Mr. Moneybags

He started out with so much promise. Pretty cute, a lawyer, lived in the city. (I’m sure New Jersey is lovely, but it’s no place to go on a date: a) If you get liquored up and need a cab, good luck. b) Unless you’ve got one of those hands-free thingies, it’s actually illegal to call your best friend on the drive home to recap.) But I digress. The lawyer and I matched and set up a date. He stood me up.

But seeing as how he was a cute, Jewish (did I mention that, Grandma?) lawyer, I was willing to cut some slack. We rescheduled and went out on an “enh” date. I didn’t hear from him and figured that was it.

Then, six weeks later, I got an email. “Sorry I never followed up,” it said. “Do you want to go out tomorrow?” It was late on a Saturday night, so I had a couple drinks in me and was feeling snappy. My reply: “Um, no.” He wrote back in less than 5 minutes. “Ouch. Why so harsh? I was going to spend a lot of money on you.”

What? Had I fallen into an episode of the Real Housewives? I’ll spare you the details of my response, because I was too shocked to be pithy. Suffice to say, I may have called him Mr. Moneybags and I may also have not heard from him again. But who knows? Maybe he’s waiting six months and he’ll bring a beach house to our second date.