A Day in the Life of a Matchmaker

Off the Record · by Emily Holmes Hahn

Editor’s Note: Ripe for a memoir. This is a good way to describe the life of Emily Holmes Hahn, resident contributor and founder of LastFirst Matchmaking. After a wine-fueled evening of gasping and gaping at Emily’s latest anecdotes, I cajoled her into recording a mundane Monday of her life (which constitutes of more activities than I take on in a week). Please note that the non-PG parts were left out due to matchmaker-client privileges – personally, I’m waiting for that juicy NYC tell-all!

5:30 a.m. Wake up to the soft glow of the city outside my window. My inner peace is quickly broken by my puppy Wilfie, demanding to be released from his crate (typical male).

The Dbag Dating Guide to Los Angeles

Typecasting · by Julia Reiss

Whenever my friends in New York or Paris complain about the dating scenes in their respective cities, I can’t help but throw my head back in an unapologetic fit of patronizing laughter. Ça n’a rien à voir avec my hometown of Los Angeles, chéries.

Imagine all the all the mean girls (and boys) in high school who decided compensate for their parents routinely ignoring them (and/or bribing their way into top tier universities) by obtaining worldwide adoration. Now, stick them all in one kale-and-oat-milk-fueled city, and make them compete with one another for entertainment jobs and Instagram likes. That’s Los Angeles for you.

Please keep in mind that the self-important, navel-gazing nature of Hollywood is not industry-specific – everyone in Los Angeles is a celebrity of some sort, if only in their own mind. So, unless pathological narcissism turns you on, I suggest you look elsewhere if it’s love that you’re after.

With all that said, if you do find yourself looking for love in the City of Angels (LOL), here are some of the characters you may encounter.
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Oh The Places We’ll Never Go…

Misery Loves Company · by Chloe Montana Rash

This post was brought to you by Chloé Montana Rash, a New York-based filmmaker who counts Palm Beach, Toronto, Paris, and London amongst her former residences. Chloe has excellent taste in food, terrible taste in men, and never discusses love on an empty stomach.

“You haven’t seen Woody Allen play the clarinet here before? I’ve been three times already. I need to take you.”

Ah, those five dreaded words: I need to take you. A new, exceedingly depressing, version of swiping right, sending a DM, and never following through with an actual date. When did it become so easy to “take” people places, without the actual intention of going anywhere? 

My eyes fixed at the Madeline cartoon on the wall as you held my hand underneath the ledge of Bemelmans bar at the Carlyle. Your wormlike fingers bulged around mine, reminding me of the balloons in the mural in front of us. On some evenings, you would swap out your lion ring for your grandfather’s silver skull ring; he was a sailor who taught you how to ride motorcycles. I often pictured you on a Harley in one of your bespoke three-piece suits, usually burgundy, with that ring glistening against the handlebar. I had always been suspicious of men who wear jewelry.

The Story of Machete Man

I Know How To Pick'Em · by Marina Khorosh

“You are too old to recount your dates to the Internet,” I decided when I found myself reunited with the single troupes last summer. “You had your fun, now you should grow! Mature! Evolve!” I was secretly hoping that I had tapped into some newfound wisdom that would result in an organic shortage of content for this blog.

Ha. Just like leopards don’t change their spots, I don’t change my proclivity to seek out psychiatric case studies. Enter Machete Man.

It was November 6th and I had spent the morning at my local polling place and the afternoon getting grappling with a 4-hour migraine-slash-medical-mystery (which has since been resolved). I felt sad, story, sorry for myself, in need of love. And so, I did something that has never led to anything good in the past, and agreed to go out with a guy I had just met online, that very evening.

This is How You Answer Your Hinge Questions

Those Who Can't Do, Teach · by Marina Khorosh

I love Hinge. Actually, that’s an immense overstatement, as I happen to despise all dating apps by definition. Because, at 32 years old, I happen to despise dating. And yet, in an arena of punitive options, Hinge is somewhat of the lesser evil. For uno, the large majority of men seem clean, educated and gainfully employed. For dos, it obligates each user to fill out a set of questions, consequently enabling one to (somewhat) filter out the biggest narcissists and dullards.

The only downfall is that you can answer only three of them, which is quite unfair because of how fun and millennial they are! And so, I decided to utilize this platform to take a swing at a few more. There is no method to the madness, just gut instinct and an inherent penchant for self-sabotage.

(Dear Hinge marketing team, this is a sponsored post. Feel free to send me on vacation to Cartagena.)

I’ll fall for you if

You are moody and ever-so-slightly narcissistic.

What I’d like to know about you

Nothing much. But my mom wants a psychiatric evaluation.

Seeking Answers? Try Asking For Them

Musings of the Mind · by Marina Khorosh

Why isn’t he writing? What if I hadn’t sent that stupid text yesterday? What if I send this brilliant message now? What did he mean by “talk soon”? Why did he send me an emoji of a girl getting a head massage? What does all of this MEAN?!

Rare manipulative geniuses aside, most of us have probably been in this predicament – guessing, speculating, deciphering messages, torturing our friends for probable scenarios – in summary, granting the objects of our affection far more energy than they deserve. Frankly, I could have learned Spanish in the amount of time I’ve wasted on this bullshit.

Well, NOT ANYMORE!

This past fall, a platonic friendship took a brief romantic detour, then quickly reverted to its original format. We never really discussed what had happened, which I was okay with – at first. As time passed and communication got weirder, the vague question mark that had been left hovering over the situation gradually began to sink deeper into the surface of my mind, garnering unprecedented gravitas. Suddenly, I needed to know what had happened. I needed him to like me. I needed to win.