I think I know why I’m still single. I get annoyed really easily. I’m sitting here at The Grove on Fillmore–my favorite cafe. Side note: it’s really only my fave because they make their own scrumptious chocolate chip cookies that are thin and flat and pan-sized. They are literally pan-sized. I come here 2-3 times during the work week and every day of the weekend. I’m practically a living, breathing chocolate chip cookie. They know me here. I walk in and the people go to the back and make sure I get the freshest batch. They make fantastic cookies. If it weren’t for that, I’d be at Cafe Abir on Divisadero instead. The lighting at The Grove is terrible. I’m about to go blind writing my blog here. Damn that sweet tooth.
During my tenure here, I’ve unwillingly listened in on uncomfortable first dates, uninspiring banter of friends, and frustrating hand signals between the Spanish-speaking workers and the unsympathetic whities of lower Pacific Heights. I don’t know why, but the particular conversation to my left at this very moment underscores how glad I am that I’m still single. Apparently, this couple has just moved and for the past half hour they continue to detail the number of boxes still left to unpack. “8 more kitchen ones, right?” I want to shoot them. Talk about something else: the weather, your sex life, anything but boxes. Get over it. This is how a conversation about moving should play out in real life: “Not done packing yet. Still have a lot more boxes to go. So, how ’bout them Giants?” Nope. Boxes and more boxes. They’re still at it. Damn, build a friggin Access database if it’s that complicated.
I’m such a whiner. One of my biggest annoyances–cheap dates. I think that ranks right up there with vegetarians and born-again zealots. Even the blind squirrel finds a nut every once in a while so keep looking, fellas. I’m not interested!
I’ve had my fair share of cheap dates. This isn’t a rarity and I’m sure some of you are reading right now. Maybe I’m a little spoiled; my exes spoiled me rotten. They still do. I was in for a real shock when I immersed myself into the world of dating. In business school, I was delighted when a handsome, intelligent, and witty guy asked me out. He was the winning combination. Our first date was at a swanky bar. We were having a fabulous time. Then the bill came. He said, “Hmmm, how do you want to handle this?” I was flabbergasted. He might as well have announced, “I want you to suck my cock.”
Thoughts of having his children ceased immediately. I was so shocked, I gave him a quizzical look. “How ‘ bout we split?” he suggested. I threw my credit card down and looked away. Inside my head, the furor boiled over, “You were the one who asked me out, you asshole.” This is the same guy who made it very clear that when he came to b-school, he left a high-paying job that had allowed him to purchase a home. Further, he was on his way to an even better paying job on Wall Street. “Fuck you, you cheapo!”
I couldn’t believe it. This is something I would expect in undergrad with a bunch of granola hippies gearing up to work for non-profits. Not at business school for God’s sake.
I’m not some pampered, diva-esque Anna Nicole Smith scouring the convalescent homes for 90-year-old billionaires on life support. I’m self-supporting, thank you very much. But it’s a matter of principle. Guys make more than women. That is a fact. I love my friend Marc’s sexist and veritable honesty, “How do you wake up in the morning knowing that you’re a minority female? How do you do it? You’re smarter than me, even better-educated. But I will always make more money than you being the white male that I am. I feel so sorry for you.” It’s a slap in the face. Catty and true. That’s why I love Marc. He’s friggin hilarious and tells it like it is.
I repeat, men make more than women. Men should pay–especially on the first date. It’s the proper, gentlemanly thing to do. If there’s a problem with that, then there’s something seriously wrong in the world. Or fellas, figure out a way to subsidize your income because no woman wants a cheap dude. Period.