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By Kat Richter, March 7, 2011 6:00 am

"So Anne, I know it's been a while but..."

This year, Valentine’s Day came and went with nary a card, a box of chocolates, or even the usual fighting between my preschool students for the honor of calling me their “girlfriend.”

Can you blame me for being depressed?

I began serial dating in August. And by “serial dating,” I mean that I challenged myself to go out with 30 men in three months. I nearly made it (I got a little creative with my mathematics in the end), but despite all of the first dates (20), the second dates (7), the third dates (4) and the fourth, fifth, sixth, seventh and eighth dates (1 each), I still find myself single.

Being single, I’ve since learned, breeds not only depression but desperation. In my defense, I’m not yet desperate enough to call up the man responsible for my most recent eHarmony disaster, although I would like to know exactly why he left me standing on the street corner to hail my own cab. Nor do I find myself entertaining thoughts of a reunion with the Match.com man who made it all way to an eighth date with Yours Truly (okay, actually I do, but only when I’m stuck on a very long bus ride surrounded by undesirable characters of the malodorous variety; I have no intention of acting on these thoughts).

Instead I find myself reaching further back—into the vault, if you will: the vault of boyfriends past. Of course, this is a very dangerous road to go down. Anyone who’s ever been in a relationship knows how easy it is to forget all the very reasons you ended the relationship in question and to instead to focus on the what-ifs.

What if I had slept with my first boyfriend?

What if I had been content to marry the man I dated in college, instead of moving to London?

What if I had stayed in London, instead of moving to Philadelphia? Would I be sharing that tiny flat in Hammersmith with my ex-boyfriend and his fundamentalist Christian sister-in-law? Continue reading 'Why Do We Look Back On Past Love?'»

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By Kat Richter, September 7, 2010 8:00 am

Image by .imelda via Flickr

Having survived a first date disaster like no other, I’d like to spare my fellow unsuspecting females the trouble. In the spirit of Jeff Foxworthy’s “You might be a redneck,” I offer the following diatribe:

“He might be a sugar daddy.”

I’m talking about the older man. The philandering, but powerful older man. In particular, the philandering, but powerful older man who wants you to be his mistress. And before we get started, I should report that just typing the very word “mistress” makes me cough and sputter.

When I was younger and very much enamored of Belle Époque Paris, I thought it might be cool to be somebody’s mistress, albeit in an abstract, Moulin Rouge “Hi, I’m Toulouse Lautrec and I’d like you to meet my girlfriend” sort of way. But there are several things wrong with this picture.

For starters, Toulouse Lautrec was French, so he wouldn’t have said “hi.” He would have said “bonjour.”

Secondly, Toulouse Lautrec was short, so I would have never gone out with him in the first place.

Thirdly, in order to be somebody’s mistress, you have to lounge around in your negligee, smoking cigarettes all day. I don’t smoke, and I don’t actually own any negligee. Maybe you get negligee when you sign on to be somebody’s mistress (a year’s supply, perhaps, and more for good behavior?), but I rarely trust normal men to pick out clothing for me, let alone men with questionable morals.

Finally—and this is real deal breaker—you have to have sex with your philandering, but powerful older man to be a good mistress. And this, no matter what sort of penthouse said sugar daddy might have in store for me, is a bridge I’m not willing to cross. Continue reading 'He Might Be A Sugar Daddy'»