Just make things easy for him or he’ll lose interest? That’s right, ladies. Be more convenient than a 7-Eleven, that’s your job. Forget what you have going on in your life, make it all about his. And while we’re on the topic, make sure to…
“Tell stories that are short and sweet because the mind of a Wall Street man is always moving so rapidly and focusing on so many different things that his attention span for social stories is very short// Save your long, draw-out (sic) stories for chit-chatting with your girlfriends.”
Wait, what? It’s one thing to not drone on and on about things that men have no interest in, that much I completely agree with. But don’t tell social stories because he’s probably not listening anyway? If I were a Wall Street guy reading this article I’d be insulted by her insinuation that they’re all a few Adderalls shy of being capable of really focusing. If the vomit hasn’t totally risen in your throat yet, hang on. This might do the trick:
“Learn a little something about the financial markets and notice if something huge happens on a given day, negative or positive. // You don’t have to become an expert but at least if you know something you can participate in a conversation with your guy.”
OK, so let me get this straight – she wants women to not appear clueless by studying up so that they can be qualified to contribute to the conversation? Whatever happened to asking a guy about what he does and letting him fill in the blanks? It’s funny, when I’m dating a guy, one of my favorite things is hearing more about what he does or learning about a field that I’m not familiar with – people love talking about themselves. The only difference is I usually don’t cram for it beforehand.
If you’re even a marginally intelligent, informed member of society, then you should know basic information like if the market took a catastrophic plunge that day or that a company like Facebook is set to go public. You don’t need to be a one-woman S&P, but even if you’re not, you’re still allowed to contribute to the conversation. Why? Because I’m giving you permission. And because this chick is single-handedly destroying the Women’s Lib movement. Somewhere, Gloria Steinem is dying a little inside.
Daniels goes on to say that it’s our job to be charming enough to get men to forget about work, we’re not supposed to be offended if these Masters of the Universe use their assistants to schedule dates or pick out gifts for us, and most importantly, that women shouldn’t forget the cardinal rule:
“Be sexy. Wall Street men tend to like women who are attractive and that other men notice when they walk in the room. // You should bring your “A game” when you go out with him, whatever that is // …you need to maintain his interest by continuing to look your best.”
Just out of curiosity, do any women go out on dates intentionally bringing their “C game”? I can’t remember the last time I met a guy, got ready for a night out with him and thought, “Does this make me look frumpy and disheveled? Perfect, mission accomplished.”
For the record, if the man you’re out with is primarily interested in you for your arm candy appeal and how badly his cronies drool over your firmly-toned ass, then you might want to reevaluate this partnership. I’m not saying that many finance guys don’t want trophy wives, I’m just saying that what’s in your mind should be equally as important as what’s in your bra, if the guy is worth keeping around anyway.
I think my biggest problem with Daniels’ advice is that she’s stereotyping a complete group of men, and pretending to be targeting an entire race of women when she’s really aiming at one highly unsavory cross section of the population. Has she worked with the Wall Street type before? Yes, apparently for several years. But just like I can no more readily make a statement like, “All finance guys are arrogant D-bags,” she can’t honestly say that all banker-types are looking for the same Stepford-type girlfriend. There are exceptions to every rule, no doubt.
I may not have slept my way through all of Deutsche Bank or Goldman Sachs, (YET. Hey, a girl’s gotta have goals…) but nine years in NYC is a solid case study. Yes, I know opportunistic females who would happily play into this garbage to land their four-carat, JP Morgan man, and I know men who epitomize it. But those guys are all single (not necessarily by choice), and the women who feed into it aren’t such a prize to begin with – and can be spotted from miles away.
I definitely know Wall Street-types who are upstanding and decent when it comes to women, and I know females who are smart enough not to drop to their knees and buy into such rubbish. My hope is that this population outnumbers the people that keep this woman in business, or at least that she has her Female Card revoked. I’m embarrassed to say that she has ovaries, too. Someone needs to kick her out of the tribe, and fast.
Look, I don’t make it a habit of making a name for myself by defiling other people’s, but I do have to call a spade a spade. Or in this case, an out of touch cougar with warped opinions. I’m not saying that she’s a fundamentally horrible person, I’m just saying that this article represents everything that’s terrible and wrong with the world. And it makes me frightened for humanity.
And if I still haven’t gotten my point across, I leave you with this. The single best response in instances such as these. If you think that finding wisdom in “Billy Madison” is idiotic, all I have to say is, it’s no more idiotic than what that Daniels broad wrote. I award you no points, and may God have mercy on your soul.