Articles

FIRST DATE FOLLIES
AM NEW YORK - "THE DATING LIFE"
SEPTEMBER 25, 2006
BY JULIA ALLISON

The funny thing about being single again is that all my eagerness to go on first dates has been rapidly replaced by the realization that these events are only valuable insomuch as they provide me with a ridiculous story to tell.

Since I'm a big fan of ridiculous stories (note my career choice), I have no problem with such dates. I happily subscribe to the philosophy espoused by my friend, the comedian and professional recovering frat-boy Aaron Karo -- AFS: Anything For a Story.

My date last Friday night falls firmly in that category.

Admittedly, The Guy started off with emails so farcical, he instantly rendered himself AFS Material. "Julia," he wrote, "Certain of my friends thought you'd be a good person for me to talk dirty to ... at the very least, you'll be entertained. What do you say we meet for a drink to start?"

To start? To start what -- talking dirty? Um, hold up there, stud.

The ill-advised subject heading of his next missive? "Let's grab pizza and sex next Wednesday night." (Note to future dates: Do not insinuate that girl is a ho before meeting her to confirm such facts.)

He explained that normally he wouldn't be so forward, but "Conquering a dating columnist has to be one of the ultimate achievments [sic], and may require unconventional tactics...."

Um... yeah. Conquering? Oh dear god. Even if you were actually thinking something that ludicrous, why would you EVER write it?? With a spelling mistake, no less!

It's not a coincidence that The Guy works for a hedge fund.

I'm sure I would have blown him off completely, but he was incredibly persistent. I rainchecked and/or canceled on him five times, and the only reason I didn't reschedule again was that I literally couldn't. He was moving to Europe the next day.

I wasn't particularly in the mood to go on a date that evening. I did not want to get dressed up. I did not want to put on makeup. I did not want to down alcoholic beverages out of boredom.

But I couldn't cancel just hours before the date. Could I?

Running through the list of excuses (sick, work emergency, dog has asthma), I felt a twinge of guilt. After all, the guy had gotten us tickets to the secret Killers concert, and although I'd never heard any of their songs (there goes my indie music cred), it was his last night in this country.

Still, I stood in the shower Friday at 6 p.m. wondering whether, if I called to say I had just broken my ankle, he would try to visit me in the hospital.

I figured he would, so I gave up and just went on the date. As a preemptive strike, I downed several drinks at the beginning, but not enough to forget him telling me that he could see beyond my "hard shell," and that he, at 25, was going to prove that "these old guys you're always dating" were lame.

I just smiled and nodded, enjoying his show of amusingly misguided bravado.

That is, until he started kissing me.

I use "kissing" in a loose sense, because what he was really doing could be more accurately described as "jack-hammering his mouth onto mine." Now, it's one thing if your date is a bad kisser. Fine. I mean, it's disappointing, but what can you do?

However, it's quite another when that bad kisser finally lets up jamming his tongue into your mouth and says, "I knew you'd be a good kisser... like me."

WHAT?!? He seemed to take my hysterical laughter as an affirmation, which only made me laugh harder.

"You've met your match," he then proclaimed. Uhh... yeah. I've met something, that's for sure.

After the concert, I tried to go home, but having mentioned earlier that I just canceled my gym membership, he offered to give me his fitness pass, good till the end of the year (and worthless to him given his impending move). Because I'm a sucker for free stuff, I reluctantly agreed to go back his apartment to pick it up.

Upon entering, he sat down at his laptop and told me he had a "special song" to play for me. As the recognizable strains of Nelly Furtado's 'Promiscuous Girl' filled the room, I couldn't decide whether to slap him or knee him in the nether regions.

"You know," I said, "That's probably not the right song to play 'in honor' of the girl you're trying to get in the mood. And just FYI, in case you were confused, you're not even going to come CLOSE to sleeping with me. In fact, I'm leaving right now."

At that, he nervously backtracked.

"Oh, I don't even want to have sex with you tonight," he lied. "I've already shipped all of my condoms to Europe.... But when we do go to bed, it's going to be amazing." I almost choked on my drink.

Thank God for FedEx.

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PARTY OF ONE
AM NEW YORK - "THE DATING LIFE"
SEPTEMBER 20, 2006
BY JULIA ALLISON

If you're one of the 95 million Americans who stubbornly refuse to join in wedded bliss, the commemorative holiday you've been feverishly anticipating is finally here.

That's right, spouse-less slackers, it's NATIONAL UNMARRIED AND SINGLE AMERICANS WEEK!

Possessors of a marriage license, get thee to Westchester. This week is NOT for you!

As for the rest -- I know it's difficult to contain your exuberance. You've no doubt already planned several rollicking events, probably involving whipped cream and speed dating. After all, times when you can officially celebrate not having a ball & chain come but once a year. (Excluding bachelor parties. Obviously.)

The esteemed holiday was founded in 1984 by a courageous group of Ohioans called the Buckeye Singles Council, who clearly had too much free time on their (ring-less) hands. Disgruntled with the smug marrieds in their state, they decided that they just wouldn't stand for it anymore.

No longer would they ignore the blatant favoritism accorded to those with marriage certificates!

No longer would they put up with the inferior status of those without contractual agreements sealed with large, expensive parties involving multi-tiered cakes!

No longer would they answer their mother's insistent phone calls about "that nice Jewish orthodontist!"

They retaliated by proclaiming that forthwith, the third week in September would be reserved solely for honoring unmarried people throughout the nation as well as creating awareness of the rampant discrimination against their kind.

Oh, you think the unattached don't really suffer discrimination? I bet you're married, you single-hater!

According to Lori Miller, dating expert at Lavalife, "America's #1 Hookup site," "There is still a stigma and embarrassment about being alone."

Yeah! Here's to all the stigmatized, embarrassed singles out there. Grab your cats and a bottle of warm white wine and raise a toast to life without joint tax returns, "checking in" and mandatory visits with ugly in-laws.

"This week single people are finally given permission to actually get out and enjoy themselves," explains Miller.

(Permission? Singles are the only people who DON'T need permission to go enjoy themselves.)

Beyond that, how should we losers without wedding bands celebrate this momentous occasion? Alcohol, nudity, repeated trips to Scores?

According to Miller, we can "get a good night's sleep, hang out with friends, or go for a great haircut."

Personally, I was leaning towards the alcohol and nudity, but okay. I guess a haircut sounds nice too.

And of course, nothing says "I'm going all out to properly commemorate National Unmarried and Single Americans Week" like getting a good night's sleep.

I knew this was going to be the BEST WEEK EVER.

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WHAT MEN WANT (WOMEN TO WEAR)
AM NEW YORK - "THE DATING LIFE"
SEPTEMBER 14, 2006
BY JULIA ALLISON

Last week, in preparation for the upcoming change in seasons, I lugged 20 pounds of women's magazines home with me for a Fall Fashion read-in.

Swollen and unwieldy with the traditional glut of September ad pages, the massive Elle, enormous Glamour, and truly elephantine Vogue all trumpeted their opinions on what I "must wear" this autumn:

Layers. Volume. Skinny jeans. Tough Chic. Leggings. Capes. Plaids.

In short, nothing even remotely attractive to men.

Now, maybe that doesn't really matter -- after all, as the fashion saying goes, "Women dress for other women."

Personally, I don't buy it. Most women dress either to look good or be comfortable (those being mutually exclusive more often than I'd like), but when it's the former, we certainly want men to notice!

Given that we're in the glamorous midst of New York Fashion Week, it seemed the right time to ask a few hundred Manhattan men (via an e-mail survey I sent out) critical questions on their favorite subject -- ladies' apparel, of course.

The conclusions? Guys may not know much about designers -- but they certainly have strong opinions on what they find "hot," what they can't understand and what they'd prefer you never to wear again. Ever.

In the last category, capris, pointy-toed shoes, and Uggs were the top offenders.

"Capris must be banned from the planet," West Side resident Robert, 43, declared, "even Jackie O looked [horrible] in them." Advertising exec Mark Duffy hates the trend so much he devoted an entire blog to eviscerating them (www.ihatecapripants.blogspot.com).

Uggs are equally reviled. "You're not an Eskimo, you're not running the Iditarod, you look like an idiot," wrote radio personality Adam Bernard, 27.

(Luckily for him, Uggs have been out for the past two years anyway.)

Skinny jeans got equal rants and raves, as did flip-flops. Leggings with skirts didn't fare as well, with 100% of men decrying them as hideous.

"Please stop wearing spandex with dresses," pleaded one 24-year-old hip-hop dancer from Harlem. "Freshman year at NYU is over!"

Other controversial items? Huge handbags, '80s revival, and enormous "old people drugstore sunglasses," which, according to Bernard, "make you look like an insect, and not even the cool kind that eat their mates."

Other men have a more ambivalent take on the trend towards mammoth sunshades. "I actually kinda like them," wrote aspiring architect Sean Fisher, 25, "but really, they just hide a girl's face, which is deceitful if the girl is ugly."

The current 80s revival wasn't a crowd favorite, either. "I didn't enjoy much about '80s clothes in the '80s," says award-winning theatre artist Bradford Louryk, 27.

He doesn't like them any better now. "I play a game on the subway platform in Greenpoint called 'Hipster or Eastern Bloc', because ­ frankly ­ the difference is harder to see than you might imagine."

What men loved, universally (and this will no doubt shock you): short skirts, tight jeans, and just enough cleavage to entice without looking like he's paying by the hour.

Still, enough guys mentioned their love of casual attire frequently enough to make me wonder if plunking down my credit cards for the latest in circulation-halting denim and five-inch bloodbaths -- sorry,­ heels -- isn't completely pointless. "In general, I think women should wear more socks and wear sensible lace-up shoes," says Staten Island resident Scott Hutchins, 30.

Other men agreed. "Girls are at their most attractive in sweatpants, XL sweatshirt, hair down, no makeup," wrote Adam Zimmerman, 24. "It's the most natural, easygoing, cozy, lets-get-together-and-snuggle look out there."

"Women can wear burlap if they can rock that burlap," wrote SoHo poet Jim Behrle, 33.

Most guys will never understand our obsession with fashion. "Somehow women have a great talent to make up rules just to make each other miserable, while pretending that abiding by those rules makes women more attractive," explained a particularly astute thirtysomething New York geneticist. Amen to that!

Of course, there's one fashion decree we can all be sure of, succinctly summarized by the erstwhile Washington scandalette Jessica Cutler (who would know):

"What men hate: Underpants."

Anna Wintour is taking notes.

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