So Prince Charming has jumped over the high voltage hurdles and has managed to slay all of the dragons, warranting a date with the duchess. Whether your Christian Singles account paid off or the guy you folded your laundry next to didn’t mind seeing your bleach-stained Justin Bieber hoodie... you have a date. Congrats. You’re on the right track. If you paid attention to the last post, hopefully you kept an eye out for any red flags. Don’t ever doubt the fact that your face is far too pretty to end up in somebody’s freezer.
Now, leading up to the date is crucial. So he flirted with you, maybe you casually had eye-fornication... he made you smile. Blah. Blah. Blah. Here is the real kicker... did he have a big enough pair to confront you and ask for your number. This is very important. If he’s lolly-gagging around you with his tongue hanging out of his mouth and does nothing to harp on his animalistic instincts, you have no time for him. What’s that NSYNC song with the marionettes? Yes, bye bye bye. As my darling grandmother used to say: “Men are like buses. If you miss one, you wait five minutes and catch the next one.”
If he does ask for your number, you kindly flash a smile and give it to him, only if you have sexual attraction to him. I’m not saying you should shell out your digits to a Ted Kaczynski look-alike. You can always do the trusty ‘If I shake my head slow enough, it looks like I don’t speak English.’ Use your instinct, ladies. If you decide it’s worth your precious time and you give it to him, pretend that the interaction didn’t even occur and go about your busy duchess ways. If he calls you, he gets a gold star. If he texts you, we give him a slap on the wrist by waiting 2 hours to respond with a quick and boring obligated text. If you don’t hear from him at all, his loss.
You keep your responses short and witty. You don’t want to send these wishy-washy lol-laden hahahahahahahahahaha texts. In all actuality, nobody ever laughs as much as they make it sound. Unless, they’re texting me, of course. We’ll keep this short. Tune-in tomorrow for advice on text-etiquette. Sext-etiquette will come later. Just kidding, that’s a goddamn free-for-all. Have at it. So you occasionally text, please make sure he’s not annoying you and blowing up your phone like your seventh grade boyfriend during study hall. You are an independent adult. Make it seem like you’re really a lot busier than you are and you don’t have time for him, even if you spend the bulk of your day searching Pinterest for additions to your Harry Potter board. (points to self) This will make the hamster in his brain start convulsing and foaming at the mouth. Men are babies, they worry. Make him sweat. Grrr.
Let him arrange the date. It is his job. However, whatever you do, do not let him surprise you. This will end terribly. Let’s take a short trip back to a quick relationship I had with FireFighter. We met at a bar in Boston, quickly went on a few dates, hit it off and things were great. We were at an early stage in our relationship: PG-13 sleepovers, lots of dinners, wine-drinking, laughter, happiness, all of that Taylor Swift-inspired-silliness. FireFighter wanted to surprise me with a fun day trip. In return, I wanted to surprise FireFighter with my brand new Jessica Simpson clip-in hair extensions. It was July so I put on some sunless tanner, clipped my faux locks in for a Kate Middleton meets Jenna Jameson look, picked out a Vineyard Vines linen dress and strapped on some cork wedges. It was quite the ensemble. As he pulled up to my apartment I stared in horror as he was proudly sporting a topless jeep. I never cringe at the idea of topless, but let’s be real. I couldn’t explain to FireFighter that my porn-star locks would have been lost in the wind if I so much as stepped into that thing. I swallowed my pride, stepped into the Jeep and held my head in my lap like I were trying to avoid motion sickness over the Bermuda Triangle. Fantastic. The surprise ended greatly as we drove for TWO AND A HALF HOURS to a beach resort. I quickly escaped to the bathroom, took out my white-girl weave and shoved it into my tote faster than you can say ‘train-wrack.’ I exited that bathroom looking like Courtney Love after a 5 day bender. Fantastic. With that being said, surprises are terrible. You want to be mentally prepared, physically prepared and emotionally prepared.
Clothing is a big deal. You don’t want to show up looking like Amy Winehouse, but you also don’t want to show up looking like Barbara Bush. Go for the Destiny’s Child rule. If you’re going to show legs, cover your top with at least a three-quarter sleeve. Blazers are a girl’s best friend. If you want to show off your perfect twins, flaunt a perfectly fitting bustier, but be sure to wear jeans. Of course, you want to wear heels. Doesn’t have to be an intense Victoria Beckham heel, but anything that elevates you. It will make you feel better, trust me. Just don’t drink one too many glasses of Cotes du Rhone and slide across the dining room into a patron’s soup du jour. Never a pretty sight. (not from experience or anything)
So he tells you all about the date he has planned. Great. Plan on meeting him there. It is 2012. For your own safety, avoid getting in his car. Yes it would be a lot more convenient if you could immediately spot the built-in breathalyzer or stash of pizza boxes in the back seat, but these observations will just have to wait. So you casually meet him at the restaurant. The restaurant is key. I find that French restaurants really are the way to go. Indian restaurants tend to reenact the Battle Of the Bulge on your intestines. Sushi can be risky, you don’t know what kind of quality you will get. Italian portions are ridiculous and will leave you with a carb bloat and breath that could stop a clock. Chain restaurants are an insult, and pubs are a no-no. (He’s not meeting his buddies for a burger and some hockey, let’s be honest) French it is.
If he has half a brain he will have made a reservation. If you get there early it is a good idea to make your way over to the bar for a drink. This is key. Yes, I did rip apart men who drink white wine and estrogen-induced cocktails, so judging him based upon his drink is perfectly acceptable. Manhattan drinkers are hot, scotch drinkers really get me going, beer drinkers are ok just not on the first date and wine is always a trusted option. Martinis are perfect as long as he doesn’t order a lemon drop with a sugared rim. AKA they should have three things: vodka/gin, dry vermouth, twist/olives. I’m a purist by nature, don’t mess up a good thing... Rum is kind of iffy, let him order that when he’s taking you to Atlantis for a week... yes, these things do enter our brains.
From there, do your thing. WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T ORDER JUST A SALAD. You will look like an idiot. Whoever the hell came up with that rule... was an anorexic basket case. If you’re worried about looking like a binge-eater, order salmon. You can even go to town with eating asparagus... You’re not going to be giving it up on the first date anyway, RIGHT?! Right. Duchesses don’t do that. Make him sweat. Men are hunters, or something like that...
Let him decide if he wants dessert. Hopefully he will order it, it makes him not appear to be a cheap a-hole and it’s cute to dig your spoons together and to fight over chocolate. Chocolate releases dopamine, almost like an orgasm... It will get your minds acting up. BUT QUICKLY MAKE IT STOP. Duchesses don’t do that... Don’t be that awkward girl that stands by her car with her shoulders slumped. (never do that, chest out. always) Initiate the goodbye, you don’t have to tell him how much fun you had, this isn’t a Nicolas Sparks novel. Thank him for dinner, which I know he paid for because he surpassed all of the previous tests, and hug him goodbye. If he’s not a complete pussy he’ll make a move. Don’t do more than kiss him though. If he absolutely skeeved you out and repeatedly talked about his illegitimate child, his ex-girlfriend or his mother all throughout dinner, you can even shake his hand, hop in your car and do a burn-out. You’re a duchess. You have life safely nestled away in your Michael Kors clutch next to your rollerball and your Bloomingdales credit car.... see ya later, sucka.
That’s pretty much all the insight I have time for today, dearies. Must be running... Just another piece on how a post-grad can have plans of survival on this sandbar. Keep party-rocking and looking pretty, dolls. ex oh ex oh
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