Perfect on Paper Peter (& the 10 Times I ran away)

I Know How To Pick'Em · Paris · by Marina Khorosh

Many years ago, my friends and I met a group of girls at a bachelorette party in Montreal. As the glowing bride-to-be reached her tenth kamikaze shot, she decided to volunteer a candid detail behind her love story. “I only started liking him on our fifteenth date”, she informed us, shattering our youthful beliefs about the instantaneousness of true love.

Fifteen dates?! At this point, I was giving up after fifteen minutes if a guy wasn’t piquing my interest. What about love at first sight, the once-in-a-lifetime connection, Cupid soaring through the sky and piercing his bow through two soulmates’ hearts? The story stayed with me, becoming somewhat of a barometer for how bizarre life can be.

Divorcée Dating 101

As predicted by Sex and the City and our mothers alike, as we reach our late 20s, the pool of eligible, baggage-free bachelors slowly starts to dwindle. We begin hearing dismal statements like “All the good ones are taken”, making one yearn to book a one-way ticket to Bali and shack up with a dreadlocked surfer named José in an effort to escape the banalities of life.

However, as one pool diminishes, another one begins replenishing itself. This is the pool of the divorcées, often accompanied by a wading pool of rugrats left over from the failed experiment. (I am really outdoing myself with the metaphors today.) Recently confronted with this predicament, I have yet again composed an educational list that showcased the benefits and downfalls on embarking upon a the journey to the Land of Used Goods.

Best Dating Advice from Mom

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

My mother almost never gives me dating advice, fearing that her guidance will steer me in the wrong direction and cost me the potential love of my life. Having married my father at the age of 23, she feels that she has little understanding of the modern dating world and all the crazies it has to offer (needless to say, this blog is a perennial question mark in her mind).

The best lesson I learned from my mother was by watching her in action. When I was little, my parents slept on a pullout futon in the living room. Every evening, my father would ask my mother to prepare the bed for him, and she would dutifully head to the living room to undo the ancient green futon. Years later, when we moved to a bigger apartment where my parents had a real bedroom and a queen-sized bed, my father still continued ask my mother to “prepare” his bed. Instead of telling him to take a long hike to Bed, Bath & Beyond (or whatever Russian equivalent of it), my mom would go to the bedroom, undo the covers, and fluff my father’s pillow to make it look nice and accommodating.

The Eternal Bachelor Club

Typecasting · Paris · by Marina Khorosh

Once upon a time when I was about 20, I had an older boyfriend named Jeff. Jeff was a handsome 33-year-old Jewish guy from Long Island with a penchant for all things GTL. (For those living under a pop culture rock, this stands for “gym, tan, laundry”, an acronym penned by Jersey Shore.) Apart from his considerable cultural deficit, Jeff was, by definition, everything you would consider a “good catch”: good-looking, family-oriented, and relatively successful, with a number of retail businesses to support a brood of spoiled brats.

While I was way too young to consider anything serious with Jeff, I was certain that, sometime within the next few years, he would settle down with a minute Jewish girl who would annually pop him out cute Sephardic babies in exchange for red Cartier (push) gift boxes.

The DD Guide to Online Stalking

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

This past Sunday, I accidentally ended up at Gleason’s boxing gym in Dumbo, halfheartedly attempting to tone my arms in preparation for my best friend’s impending nuptials.

Somewhere between sucker punching my brother and napping on the mat, I started chatting with a cute guy. He had overheard that we were Russian, and, as a fellow compatriot, was actively trying to make small talk. As we were leaving, he gave me his name, but never asked for my number. Max. (This is possibly the first time I’m using a real name on this blog. MAX, IF YOU HEAR ME, EMAIL ME! dbagdating@gmail.com)

I have to admit that I felt disappointed. After all, it’s not every day that I meet a Russian guy who speaks perfect English, boxes (fine, plenty of them box – it’s a wannabe Klitschko thing), and even lived in Paris for a few years! Unfortunately, this was the only factual data I had on Max, which was the primary reason for my disappointed. Not only had I not reciprocated his friendliness, I had also failed to source any leads to find him via my top-level investigative skills!

The Story of Failed Serendipity

I Know How To Pick'Em · Paris · by Marina Khorosh

This was supposed to be a Notebook kind of story, the type of plot that goes on to inspire major motion pictures. Instead, it’s just a sad recount that proves that I was set up for disaster from a young age.

Let’s rewind back a good 13 years, to a time when I was a cute Russian teenager skiing with my family in Germany. I had a new red ski jacket and had just convinced my mother to allow me to get blond highlights, coming close to my dreams of emulating Stacey McGill or Jessica Wakefield.

In an act of teenage rebellion, I dedicated the trip to teaching myself how to snowboard, while the rest of my family (4-year-old nephew included) skied ahead of me. Left to my own devices, I soon discovered that doing nothing ‘chilling’ was actually part of the snowboarding culture, and began joining the fellow teen slackers perched on the side of the slopes. Read More