The $850,000 Date
We all have our nightmare blind dating stories. The woman that was 20 pounds heavier than her picture, the guy 3 inches shorter, the one that just never showed. But there was one that stands out, from the many blind dates I have endured: the rich man. For this story, let's call him Art.
Art wrote me at, where else, "the system" (aka Jdate for those of you new to my stories) a few months ago, at a time when I was the most vulnerable: I was home sick with the flu. As it turns out, Art was home from work as well having injured himself in a helicopter jumping ski accident in Aspen. Art's profile was funny enough to intrigue me; vague enough to not deter me. Honestly, he could have been from Staten Island and I would have still written him back- I was delirious with fever. Art provided the much needed entertainment from the boredom of 5 sick days, and a blizzard. Using my laptop and Art's blackberry, we exchanged over 100 emails those days.
Art told me all the wonderful details of his life: how the blizzard prevented his personal shopping appointment at Prada, how he once caught an ex-girlfriend going through his tax returns, how he had houses in Vail and Vermont, and a plasma TV. There are many women who might have been intrigued, I wanted to barf. Why was I still talking to Art you might ask? On top of preventing me from losing my mind, Art was a godsend- he drove over a bagful of DVDs to help me brave the flu and the blizzard. He even lent me the entire first season of 24. Art was my hero.
After we recovered from our respective ailments, it seemed only natural for Art and I to go on an "official" date (dropping off videos did not count.) I left the decision up to Art- I had a feeling he was a little more selective in his restaurants.
A few days later, Art picked me up at my apartment in his shiny, new big-ass BMW and took me to one of the nicest restaurants in NYC- Il Mulino (definitely not blind date worthy, probably not even dates 1-5 worthy.) When we walked in, Art was hugged by the maitre'd, poured his "favorite" scotch by the bartender and seated at the finest table in the house. Not bad. I'm not going to complain at this point- the food was unbelievable.
The conversation flowed and I laughed at Art's stories- he was getting cuter by the minute. That is until the topic turned to work. Art began telling me the details of his career, and all-of-a-sudden, like a teenage popping zit, he spewed out something gross- his salary. Art began to tell me that last year was a bad year for him, as he only made $850,000. As soon as it started coming out of his mouth, I tried to stop him, I tried to cover my ears. Did he really just tell me his salary on the first date?? The only thing I could think was, "man, this guy must have a very, very small penis."
Art wrote me at, where else, "the system" (aka Jdate for those of you new to my stories) a few months ago, at a time when I was the most vulnerable: I was home sick with the flu. As it turns out, Art was home from work as well having injured himself in a helicopter jumping ski accident in Aspen. Art's profile was funny enough to intrigue me; vague enough to not deter me. Honestly, he could have been from Staten Island and I would have still written him back- I was delirious with fever. Art provided the much needed entertainment from the boredom of 5 sick days, and a blizzard. Using my laptop and Art's blackberry, we exchanged over 100 emails those days.
Art told me all the wonderful details of his life: how the blizzard prevented his personal shopping appointment at Prada, how he once caught an ex-girlfriend going through his tax returns, how he had houses in Vail and Vermont, and a plasma TV. There are many women who might have been intrigued, I wanted to barf. Why was I still talking to Art you might ask? On top of preventing me from losing my mind, Art was a godsend- he drove over a bagful of DVDs to help me brave the flu and the blizzard. He even lent me the entire first season of 24. Art was my hero.
After we recovered from our respective ailments, it seemed only natural for Art and I to go on an "official" date (dropping off videos did not count.) I left the decision up to Art- I had a feeling he was a little more selective in his restaurants.
A few days later, Art picked me up at my apartment in his shiny, new big-ass BMW and took me to one of the nicest restaurants in NYC- Il Mulino (definitely not blind date worthy, probably not even dates 1-5 worthy.) When we walked in, Art was hugged by the maitre'd, poured his "favorite" scotch by the bartender and seated at the finest table in the house. Not bad. I'm not going to complain at this point- the food was unbelievable.
The conversation flowed and I laughed at Art's stories- he was getting cuter by the minute. That is until the topic turned to work. Art began telling me the details of his career, and all-of-a-sudden, like a teenage popping zit, he spewed out something gross- his salary. Art began to tell me that last year was a bad year for him, as he only made $850,000. As soon as it started coming out of his mouth, I tried to stop him, I tried to cover my ears. Did he really just tell me his salary on the first date?? The only thing I could think was, "man, this guy must have a very, very small penis."
posted by Does Debbie @ 10:54 PM
1 Comments:
At 1:59 PM,
Anonymous said…
Hi, I came across your blog, read this entry and couldn't believe it: i went out with the same guy and had exactly the same experience, complete with him picking me up in the Beemer to go to Il Mulino for our first date (hugging waiters, scotch in his hand the second we walked in - i'm dying!!!). I heard all about the W2 gal, his personal shopper at Prada, house in Vermont... sounds like "Art" needs a new schtick and stategy; word gets around when you're trying to compensate for having a small penis...
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