Tomorrow We’ll Be on Today…


Tune in to Kathie Lee and Hoda on the Today Show tomorrow morning at 10:30am if you want to feast your eyes on me and my wingman! And be sure to come back Friday to see the brand new website… it’ll have pink lace, new posts, and maybe even some pictures of me lounging around looking like an author.

GRANNY IS MY WINGMAN is out in one week! But if you’re feeling antsy you can pre-order now you want to take a ride to TMI city, where the gossip is heavy and the girls are silly!


Boy Toy

Ever since puberty struck I’ve had a thing for older men. It started with Mike Catrambone; he was the first guy I swapped spit with. It didn’t matter that I was four inches taller than him or that his braces gave him a slight lisp, he was fourteen and I was twelve and that was all I needed to know to make out with him under the docks at sleep away camp.

After little Michael, the streak continued. I like mature men, men with experience, men with some wisdom that can inspire me. In all my dating years I have never been out with a guy my age and certainly had never considered going out with anyone younger. This was until a very sexy, talented friend of mine gushed to me about how much she was enjoying her boy toy. “I get to be the boss,” she bragged. “Everywhere except in the bedroom.”

This arrangement appealed to me. I’m fairly controlling, I wouldn’t mind having a young lad at my beck and call. My feet are not going to massage themselves. I’m 25; I think it’s safe to say I have a few years left until dating a younger man would qualify me as a cougar.

When Chad messaged me on OKCupid I saw he was a handsome young chap, his brown eyes struck me as murky pools filled with profound mystery and maturity. He was wearing nicely tailored suits in three out of four of his pictures. Menswear gets me hot.

His profile wasn’t showy or heavy on details but it still intrigued me. He wrote that he was “an Englishman living in New York”. Well dressed with an accent? Somebody slap me.

When I noticed that he was 22 I was bummed and ready to click onwards to the next but then I thought back to my friend and reconsidered. Why not? That’s the beauty of online dating; you have nothing to lose by trying out men who typically wouldn’t fit your mold.

I agreed to meet Chad for a drink. The bar was crowded when I arrived so I messaged him, “I’m the girl in the blue striped shirt.” When I looked up I saw a young boy with a Justin Beiber inspired hair-do scanning the bar. I looked to my left and right and noticed there were four other girls wearing blue striped shirts. The nautical look is taking over.

I let him sweat it for a moment, his cheeks turning a rosy shade of red. I finally raised my hand and he awkwardly rushed over in a flustered Michael Cera-style, his cheeks reddening with every step. He didn’t look like the confident suit-wearing fella from his pictures; he looked like the missing member to a boy band.

When we started chatting I immediately noticed there was no hint of an accent coming from the man-child. When I brought it up he broke out into a fit of nervous laughter and explained that he moved to the states with his family when he was six. I thought it was unfair of him to refer to himself as an “Englishman” in his profile but I let it slide because he was clearly on edge.

“What are you doing in the city?” I asked.

This brought on another series of giggles, “I just graduated college,” he said, looking away as if he didn’t want to embarrass me, the older woman.

Every question I asked him evoked bashful and embarrassed responses. I was doing the regular: “Where you from? Where do you hang out? What neighborhood do you live in?…” But by the reactions he was giving an onlooker would have thought I was asking him how many times a day he masturbates.

My presence was obviously making him uncomfortable. I think I must have come off too dominating. Will, my HowAboutWe date, told me I had that habit. “You’re very self-assured, I think it’s probably intimidating to the guys you’re meeting from the sites,” he warned me.

When we finished our drinks I asked him if he had any big weekend plans. “Probably gonna get some forties and drink them in Fort Greene Park with my bros,” he said.

The kid can wear a suit and take an excellent self-portrait. I’m sure he’ll have a bunch of fun in the city but I think the window for me drinking forties in the park ended years ago. I definitely didn’t want to be this guy’s boss.


This morning I gave Granny the low down on my non-date with Todd. Before I could finish explaining his flawed plan to meet at the fountain she interrupted me, “He’s a schmuck. Let me count the ways. In one breath you could name ten.” She’s the only person I know who could pull off a bashing in under breath.

She found several reasons to coin him a jerk but it was his cigarette smoking that really threw her over the top. “I wanna tell you something,” she said cutting me off, “This man has no regard for himself or anyone else. If his teeth were that yellow what good care does he take of himself and more importantly when was the last time he’s seen a dentist?”

Although I wasn’t planning on seeing him again she brought up an excellent point, “If it has to be that confusing and troublesome from the beginning then screw it. It can’t get better it can only get worse.” I think that’s a gem I’ll have to remember in the future for someone more worthwhile.

I changed gears to find out how her Passover seder was, “Your mother wanted to sit with me but I said, ‘You’re fine, I’m sitting with the old focacas,’ and they were really old, older than me. We were at the old focacas corner.” I’m pretty sure Granny made up the Yiddish work “focacas”.  Boy do I love that old focaca.


Solo Cookiewich

When Todd sent me an invitation over OKCupid to join him in Washington Square Park he enticed me with the promise of dairy filled treats. Ice cream in the park on a sunny afternoon? Come on, every woman and child would go for that. I like a cheeky cocktail as much as the next gal but I was itching to have a date outside of a bar.

“Hey, I’ll be in front of the fountain or sitting on the side chairs, but in front :), see you at 6:30,” he wrote. I never ask to exchange numbers prior to a date but the fountain at Washington Square Park has an enormous circumference with hundreds of fountain dwellers surrounding it so I requested his digits to avoid any confusion.

He declined, suggesting that it would be “fun” to randomly spot each other. It was a romantic idea in theory but once I got there and circled the fountain four times eyeing men and children a little too closely, I was annoyed. After fifteen minutes passed I took a seat by the arch, logged on to my OKCupid phone app and sent him my location and description, “I’m the cool girl with the snazzy white bike.”

No response. I sat for a total of forty-five minutes. I felt like Gene Hackman in The Conversation, just being a creep listening to people talk and watching the brooding students, cute babies, and the hot lesbian couple making out two feet to my left. I was pretty certain I was being stood up but I was enjoying staring at strangers enough to wait it out.

As the sun began to set I mounted my white horse (my schwinn) and valiantly rode out of the park. When I hit the exit a short guido of a man puffing away on a Marlboro red stopped me. “Yo,” he yelled. I pumped my breaks and realized that this man vaguely resembled the pictures Todd had posted on OKCupid.

I momentarily tried to summon a polite girl inside of me, I tried forcing a fake smile but my inner bitch came crawling out, “You are forty-five minutes late. Not cool at all. I’m busy so I’m going to be on my way.”

He took a deep drag on on his burner and blew a cloud of smoke in my face. “Sorry, so much traffic getting in to the city and then I had to park my car. I live in Jersey,” he said. I brought up that his profile said he lived in the East Village. “Yeah, I put that so nobody would stalk me.” I assured him that I didn’t believe he needed to worry about that.

In his profile all of his pictures had close-lipped smiles. As he puffed away and revealed his yellow teeth, not pale yellow, I’m talking corn on the cob yellow, I quickly understood why. I asked if there were any other details he concealed on his profile. “Yeah I put down that I work in tech but I really work in finance.” Aha, another unnecessary lie. He was clearly a weirdo, and not the flavor of weirdo that I like.

In the five minutes we talked he smoked two cigarettes. It would have been impressive if it weren’t so disgusting. I mounted my bike again, he put his hand on my handle and I quickly removed it. “Let me get your number,” he said, mustering up every last bit of machismo.

“Nope,” suddenly I was relieved that Todd had declined to swap numbers from the get go. “That’s okay, it’ll be ‘fun’ for us if we run into each other again.” I waved him good-bye then pedaled away to the nearest deli where I bought myself some ice cream. Clearly my date was a bust but that didn’t mean my sweet tooth should have to suffer too. A solo cookiewich on a street corner wasn’t exactly how I imagined my date going but goddamn it was delicious.

Good Girl

“Next time you talk to me I wanna hear from you: ‘You’re a good Granny. Granny, my good girl. You’re a good girl,’” she purred with a baby-talk voice into the receiver.  “Wait, is that how I talk to Roxy (our family dog)? Forget about it, I don’t need that,” she said coming back to her senses and rough New Yorker accent.

Granny was right. Her conversation with William went on for more than my predicted ten-fifteen minutes. It clocked in at a solid one hour and twenty-two minutes. “I’m hoarse, goddammit,” she said after their chat, adding a theatric cough for emphasis.

Although she talked some good shit, William could be an interesting match for her. “He is extraordinarily well traveled,” she said. I like that Granny admires a man with exciting adventures under his belt. He’d need to have some seriously interesting experiences to share if he’s ever going to compete with her. “He is intelligent, I’ll give you that. He is old, you better give me that,” she said, weighing out his potential.

It also sounds like William is interested in more than just some light phone banter; although he didn’t set a date he did say he’d like to get together sometime. Following the same protocol as I would, Granny didn’t push for the date. The man needs to make that move. “Let him invite me out,” she said, “I’m not doing this telephone thing on an ongoing basis. I would like to see what this man looks like.” Come on Billy, ask a gal out.

LISTEN TO GRANNY’S  VOICEMAIL: William voicemail.mp3

Telephone Love Affair

I’m back to bullying Granny. After a game of phone tag with a potential date she called to tell me, “I find that all these old people, forget me, the other people, they just like to talk.” Although the young poptart has yet to have an actual conversation with the man, she’s convinced that all he’s after is a “telephone love affair”.

He’s been slow to ask her out so she’s decided to play hardball. “I told him he can call me in the evenings after nine.” Calling after nine is not just late for older people, that’s dangerously close to booty call territory. This argument only infused Granny more, “Listen I do things, I don’t sit around all night,” she hollered, “I move my body and go. He wants to talk to me? I don’t have time to chat. I’m charming, he has to come and meet me.” Suddenly it’s much clearer why I turned out with such a prominent conceited streak.

I piped up in his defense, it’s reasonable to talk to someone for 10-15 minutes before a date. “Ten-Fifteen minutes?” she asked sarcastically, “You’re living in a dreamland.  Ten-fifteen minutes? They’re still stuttering their names after ten minutes, these are old people. Ten-Fifteen minutes in the world of 25 years olds is an hour of conversation. Ten-fifteen minutes with an old fart of 80 or older goes on forever.” Ugh her argument is frustratingly stubborn, oozing with denial, but so badass I have to respect it.

LISTEN TO OUR CONVERSATION: telephone love affair convo.mp3

A Bit of a Dude

I told Granny about Sam and his macho nicknames for me but she refused to believe it had anything to do with the fact that I outweighed him in size and mass.

LISTEN TO HER RESPONSE: granny chat.mp3

“There is nobody who looks more feminine or womanly than you do,” she told me. “That’s strictly his thing, don’t buy into his problem.” (I casually flip my hair and blush)

Who could ask for a better cheerleader? Contrary to her kind words, I happen to be wearing my men’s XL sweatpants as I type this. This is day three of me wearing them in a row. I’m alone in my apartment, but still. I feel a little bit like a dude.

I’m Not A Dude

In online dating you risk facing disappointment when the façade is revealed and an interaction is taken into reality. Sam, my date from last night, is an excellent example of this. I didn’t just have his OKCupid profile to work with; he even sent me a link to his Facebook page prior to meeting for additional stalking opportunities.

I liked his quick-witted answers and choice photos in his dating profile. Although I’ve heard of online daters choosing to check out FB before a date, I opt not to. I feel it takes out the last shreds of mystery that I prefer to maintain. I don’t want to see you in Jamaica with some girl who made the mistake of getting cornrows, I’m not interested in looking at you and your bros out celebrating St. Patrick’s day, and it’s too soon for me to know that you’re listening to Chris Brown this very moment on Spotify.

That said, I probably should have checked out his page before the date.

When Sam sent me a message on OKCupid that complimented my style and “vibe”, I liked the direction he was heading in. Go ahead, blow up my ego.

Last night was chilly so we made the romantic decision to bundle up with some hot toddies at a West Village bar. I know I sound like an asshole always knocking short guys, but my inner measuring stick rarely lies; this guy was at best 5’6. His profile clocked him in at a solid 5’9. I’ll say it, I’m shallow. If I’m bigger than you it’s going to be hard for me to be attracted to you. I like large men because they make me feel small, it’s my own body complex. No more false advertising. I’ve surrendered my Booty Pop and accepted my God-given behind (most of the time), men need to accept their height and move forward.

In his messages Sam came across super confident which is a quality that attracts me in a man. However, in person he struggled to make eye contact and referred to me several times as “dude” and/or “man”, which I assume meant either he was super nervous by my stunning presence or he thought I resembled a guy (perhaps because I outsized him) and it made him uncomfortable.

He stared straight ahead at the bar so I took it upon myself to get the conversation rolling. “Do you live near here?” He shifted, then stiffly nodded. “Where?” I asked.

“Just across the river, man.” His profile lists him as a New Yorker. Across the river is New Jersey, not New York, and certainly not the West Village. “Dude, I like it out there because I have a lot of space, a whole floor actually.”

That sounded kind of cool, I started picturing a high rise with Manhattan views, modern architecture, and slick marble counter tops. “Any roommates?” I asked.

“Just my mom, dude,” he said, “She lives downstairs, it’s her house. But I have the whole upstairs.” If I were in high school this would have sounded like a pretty sweet set up, but as a self-sufficient modern lady, this wasn’t the most appealing of living scenarios for a potential beau.

He told me he’s taken up aviation classes with hopes to fly planes as a hobby. I had to give him points for that; it’s an interesting passion to follow. “I don’t do it to score girls,” he told me. I didn’t suspect he did in the first place. Flight classes are cool but not exactly sexy. He then began to tell a story of a fight he got into with his instructor in the air. Unable to make eye contact with me, he yelled straight ahead of him, reenacting the scene with the same fury he felt in the sky. It was uncomfortable for both the bartender he was facing and me.

“Any other hobbies?” I persisted. He told me about playing the guitar, but also mentioned that his musical inclinations were not driven by the desire for female attention either. To bust his balls I brought up the fact that his profile picture is of him holding his guitar. He didn’t appreciate this reminder.

“I’m on the Youtube,” he told me, “But I don’t have too many hits, I’m mainly trying to keep my stuff on the DL for now, man.”

This dude/man was not for me. I wrapped it up after one drink and wished him luck in the air and stage.

He texted me after, “That was a good time dude.”

The Keeper

Granny was more than tickled to hear about Matthew. When I mentioned that he’s published several children’s books she straight up squealed from delight. Like our date, Granny did a rapid fire question and answer with me to get all the dirt on the dude. “He’s from Chicago? He’s a cosmopolitan,” she cooed.

I knew that when I revealed his Jewish roots she’d be tickled but I didn’t know it would send her over the edge. “He’s a keeper,” she instructed, “Hang around him a bit, when I come to New York I’ll meet him or you can bring him home to visit in Florida after three months, if he’s hot shit, two months.” I reminded her that we only had a twenty-minute date, suggesting that she might be getting ahead of herself.


She warned me not to screw it up. “You don’t chase him. Let him pursue you, in a modern, contemporary way.” Then of course she blew some steam up my ass to remind me whose team she’s playing on, “You’re very attractive, he likes what he saw or he’s blind and he needs glasses.” I couldn’t find an argument there.

When it comes to getting frisky, she warned, “Don’t experiment in the bed so fast, he may want a nice Jewish girl.” I’m not sure if anyone has considered me a nice Jewish girl since my Bat Mitzvah, even then it might have been a stretch.

I asked how long she thought was appropriate to wait for sex, “A couple of months?” I laughed. “You can’t wait a couple of months? What’s on your schedule? Two dates, three dates?” Let’s not confine ourselves to the number of dates; it depends on the man.

“You could get some real mileage out of this guy, play your cards right,” she urged. Although I appreciate Granny’s enthusiasm, I think she may have gotten a little carried away. Although I enjoyed Matthew’s company, twenty minutes is only enough time to have a drink, not enough to make plans for experimenting in the bedroom or bringing him home to meet Granny.

Rapid Fire

Last week I received a persuasive message from a man named Matthew:

12 great reasons to message me back:

1. Good at making lists.
2. Also works in several industries.
3. Two words: animal magnetism
5. Accurate profile photos (and only one with no shirt on)
5. Asks insightful questions: Were you at the LCD sound system farewell show last year?
6 . Excellent at counting.
11. Tall, dark and mysterious…
12. ????

Numbers three and six were particularly attractive qualities to me, but the cliffhanger of number 12 was what really got me.

We began sending some messages back and forth. “How nerdy were you in high school?” he asked. Nerdy? I was probably at my peak of coolness in high school. I danced in a cage at a foam party during spring break in Daytona. How many nerds do that? Geez. (In retrospect, I may have been quite nerdy.)

We tried setting up a date but ran into several scheduling difficulties. First he couldn’t make it because he had plans to go see an opera at The Met. The next time I couldn’t make it because I had plans to see the Lorax in 3D. Although our contrasting choices of entertainment might have been a telling sign about our compatibility we still charged forward and arranged to meet for a drink last night.

We chose a bar through texts. “I’m the girl in the cool tie-dyed shirt,” I texted when I arrived. He didn’t see me. As it often happens with modern day communication, there was a miscommunication and we ended up at different bars. By the time we finally rendezvoused we only had twenty minutes to grab a drink. Apparently we were both expert online daters, arranging plans for after our drink so there could be a natural cut-off point.

It was a full on speed date. We did a rapid-fire question and answer session as we pounded our beers. He published several children’s books. That is a secret fantasy of mine. Vegan Vampires. The Panda Goes to Pilates. Spaghetti Sauce in Space. So many ideas, so little time.

We talked a bit about the pros and cons of online dating. He said he enjoyed it because it got him out of his immediate social circle. Great point, Matthew. He also said it saved him from going to a bar, getting drunk enough to ask a girl out, then dealing with either the rejection or the sloppy make out. Who doesn’t love a sloppy make out?

I’m not sure if it was because of the condensed time period or because we actually had a connection but it was an entertaining twenty-minute date.

He walked me out of the bar and I caught him eyeing my white bike as I unlocked it. “Are you jealous of my bike?” I asked.

“No,” he said, clearly lying. My bike is gorgeous.

He said he had a cooler bike (doubt it) and suggested we take a bike ride sometime. A bike ride with a published children’s book author who prides himself on his animal magnetism and ability to count? Perhaps I’ll go along for the ride.

No Cooks in the Kitchen

After conferring with some gal pals Granny called me back to discuss further what she learned from date three with Tim, “There are definite differences between dating at 25 and 75,” she began, “This seems to be the standard. Men will take you out twice, the third time you take them out or better yet invite them home for a lovely home cooked meal.”

Although she was happy to have learned a new tip in the dating game she still won’t conform to the standard, “I’m not cooking dinner for any man,” she said.

I reminded her that she actually won’t cook dinner for anyone, including me. I have no memories of Granny in the kitchen doing anything more than arranging a shrimp cocktail from Whole Foods or making a bowl of ice cream. She insists that she used to be a big cook, “It was only later that I started buying things and putting them on the table.”

After guilt tripping her, she promised to prepare a nice meal for me when I go home, “You like chicken? Yes or no?” she asked. “I have a nice chicken dish, I’ll make it for you and you’ll like it.”


The Old Adage

Granny got quite a kick out of the concept of a “panini special”. After explaining the happy hour deal three times she finally got it. “Okay, okay, so you get the panini for nothing with the drinks ya paid for? Unbelievable,” she huffed.

When I explained his job description she told me, “When they have nothing else to say, they’re entrepreneurs,” she giggled, “They’re just entreprenuring.”

We both agreed it was impossible to know for sure Wayne’s story, background, and profession. “I go back to the old adage that a shrink told me 100 years ago,” she said, “‘What you really know, is that you don’t know.’  That you can count on.”


Panini Special

“Meet me at 6 for the happy hour panini special,” Wayne, my date, texted me.

I figured that Wayne was either a deal-hunter, panini enthusiast, or joking, but there was only one way to find out. Wayne’s affinity for food was what attracted me to him in the first place. On the “6 things I could not do without” list he put:

1. milk chocolate
2. dark chocolate
3. chocolate chip cookies
4. gianduja chocolate
5. chocolate fondue
6. flourless chocolate cake

It was clear we were going to have at least five things in common. I didn’t know what gianduja was, but I wanted to find out.

In Wayne’s profile it also mentioned that he liked to “sniff and swirl” wine so I wasn’t surprised when I walked in the bar to find his nose deep in a glass of Tempranillo. After we greeted he welcomed me to a smell of his drink.

I reached for it, he pulled it back and swirled it three times in each direction, then slid it back to me. “It needs to breath,” he cooed. I commented on its leathery aroma. “Continue…” he urged me.

I know a bit about wine, I’ve even gone to some vineyards in Bordeaux but this was wine in a dive bar that didn’t seem worthy of an in depth description. I looked up above the bar at the game on the flat screen TVs and over at the prominent Jaeger chiller, “Spicy?” I gave it a shot to humor him. He nodded like a proud teacher.

When I ordered a beer I felt the disappointment in Wayne’s eyes, It turned out there really was a free panini “special”, with any drink you get a panini of your choice between the hours of 5-7. Wayne suggested we go “half-sies”, the creative term he explained, that he uses with his friends when they split meals.

Wayne was laid off from his corporate job last year and has taken to being an “entrepreneur”, apparently this is a growing job title. When I asked what he was working on he told me he couldn’t share those details because it’s in the “top secret stages” of development. I told him I had a business idea too, this is supposed to be under wraps also, but seeing as the insurance for my business plan might be too high to ever pull off I shared it with him:

Zipsters. Zip-lines that connect Brooklyn to Manhattan. The speedy and fun alternative to the subway for hipsters. Harnesses would be as cool as skinny jeans and facial hair. This is a billion dollar idea. Right? Wayne didn’t think so. He pointed out all the holes in my plan and told me it would never happen. Pssshhhh, we’ll see.

With the uncomfortable business conversation in the air, it was a relief when our paninis came so our attention could be turned back to our shared interest, food. Like the wine, the panini also had notes of leather in it. We both tried to enjoy our sandwiches but there was no denying that they were free for a reason and our only true connection was based on chocolate.


Message I received on OKCupid:

Hey what’s up, I am truly mesmerized by your beauty, so I decided to write a song for you, hope you like it: 

twinkle twinkle beautiful star 
how I wonder what you are 
up above the clouds so high 
like a bracelet in the sky 
twinkle twinkle beautiful star 
how I wonder what you aaarrrreeee 
original song for an original lady, what do you think 🙂

Not sure how to take this. Does he want to give me a bracelet? Is he being sarcastic when he calls me original? Has this poem ever worked for him on anyone over the age of five?

Under favorite books he wrote: “BOOKS – I would need to read to have a favorite.”

Chivalry Is Dead

I might be a shitty granddaughter. Is it wrong to force your Granny to go on a date against her will? Besides my own selfish wishes to be entertained by her tales, I swear I thought it would be a nice for her to develop, at the very least, a friendship with Tim.

When he sent an email last week asking her out for dinner he added, “You said earlier that it was your treat. Think I’ll accept that… P.S. Of course I’ll pay for drinks.” She said he was self-involved and had no interest in treating him to dinner. I was convinced that he was just being cheeky in his message; I didn’t really believe he was going to have her pay. He’s an old retired English man with a boat and a large home, I thought he’d have the funds or at least the manners to treat a classy lady to a meal, especially since he was the one to ask her out.

“He’s short and angsty, you know how short men can have a complex,” she whined. Although I’m familiar with the complex, I insisted that she was being a brat until she finally caved and agreed to go.

When he called to set up the date he said he’d pick her up at her apartment. He must have heard the hesitation in her voice because he joked, “Don’t worry I’m not coming up.”

“Trust me, I wasn’t worried,” she replied without any hint of flirtation.

She told me, “Bed relationships at this age has got to be an experience and half. I don’t look forward to dealing with an old, messy, farty situation,” she gave more of a visual than I needed but I got where she was going. “I’ve had very nice relationships in the bedroom in my life, I’m not about to ruin that with this guy.”

They went to a restaurant on the water for dinner. There were some popping sounds going off, “Must be fireworks,” she said casually to Tim.

He quickly dismissed her and grunted, “I know a pistol when I hear one.”

When the waitress came up and apologized for the loud firecrackers he pretended to be busy with his napkin. For two and half hours she listened to him talk about the Bowl of Jello again. He completely monopolized the conversation. “He didn’t remember a goddamn thing about me. He didn’t remember if I had a son or a daughter or that I was from New York,” she said. “This was our third date, I’d like to blame it on his old age but the truth is he’s just a self-involved bastard.”

Granny is not one to let bad behavior slide. “Did you call him out on it?” I asked.

“I told him I had heard that some men online are looking for a nurse or a purse, the old fart got offended and said he has never heard such a thing,” she giggled, “Bullshit, he’s looking for both.”

She explained to me that older people are just more honest and stuck in their ways. “There’s no more playing games like when you’re 25. Old people are comfortable enough to put themselves out there the way they are. For better, or in his case, worse.”

“Did he make you pay?” I asked. There are chivalrous gestures that I assumed stuck with older generations. It’s 2012, I’m a money-making gal, I have no problem picking up the check or at least paying my half of the bill when I’m on a date but to me that feels like a modern development that wouldn’t apply to a date between two people in their seventies.

“As soon as the bill came he pushed it in front of me.” I gasped. “Let me give you our order,” she began practically snarling, “I had a piece of cod and a glass of wine. He had a salad, a two glasses of wine, crab legs, and a coffee.”

Of course Granny being the penny pincher that she is, remembered the cost of every item. “My fish? Thirteen dollars. His meal,” she began, stretching out the vowels, “It was forty-eight dollars.” She put eighteen dollars on the table then went to the bathroom where she told me she contemplated calling a cab or my mother to come pick her up. “I wasn’t far from home, I thought it would have been cheaper to take a cab than pay for his dinner.”

When she came back to the table he rudely stated, “You owe more.”

“What is more?” she asked.

He pushed the check in front of her again; she reluctantly took out more bills.

“Apparently this is the way it is here,” she said to me as if she was discovering a new tip in a magazine, “If a man takes you to dinner once or twice then you have to take him to dinner. That’s what’s happening these days.”

If he were a gentleman that wanted to continue things she told me, “He would have said, ‘You get it next time’ and that repertoire would have continued just so he could get some more time with me. He played it all wrong,” she said. I had to agree, the jerk should have paid for his own crab legs.

When he dropped her off at her home she said good-bye, “I meant it, kid. Good-bye. That’s it. Never again,” she told me.

“What I’m realizing is that when you’re older, because sex is minimal or a non-existent part of the equation, you really need to like each other. Character matters so much more. I don’t like this man.” I didn’t blame her. “The positive thing,” she began, and boy was I glad to hear there was an upside, “It’s nice to know it’s a learning experience even at 70-whatever, I’m still learning.”