Thursday, April 20, 2006

Arabian Nights

Dear Waspdate,

I write to you from a KBR rec room in Iraq where I'm deployed with the National Guard.

See, I joined out of a sense of duty and am happy to be here, but times are tough in this dry dating desert. Oh to cast my eyes once again on a just-a-bit-to-short khaki skirt or a taughtly filled twinset.

What's a guy to do?

Best regards,

Lawrence of Mesopotamia


Dear LoM,



p.s. In private, Private.

Friday, March 31, 2006

Survival of the Fittest

Dear WASPdate,

I am without a doubt your classic WASP. Prep school educated with at least one parental line tracing back to the Mayflower. Caucasians abound my house, you will not find a hint of melanin at our family reunions, in fact gathered together we look like a giant white sheet.

That said, I find myself in a particular bind. I have only ever been attracted to those of the non occidental descent. Asians of nearly any nationality are my particular thing, and I have accepted that. Bear in mind I am not looking for just any woman with a particular skin color. It just happens to be another item on the list of mandatory attributes. Other items include: Ivy League education, job which pays 200K per year, loft in SoHo, and complete mastery of the English language.

I figure someday, I will bring the ONE home to the family and undoubtedly I will be forced to explain that she is worthy of the Mayflower heritage, regardless of ethnicity. I know it sounds racist, mainly because it is, but this is the way my family operates. So I guess my question is this: how do you convince others that, regardless of ethnicity, the right woman can buzz with the best of WASPs?



Ever since the Boxer Rebellion, there’s been some bad blood between WASPdom and the Orient. Asians, it seems, didn’t take to Anglo-Saxon sovereignty quite as readily as the rest of the world, which is no doubt a bitter pill for WASPs to swallow.

For a time, it seemed that going it alone might have been a world class blunder for Asia. World War II didn’t work out so well for the Japanese and the Cultural Revolution was an unqualified disaster for China. Nevertheless, Asia has bounced back, one hybrid car at a time. Not to steal a page out of Thomas Friedman’s book--well, actually, it would be hard not to steal a page out of his book now and then, since he takes the blatantly obvious and passes it off as original thought--but this is going to be the Asian century.

As such, a new class of self-made global elite will rise up to claim the mantle of WASPdom. They will have the money, power and influence and, yes, be setting the tone at the clubs, at least those they are allowed to join. Ah ha!, says the traditional WASP, “I'll never let them in to my club.” But, denying admission to the new power brokers and change agents will only confirm yours isn't the club worth joining anyway.

Whether they like it or not, the society which WASPs sit atop is becoming more inclusive and more global, and that demands a broader sense of what truly makes a WASP buzz. In a changing world, a membership to the Maidstone or the National is worth only as much as the human capital of one's fellow members. A real WASP appreciates that; those who don't are just White Anglo-Saxon Protestants with a poor sense of history. To those we say, remember from whence you came. Your grandparents worked hard for those trust funds--it is their very ability to climb to the top that made you what you are.

So, the trick to solving your dilemma may not be convincing your parents that your future wife can buzz with them, but that they can buzz with her. To do this, you need to speak to them in terms they can understand. This isn’t a question of diluting the line but rather preserving it. History is littered with fallen social dynasties whose racial and ethnic foundations proved too weak to keep them standing. Think of the Massachusetts Shakers—they were such an insular culture that they wouldn’t intermingle with each other, let alone other peoples. And, what did their discriminating taste get them? Extinction. This should give your family pause--extinction complicates even the best laid plans for social domination.

While ceasing to exist entirely might be an extreme case (but, don’t say we didn’t warn you), the quality of the line that prevails is another matter entirely. If the family doesn’t welcome the next generation of achievers into the clan, it won’t matter ten generations hence who its patriarch was and how many racquet club championships he won—within two generations your posterity won’t be able to afford the club dues anyway. Winning is a decidedly more difficult task when you aren’t allowed on the court.

So your taste for Asians is a calculated effort to extend the glory of your family name well into the era of a globalized world, as much as it as a sexual fetish. You’re just getting a head start. Good for you!

If that logic doesn’t sway your parents, you can’t just try the direct approach and be completely up front about your true motives–she make you so horny, she love you long time (sorry, we just had to). WASP

Thursday, March 23, 2006

Waxing Poetic

Dear WASPdate,

I have a pretty unWASPy question to ask, though I definitely consider myself a WASP. I really feel like I have nowhere else to turn. I just can’t ask my friends or family—they’ll just laugh at me and, even worse, I’ll reveal something personal about my girlfriend which would be unchivalrous and downright nasty. Here’s the thing, my girlfriend has, to put it politely, a forest growing where there should be manicured lawns.

I am pretty sure that the trend amongst young women is for Brazilian bikini waxes and I need help encouraging her to get one. Not only would it really improve our love-making, I feel like it would help us socially too. Right now, I can’t let her out of the house in anything less than knee-high shorts. And, summer is just around the corner! The moment she starts wearing bathing suits, I won’t be able to leave her side. I spent our entire time at the beach last summer following her around with a thick long towel ready to tackle her to the ground in a feigned love embrace the moment her suit proved unable to contain her flowing locks.

I have to admit, at this stage I’d even settle for just a little trim. I think if I cannot find a solution, I will have to move on to less lush pastures.



Everything in dating reduces to the question of communication—that is, how free and open it is—and the answer is, invariably, the more free and open the better. We’re not going to beat around the bush—it’s simply too overgrown and we fear becoming entangled: the best course of action is to sit your girlfriend down, in the privacy of your own home, and bring to her attention, in the most direct and uncompromising terms, the ungodly state of her nether regions. Perhaps some illustrations from the finer men’s journals (i.e. Playboy or, better yet, High Society) would prove useful in offering a basis of comparison.

If you’re not up to the challenge of a direct intervention, we have to warn you that the task before you will be fraught with subtlety and innuendo. Start with baby steps--perhaps buy her a day at the spa that includes a bikini wax. When she comes back, tell her you how much you love it.
If that doesn’t work, a field trip to the botanical garden might be in order:

1. Take her to the topiaries
2. Point out how beautifully groomed everything is. Make comments about how elegant you find the neatness and orderliness of the foliage.
3. Glance down towards her foliage.
4. Then begin a discussion of the relative merits of the French garden and the English garden, emphasizing that history has been too quick to dismiss French gardening, with its disciplined presentation, as overly formalistic. And, if you were to only have one garden, it should be French because it’s more palatable to a wider audience. All the while, continue staring at her foliage.
5. Repeat until it sinks in.
If she still does not cop on, you may have to be yet more proactive. In the interest of starting a trend, you may even have to submit to having your own “area” coiffed. We suggest a dynamic cut that is sure not to be lost on her—a family crest or coat of arms. In your selfless act of passive-aggression, she may just find the inspiration she needs. Whereas she saw no reason to groom for the sake of personal hygiene or appearance, she may find cause to do so in the interest of family fealties. Besides, what better way to bring the two of you closer together than his and her muff crests? First step muff crest, next step marriage.

If all else fails, you may have no choice but to get in touch with nature and learn to love the scruffy look. Have you ever read Coleridge? His words may very well convince you that the “pleasure dome” is best blanketed in “cedarn cover”.

Anything can appear beautiful if described with the proper turn of phrase.


The Chattering Class: Mistresses and Mobsters

Gossip is decidedly uncouth, and we’ve largely restrained ourselves from indulging in it over the past months. All the while, our inbox has filled with all manners of WASPy indiscretions. So, we’ve decided to publish a few choice nuggets, for no other reason than to free up some space on our hard drive. Think of it not so much as gossip, but as potential cocktail banter, which is exactly how WASPs rationalize it.

  • Hell hath no fury like a gourmand’s scorn. After pulling countless strings to land a virtually unattainable reservation at La Esquina, the trendiest of trendy in downtown dining, GJC found himself between a rock and a hard place when his girlfriend of three weeks called to say she was running late. With just minutes left until the table was given away, GJC ditched his girlfriend and solicited a random dining companion from off the street. When asked about his slight, GJC said, “I mean, reservations there don’t come easy”, adding, “I don’t think it was going to work out between us anyway”.
  • BRW's aspirations to join the ranks of NYC’s elite dinner party hosts were nearly derailed last Friday when his alleged mistress inadvertently showed up to a fete he was co-hosting with his wife at their Park Avenue apartment. After the initial shock subsided, the scheduling snafu turned out to work in BRW's favor, as guests interpreted the appearance as a bold statement that, despite prevalent rumors, the two have not in fact been shacking up. As an encore, perhaps BRW will consider inviting his coke dealer to his next NA meeting.
  • What’s the fun of dating beneath your class if you can’t remind your lesser half in the cruelest way imaginable? A certain UES princess was overheard last week at a popular local haunt taunting her devoted boyfriend for refusing to leave his post behind the bar for a quick early evening romp at her apartment. Faced with a rare rejection, she proceeded to solicit every man at the bar until she found one with sufficient free time to “entertain” her. The willing suitor got what he paid for, however, when he was dragged back to the bar to corroborate the tryst, only to be deemed such an unworthy lover that “it almost would have been worth waiting for my boyfriend to get off his shift”. Ouch.
  • The off again, on again relationship of recently engaged couple NSM and DSH appeared to be off-again over the weekend. The couple were overheard on Saturday in a tear-filled lover’s quarrel over wedding rings outside of Harry Winston. Size apparently continues to be a stumbling block in the relationship--albeit a small one.
  • Earlier this month, at HBO’s premiere party for the Sopranos at MOMA, a certain well known uptown socialista seemed particularly undaunted by the notion of being a mobster's mistress. She was spotted canoodling with not one, but two, male cast members over a bottle of Prosecco. When asked later if she enjoyed her evening straddling the cultural divide, the society belle said only, “The cannolis were delicious!”.

Friday, March 17, 2006

WASP of the Week: Vernon Eulion Jordan, Jr.

Congratulations Vernon Jordan,
You're our "WASP of the Week"!

Ambitious Yet Still Listens to His Mother

His mother encouraged Vernon to be educated in the North. So, he worked his way through college at DePauw University in Indiana. And, he became a noted speaker, won a top state award and placed third nationally for a speech entitled "The Negro in America." He went on to earn a J.D. from Howard University.

Affects Positive Change

After Law School, Jordan emerged as an important leader in the Civil Rights Movement by advocating progress through the system. He led the voter education project to register black voters in the South and in a huge display of courage and chivalry, escorted Charlayne Hunter, the first African-American student to enroll at the University of Georgia, through crowds of angry whites.

Presidential Confidante and Golfing Partner

Nuff said.

Thursday, March 16, 2006

Blonde Ambition

Dear WASPdate,

While I have blonde hair, blue eyes, and a slim figure, I have found that mostly unattractive WASPy men are attracted to me. For some reason, the cute ones are just not interested. Now, rather than discuss my personal issues, as I'm not really interested in dating right now, I'm just curious: what look do WASP men find most attractive? I would assume blonde hair and blue eyes, but I could be wrong. And what height and figure? While I'm 5'7", which I would assume is only slightly above average, sometimes it seems as though men are only interested in rather petite females. And just how slim is enough? While compared to others, a size 4 or so is more than adequate, compared to certain celebrities (like, let's say, Nicole Richie and the like), it seems enormous...so what do WASP men prefer?



While blonde is beautiful, beauty can only carry you so far in WASPdom. Outdated customs and social pretense will have to carry you the rest of the way.

Don’t get us wrong, WASP men, like most men, are attracted to the blonde hair, blue-eyed ideal. But, being the sons of privilege that they are, that’s not enough—the presentation is just as important. To complicate matters further, what they want can and will change, depending on where they are in their romantic life cycle—that is to say, how many divorce decrees they’ve managed to collect in their Andover scrapbook.

If you’re a candidate to be wife number one, you mustn’t be too ostentatious--attractive yes, but Junior League approachable. WASP men who have never been married tend to be caught up in the romantic notion that their first wife should be presentable to both society and to mummy dearest alike (which has a certain logistic practicality given that they are likely still suckling her teat). So, make sure you are always turned out well, but with a little sex appeal—i.e. go for the cardigan but buy it one size too small and keep the top button undone.

WASP men in search of wife number two or three, on the other hand, have been released from some of their sense of social obligation, as they now have been there and done that, and all it got them was a mild case of malaria on their expensive honeymoon safari and an even more expensive out-of-court divorce settlement. With their new found freedom, WASP divorcees typically want their women a little faster and a little looser. But keep it under control. A Ferrari is a sexy car, so you don’t need it to dress it up in fuchsia with yellow racing stripes, chrome rims and a rear spoiler. At least not yet.

If you find yourself in the running to be wife four through seven, all bets are off. Congratulations, you’ve managed to land quite the catch: a man who marries more than some men date. Pat yourself on the back because your job is going to be easy. So long as you get naked and stay that way, the courtship may be even shorter than the marriage.

The task before you becomes even easier as you set out to become an eighth or even ninth wife—in this case, big haired blondeness and bare breasts are less important than a warm body and a pulse. Bear this in mind if you’re getting desperate.

If all of the aforementioned advice fails, you may have had the misfortune of encountering a WASP who is not only still suckling mumsy’s teat, but enjoying it a bit too much. If you wish to persist in your advances nonetheless, you may very well have to go a little Norman Bates on the guy. Perhaps you could try wearing the same perfume as his dear mumsy, or styling your hair in a similar way, or even occasionally sporting some of her old evening wear (how you get a hold of it is your problem). By no means are we advocating this tack, we’re just telling you how it’s done.

Before you go to the trouble of raiding some old woman’s closet, though, you might want to consider another possibility--you could just be f’ugly. In which case, you’ve consulted the wrong blog. Try our friends at www.awfulplasticsurgery.com--they’ll point you in the right direction, or at least keep you from heading in the wrong one.


Friday, March 10, 2006

Congratulations Muffie Potter Aston,
You're our "WASP of the Week"!

Her name alone is enough to earn her the title, but there is so much more to this doyenne of New York high society. She is a socialite’s socialite—never without her devoted husband, star plastic surgeon Sherrell Aston, she was once an executive at the jeweler Van Cleef & Arpels but has since left so she can devote more of her time to being absolutely fabulous.

And, being the Renaissance woman that she is, she doesn’t just know expensive jewelry, she also has her finger on the pulse of handbags:

"Fendi, Prada and Tiffany are everywhere. There's a certain snob appeal to knowing you have the most finely crafted boat or handbag." (AP-11/7/1999)

And a keen insight into the economy:

"People have gotten spoiled when the best is available in so many places. The scary part of the economy being so good so long is that people are such collectors they don't even notice what they have anymore." (ibid)

She is also committed to the less fortunate in her community and can organize a gala at the Met in her sleep:

"Muffie is one of those “doers” whom everyone wants to have on their committee because she can bring in the ticket buyers, raise the millions, organize the party from hiring the hall down to the putting the place cards on the table (and anything in between), and then show up looking like she’s done nothing but spend the day getting ready to look glamorous." (New York Social Diary)

Three cheers, Muffie! Three cheers!

Please Mr. Postman: Belle Said...

Apparently Reconstruction, and the intervening century and a half, haven't buried all the tensions laid bare by the War of Southern Regression. No, not even a thank you. That's gratitude for you.


Dear WASPdate,

A Southern WASP would never associate themselves in any way with anything to do with anyone "from away." That's the beauty of the SWASP: our complete and total disregard for anyone or anything we don't particularly like. And we don't particularly like Yankees.

The point you fail to make in your screed on all things Southern is that we don't really give a good damn about anything above the Mason-Dixon. Needless to say your assumption we associate ourselves with anything up there is preposterous.

Yes, we're still WASPS. We generally hate everyone and everything other than ourselves and our money. However, a SWASP would never find an excuse to date, dress, marry or emulate a Yankee.

Please, in any other future reference to the difference between those above and below the M-D, refrain from further slandering our purebred names by associating us with the swill of all things Yankee.


Thursday, March 09, 2006

South by Northeast

Dear WASPdate,

I was just wondering if you could give a little insight into the differences between Yankee WASPs and Dixie WASPs. In my experience, Y-WASPs have flabbier asses, and D-WASPs have bigger drinking problems. Since your site is clearly the last word in WASPiness, I'd love to know your thoughts (if you have any).




Home is where the heart resides. No matter from where a WASP hails, his or her sense of home is always on the Northeast coastline--from the capital up through Kennebunk, with a dainty leap over southern Jersey. Indeed, WASPs living in Georgia, sweet Georgia, still have Greenwich on their mind. Yes, you can take the WASP out of Darien but you cannot take Darien out of the WASP. If we haven't been already, let's be clear: the “Southern WASP” is really just a WASP living in the south.

But, like anyone who's enjoyed a little too much Southern exposure--think of that aunt who spent most of her waking life sunning by the pool--WASPs of the South exhibit a few "sun spots" in their general manner that distinguish them, subtly, from their northern counterpart. So that you might tell difference the next time you're attending a polo match somewhere along the border, we've compiled some of the tell-tale signs.

  • While "rather" is a favorite adverb of both the Northern and Southern WASP, the northerners pronounce it as “rAtha”, while the southern contingent as “rAAthAAAA”. Apparently speech is the first thing to go.
  • Instead of water, Southern WASPs drink iced tea, which they call "sweet tea" even if it's not sweetened, though it is iced. If this makes no sense to you, see our earlier point about sun spots.
  • Northern WASPs generally stir their Martinis clock-wise while Southern WASPs stir counter- clockwise. We're told this has something to do with the Earth's gravitational pull below the Mason-Dixon Line.
  • Northern WASPs wear seersucker suits with a sense of sartorial irony while Southern WASPs wear seersucker as a summer uniform because it is hot as fuck down there.
  • Climate also limits Southern WASPs to layering no more than two polo shirts at a time, while Northern WASPs can wear as many four (though etiquette and good taste forbids popping more than three of the collars at once).
  • On the flipside, a higher concentration of u.v. light allows Southern WASPs to pull off brighter pastels. And, socks are more or less optional, which is one privilege we're pretty sure Northern WASPs can live without.
  • Southern WASPs believe Duke is the Harvard of the South, while Northern WASPs know that Harvard is the Harvard of the South and that Duke is in fact the Cornell of the South.
  • While Northern WASPs still accept the practice of marrying within the family, so long as it isn't the immediate family, Southern WASPs frown upon the practice. Just kidding! What others know as incest, WASPs, Northern and Southern, call breeding.
Which brings us to our final point: just as the Northern WASP isn't too far removed from the Southern WASP, the Southern WASP isn't too far removed from its retrograde cousin, the redneck (which they painfully remind you of any time they let slip a y'all or ma'am). Much like true WASPs, rednecks may find themselves divorced from their spouse and yet still related to them by blood, which should give us all pause. Because, no matter how far ahead WASPs may be in the long journey of evolution--biological, social and otherwise--they still have some ways to go.


Tuesday, March 07, 2006

An Invitation

The following is from a reader who thought she would share one of the WASPier date invitations she’s ever received. We can’t say that we’ve seen many WASPier either, at least among those delivered via Blackberry.

While our advice wasn’t solicited per se, we suggest she skip the Brook Club and go straight to MOMA. It would be a shame to come across as overly interested.

That said, his social calendar and email alone are enough to make us swoon.


Sent from Stanton’s BlackBerry 7250 Handheld
From: SEJ (sej@jacksoncapital.com)
MRB (mrb@hotmail.com)
Sent: Tue Mar 07 15:57:15 2006
Subject: RE: A reading I'm doing tomorrow...

event is at the m of modern art (53rd) at 7
i want to fly by the brook club for the launch of the lapham mag (6:30) on 54.

you want to do both?

shall i have emilio get you?

off to squash.

back at 5.


Monday, March 06, 2006

A Little Press

Normally we would shy away from the harsh glare of the media spotlight, but in the interest of helping our dear WASP brethren "get it on" we are making an exception. Just this once. Below is an excerpt from an article in today's AM New York:

WASPs get in on Internet dating fun


March 6, 2006

Dating advice is much more fun when it's directed towards a small, stereotyped segment of the population – and ever since J Date became a hit, the WASPs were starting to feel left out. Who would counsel them on selecting the proper Pimm's-swilling, golf-playing, Raquet-Club-attending husband? What should they do if their girlfriend is caught on New York Social Diary canoodling with another bow-tie wearing trustafarian?

Enter WASPdate.com, whose motto, "True Love is Your Birthright," is as unapologetic as the popped collar pastel polo shirts of guys who use summer as a verb. Taking up where the Preppy Handbook left off, WASPdate is Ann Landers for the Nantucket set, dutifully responding to rambling questions from NYC's lovelorn elite with lightly sardonic ripostes...(clink on link above--"A Little Press"--to continue to the full article).

Thursday, March 02, 2006

WASP of the Week: Anderson Hays Cooper

Congratulations Anderson Hays Cooper,
You're our "WASP of The Week"!


Lineage: Son of writer Wyatt Emory Cooper and artist, designer and writer Gloria Morgan Vanderbilt (yes, those Vanderbilts)

Prep School: The Dalton School

University: Yale '89, BA Political Science

Profession: Journalist for the CNN Television Network

Attributes: Un-WASPy capacity to cry on camera

Summers: Long Island....for now

Winters: Wherever duty calls

Tuesday, February 28, 2006

A Lesser Member

Dear WASPdate,

I’ll dive right in: It’s my girlfriend. She’s a Wellesley girl, it’s true, but not anything troubling. Less the militant-feminist/environmentalist, she’s more the “I’ll drive my Prius while you drill in ANWR” variety of socially-conscious WASP. Fully manageable, in other words.

Now I happen to belong to a club with a storied tradition that includes certain restrictions on women’s movements throughout the facility. Needless to say, the policy has always irked my little Abigail Adams.

One night in the men-only basement bar I’d had too many glasses of 18-year MacCallan. I get a message on my blackberry that she’s popping in and, at the time, I welcomed the visit. But in the ladies' receiving room on the main floor she starts the old Sapphic chorus: “Why can’t you take me downstairs? It’s 2006, for heaven’s sake.” Now, the basement bar is strictly off limits to the fairer sex. It's been that way since Prohibition and I was not about to tread on tradition.

But in the interest of compromise, and other things, I thought I might make a minor concession. So, I spirited her up to the squash floor (also restricted to men, but much less likely to be occupied). I’ll confess I had an eye to perhaps taking her on the locker room floor--a vestige of my prepping days, I suppose (the reek of male habitation has always done strange things to me). Anyway, the dressing room has no door separating it from the rest of the floor, and its occupants tend to liberal and prolonged periods of undress. Nonetheless I had every confidence we would find the floor empty and amenable to my designs.

To my surprise we encountered another member of advanced age, naked as a jaybird. I saw my lady’s smile broaden in obvious derision of his crotchety old body. But then her eyes began to shine in that way of theirs, and I knew this was no joke; at least, not on him. No matter that the man was at least four decades her senior and had married into club membership (his wife’s family, no less). The attraction, you see, wasn't founded on his membership status but rather on, um, the status of his member.

Now I'm no Milton Berle, but at Groton the crew boys very nearly voted me head Cocks-Man. Still, I will concede this chap’s endowments extended far beyond his wife’s trust fund. I’d always thought our love-making superb, but now the dazed look of hers I’d always read as orgiastic ecstasy seems increasingly like boredom.

What's a boy to do?



We would never deign to begin a response to one of our loyal readers by saying something as banal as, "it's not the size of the tool that matters, but how you use it". This is WASPdate: it's not the size of your club head, but how you swing it. Your golf club, that is.


Let's give you the benefit of the doubt and assume, for the moment, that this was no run-of-the-mill geriatric you stumbled upon in his full frontal glory. While it is fine to marvel briefly at his aged enormity (try not to linger), it shouldn't cause you to lose perspective. Statistically, your manhood is likely to be perfectly average and that, by definition, means you should be able to perform the normal repertoire of sexual tricks. Performing them to a standing, or rather panting, ovation from dear Abby, however, is another matter entirely.

Given that Abby is your judge and jury when it comes to your efforts in the bedroom—and her opinion obviously matters to you—you’ve simply got to do more to impress her. How are you going to do that? Well, perhaps she’s into some kinky role play. Given her vague pretensions at being an environmentalist, you can play the big bad oil tycoon and she can play the well-intentioned but weak-willed Green Peace protester—you’ll be drilling in ANWR in no time. Or, maybe she’s of the “more is always merrier” mindset, and you can indulge her in a little Wellesley nostalgia and invite her sorority sisters over the apartment for a slumber party.

Truthfully, we may not be the best source for all the nitty-gritty details. But, here’s a thought: try asking her.

However you go about exploring Abby’s sexual side, you're current approach of trying to divine sexual meaning from her facial expressions simply isn't going to cut it. As you rightly noted, that could well be boredom and not orgiastic ecstasy on her face, just as it could be euphoric joy or a migraine headache. She’s a WASP, mind you. That passionless non- expression she wears could mean anything and nothing, or even both.

Now, if poor breeding has left the family jewels less than richly endowed, there may still be hope, however faint. It’s still highly experimental, but at least it’s all natural: the steam room. Find a nice spot on the bench, then de-towel and sit back and let heat work its expansive magic. Don’t thank us, thank James Prescott Joule, the founder of modern thermodynamics. His kinetic theory of heat certainly seems to have done wonders for the standing of ol' Grandpa's membership.

The one drawback to this solution, should it be needed, is that it may require you to make a pit stop at the club for a steam before each and every intimate encounter. Don't worry about Abby, though, she'll be fully compensated for the inconvenience.


Tuesday, February 21, 2006

Lush Be a Lady

Dear Waspdate,

I think my girlfriend's an alcoholic.

Even among WASPS, she's considered to be from a really good family and so she’s always been coddled by everybody around her, deserving or not.

We've dated since Choate and, for the last few years, she's been a WASP on a rampage. Back at Brown, she was booted out of freshman housing for throwing one too many raucous "cocktail" parties.
Her parents solved her housing crunch by buying a house just off campus for her and some close friends. That investment went bust, however, when she was asked to go on an extended leave after a few plagiarism incidents.

Of course, her parents took her in, gave her a nice allowance and got her some “work” on young patron committees so that they could keep an eye on her. Instead, she just moved out (with her parents' money) and got a family friend to set her up in a pretty good job as a junior exec at a fashion label.

For some still unknown reason, she was entrusted with dealing with some big retail buyers after a show. Maybe she was nervous, or just bored, but she got shit-canned on the wine that was being offered to clients and other guests. Totally blitzed, she apparently drew up fake orders to the tune of a couple of hundred thousand dollars. No one had any clue she'd done this until calls from angry stores started coming in explaining they had gotten boxes of clothes they didn't order; one retailer said that she’d been verbally abused by a young woman who kept insisting that “our clothes will make your giant ass look smaller.”

Because of who she is, she still has the job, though I think it now involves simply having a business card and taking all day lunches. I'm concerned that all this free time is just going to make matters worse.

She needs help, but I'm not sure how to give it to her.



Your girlfriend isn't addicted to alcohol so much as privilege. When privilege insulates someone from the consequences of their actions, they start to behave as if there aren't any because, in fact, there aren't many. At least up to a point.

If left unchecked, idleness can be the scourge of the rich--it is the rot that makes dynasties fall. Wealth breeds idleness by nature, and so overcoming it requires a lot of positive determination. It's also usually a family affair. Right now, her family seems to be as much a part of the problem as the solution-- plying an idle 25-year old princess with cash is like force-feeding candy to an 11-year old with ADD. We're not trying to scare you or anything, but this is how rich people end up shooting each other.

Not to go Dr. Phil on you, but a little tough love is definitely one part of the prescription for what ails your girlfriend. Her parents have to set limits (for starters, cut up the Black Card) and you have to help her understand that these limits aren't only reasonable but in her best interest.

Keep in mind that if her family, friends and employers can't be relied upon to set boundaries for her, the tabloid press and the police will be happy to do it for them.

While alcoholism may not be the root of the problem, it's still a problem, and one that will probably have to be addressed on its own terms. Here we think counseling and rehab is the only way. And, we're afraid to say, you're going to have to be the agent of change. If left only to her family, your girlfriend's rehab would probably be kicked off with an open-bar throw-down at Bungalow 8, Lindsay Lohan-style.

We do have to give you credit: you sound like the first person in her life to take her condition seriously. However, if you really want to help her, you need to ask yourself honestly whether you have a productive role to play in her recovery in the long run. If your affections are contingent on who she is and not how she treats you, you're just enabling her problems as much as anyone.

On the flipside, if you are dating her for love, we have to assume you've also been half-cocked since high school. How else could you put up with her for so long?

You might want to seriously consider reserving two spots at Passages Rehab in Malibu.


Tuesday, February 14, 2006

A Love Story

Dear WASPdate Readers,

Happy Valentine’s Day. Yes, with no exclamation, as it should be written—subtle, muted, WASPful.

And in this spirit, we send you a story of true WASP love, submitted by one of our WASPier readers. As you will see, the letter speaks for itself, and so we will hold our tongue and restrain our pen because this WASP has found her perfect mate, and that is
the point. No matter how cloying.

We hope you find inspiration in this tale, and may cupid strike you
with his arrow (if only to distract from the slight nausea you'll feel after reading it).


Dear WASPdate,

I am writing neither in pain, nor in sorrow. In fact, I am writing inorder to restore hope, both for girls who feel their WASP-iness works against them (we tend to have brains, education, manners--all vastly underestimated in the world today, natch) and as well for girls of all stripes who
have fallen in love with the kind of mind last valorized circa WWII, and the OSS, and the ease of entering Yale without so much as an application. Let me begin by briefly debunking some myths:

It is not true that WASPmen are bad in bed.

It is not true that WASP men lack strength.

It is not true that WASP men cling unnaturally to their mothers--rather, most of them tend to harbor more respect for women than their more boorish peers.

It is not true that WASP men lack wit.

It IS true that WASP men are a dying breed, and it IS true that many of them have suffered the slings and arrows of being thrust into a world less gentle, more competitive than their forebears, and arrived there lacking tools and emotional intelligence to survive, or flourish.

It IS true that the world has changed, and that the question of what it means to belong to any social breed has become infinitely more complex.

Even words like "elite" carry new connotations, and when any jackass can own a plane who is to say that money matters at all anymore. To my mind, it doesn't. And when cash becomes a commodity (bling?), it is deep, perhaps genetic aspects which become the sine qua nons of love, attraction, connection.

As was true a thousand years ago, romantics and thinkers still seek like-minded angels, and as my mother has told me many times, "Water seeks its own level." What does this mean? It means that true love can be found with a man of integrity, charm, poise--a man who, rather than B
ECAUSE HE WAS but rather IN SPITE OF BEING bien elevee is able to take a woman in his arms and either lead her gently to a fantastic dinner and leave her with a kiss OR, or (according to HER desires) throw her down.

I spent my life to date (who does not?) running away from men I felt were too like me, and I have finally found the deepest, most true love in the most unexpected, rare, special place: with someone who no one would hesitate to term a WASP. And while I would never proscribe this as right for anyone else, and while I am always conscious that my boy is one in a million (within any tribe, or not), I must say that after two decades of WASP-banging I am left silent, sated, and agog: Prince Charming exists. And yet, are there lessons to be learned from this? The only one is that once one lets down his or her guard, once one lets down his or her notions of What A Man Should Be, one
might just find that most odd, elusive angel: a true gentleman.

Am I drunk with love? Perhaps. But learning to love a WASP--learning to love someone who exemplifies all of the qualities I feared in myself--has been enormously rewarding.
I have been humbled, as I've seen all more cynical stereotypes dissolve into, as it were, The Real Thing.

Wake me up. I must be dreaming. Chaqu'un à son goût? Or rather, plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.


Monday, February 13, 2006

Keeping Kosher

Dear WASPdate,

I think I may have found my soul mate. For several months, I'd seen her all over the city out with mutual friends, but could never coordinate an actual date. Finally last week at the Winter Antiques Show Young Collector's night, bidding over the same andirons, we decided a higher power had led us together. If there's more exciting foreplay than a silent auction, I don't know what it is.

While neither of us went home with the andirons, we didn't leave empty handed. Friday night she said she was busy, but we spent all of Saturday “getting acquainted.” I have never been so sexually free with another person—we did all the things I've only read about in French novels, we even did it, how to say politely the “Eton way”, and I didn't feel dirty at all.

Sunday night we met for a late film. Afterwards, I invited her to my place for a midnight snack. Ordinarily I would have just opened a box of Carr's, but fearing the crackers were stale I decided some scrambled eggs would do the trick. While I was scanning the Joy of Cooking for a recipe—I’ll admit, I’m not much of a cook—she asked: “Are you putting any butter in that?” I gave her a look that read “of course.” She explained that since she had chicken for dinner, she couldn't mix meat and dairy because of the "Jewish thing."

I had no idea she is Jewish--her name is Mary and she went to St.Paul’s. While we gnawed on the Carr’s, I realized we were practically eating matzoh and our religious difference did not matter to me at all. But did they to her? She doesn't mix meat and dairy, but she seems to have no problem mixing my meat with her derriere.

I've fallen in love with a Jewish WASP and I'm worried if this relationship is bound to fail. Will our future children be ostracized? Will they have Bat Mitzvah’s or debutante balls? Attend Dalton or Spence? Please advise me if I should just end things now?

WWJD (What Would Jesus Do)


Jesus was a Jew, so he would have no issue with you dating one.

However, we’ve reviewed the gospels and unless there is something in the Gospel of Tom we’ve overlooked, we’re pretty sure that Jesus is not the person you should be emulating in your love life. He is, after all, the product of a virgin mother and that’s going to color his views on sex somewhat. And while he may or may not have known Mary Magdalene in the Biblical sense, we can only assume that bond wasn’t forged the “Eton way” (though we'll reserve final judgment until the sequel to the Da Vinci Code is released).

With all due respect to the son of God, what He would do isn’t so much the issue as what Mary will do. She clearly has no problem dating a goy (among other things). Yet, that’s still no guarantee she would marry one. For many young people of faith, there has come to exist a period of trial and experimentation outside of their sect, before they are inevitably drawn back in by the pressures of family, tradition and their own sense of what is right. Think of it as the “gay before graduation” phenomenon for the religious set.

Mary owes you a candid accounting of not only her outlook on your relationship, but how it might be shaped by these other considerations down the road. If the prognosis is bad, you need to redefine failure. If the relationship can’t survive the faith test, you’ll have to accept the cruel contradictions of modern religious practice and make due with the consolations it offers—in this case, an all-access, albeit temporary, pass through Mary’s back-door.

However, if you can manage to get Mary’s family to let you in the front door as readily as she lets you in the back, this relationship may indeed be blessed. You should put your social concerns aside, as they will largely sort themselves out. New York’s Jews and WASPs are two cultures separated by a common zip code. As insular groups with their hands on the reins of power, there is a natural affinity between the two that is gradually overcoming their historical animosities—besides, they need to stick together on the coop board to keep out the oil sheiks and rock stars.

This meeting of worlds won’t be without some sacrifice. You may have to forgo the lobster rolls when you’re docked in Kennebunkport, pass on the shrimp while sipping Sancerre, and do without the club sandwich while lunching at the Club. But, as long as Mary keeps letting you feed her your pork tenderloin, keeping it Kosher in the food department seems a reasonable compromise.

If things progress to marriage, there also remains the issue of child-rearing. Given that you seem to be having girls (is there something you’ve neglected to share with us?), you send them to Spence. Obviously. And since their mother is a Jew, they will be too. They’ll be having Bat Mitzvahs.

Mazel Tov.


Friday, February 10, 2006


Dear WASPdate,

Please help! I am at a loss to understand my current dating predicament. I'm an attractive female recently graduated from an Ivy, with a prep school pedigree and the necessary family affiliations—from the Colonial Dames of America to the Court of Louis XVI—the whole WASP bit. So, I figured I'd blend seamlessly into the dating world of the blue-blooded, quickly finding an attractive mate of similar heritage.

But, I keep running into a problem: at every cocktail party and club social, the second a man hears what I do for a living he goes running in the other direction. You see, I work for… a non-profit. Yes, I felt the call to work full-time for the less fortunate—and can you blame me? I grew up being toted along to my mother's board meetings, scribbling in my coloring book during her sessions at the historical society, Junior League, and the sitting rooms of various other committee ladies. This culminated in my debut into society at 18, when the other debs and I were reminded that our coming out was about more than just the fabulous dress and the opportunity for underage drinking—the ball would raise money for a venerable charity. My WASPdom in fact groomed me for a job working with the poor—at every turn I saw that we are meant to use our privilege to be of service to others. So, upon graduation I took a job working at a charity for the needy.

But, try telling a male WASP that you spend your days advocating for social reform—I'm met with blank stares, uncomfortable silences, or awkward comments like, "Wow, I guess you're just a better person than I am," or even worse, "Yeah, I used to be into that do-gooder shit. Now I work at Blackstone." Then he goes to look for the bathroom, and I'm left to wonder, don't WASP men want to marry their mothers? Why is my love of the poor leaving me without a love life of my own?



Let’s get one thing straight, there’s nothing more that WASP men want than to marry their mothers. And, if it weren’t for the age gap, they probably would. Your dating troubles, thus, suggest that your maternal attributes could stand for some polishing.

If you are, in fact, going for the mummy dearest angle, it’s not enough to simply wear two hats—you have to know when to take them off. There’s a reason why you never saw Mother Teresa sporting a Philip Treacy capotain, or Muffie Potter Aston donning a habit. No woman alive can accessorize an Oscar de la Renta ball gown with a cowl (even in silk brocade), so don’t try. When in the company of WASPs, try to keep to WASPy topics of conversation (polo, yachting, breeding, etc). It’s not your charitable work that bothers them—that they find quaint and mildly amusing. It’s your insistence on talking about it in any depth because it reminds them that, if there is indeed a heaven, they probably will never see it.

If this sort of self-restraint proves difficult, try laying off the booze. We sense your social consciousness isn’t the problem, so much as allowing it to stream unregulated from your mouth when you’ve had one too many glasses of chardonnay. A drunken righteous tirade is the most potent form of social repellant—it kills WASPs dead.

If the pressure of saving the world compels you to drink, do it at work. The homeless certainly won’t mind. They might even spot you a few shots of Night Train if your flask runs dry.

If you learn to manage them socially, your charitable endeavors might actually prove to be a competitive advantage in the world of WASP dating. While you might think WASP men are turned off when you introduce yourself as a non-profiteer, try introducing yourself to guys as a Managing Director at Carlyle next time you’re out. Note the intense passion that suddenly overtakes your potential suitor—it isn’t love at first sight. While the exact sentiment is hard to express in words, it occupies the emotional space between hatred and jealousy. Woe be to the woman whose relationship is founded on that sort of embittered competitive fury, as those relationships tend to end badly, often in murder-suicides.

If you simply must opine about your love of the poor and downtrodden masses, there is a proper place and time. It’s called Brooklyn, whenever you’d like. Hit up any bar in Park Slope and you can wax indignant about social justice, oppressive housing codes, and the iron fist of the Man into the early hours and find no lack of eager male listeners. Throw in some well placed quotes from Chomsky and you may just find yourself married and pregnant by morning.


Tuesday, February 07, 2006

Movin' On

Dear WASPdate,

Okay. Okay. Okay. So, I fail out on three of the four requirements, but as my upbringing was in and around such a collective, I am finding it hard to be attracted to anyone other.

I am a black, first generation American--my parents were born elsewhere (in a place where the Queen's English is fully taught rather than the queer bastardization taught in most American schools, boarded or not). I went to the typical U.S. wasp-unite schools (never on scholarship or for athletics). I am currently, perhaps naively, biding my time before I too may become the idealized boozed-out housewife.

Unfortunately, given my background, I have the athletic stars and the “movin’ on up” types from which to choose. Both of the aforementioned give my poor mother and daddy great pause, as while they might be able to afford the lifestyle to which I have been accustomed, the backgrounds of those previously mentioned types are a mite too (for lack of a better word) declasse.

My question is how may I convince a WASP-type to buck tradition and date black? Any suggestions will be greatly appreciated.



Being a WASP is a state of mind, so you fail on no count, as far as we’re concerned.

Of course, we realize not everyone has the same multicultural, rainbow-hued notion of WASPdom we do (something we like to call inclusive elitism). From the sound of it, you’ve got all the credentials to be part of the club--you've certainly got the elitism part down. For any WASP smart enough to see what you’ve got to offer, you'd be a perfect match.

However, if a WASPy guy isn't smart enough to see it, there's not much you can or should do. You can't make someone love you, especially if he doesn't love you for all of the wrong reasons. The time would be better spent in finding someone who can and will love you.

This might just be a matter of finding a smart, upstanding young white boy. Toward that end, we recommend frequenting more intellectual pick up spots—the reading room at the Grolier Club, lectures at the Council, galleries, art house theaters, chess tournaments, Young Lion benefits at the library. People who think more tend to place less meaning on meaningless distinctions--it's funny how it works that way.

You could also give black guys another chance. Despite what you say, there is a black elite who have gone to prep school, an Ivy League college and are doing well for themselves by any measure. In fact, Tiger Woods is probably the biggest WASP alive right now. And, though he may not be black, he certainly isn’t white.

And what of P.Diddy? While he may have been exactly who you had in mind when you dismissed the "movin' on up types", let’s not forget, he drives a Bentley, owns a yacht, has a house in Southampton, wears tailored suits and has a butler named Farnsworth. He's not really movin' up any more; he's pretty much gotten there. To top it all off, his name is contracting inexorably toward a single initial. In the case of initials, as with license plate numbers, less is definitely more WASPy.

Black or white, it's very important that throughout all of this you make sure you're being completely honest with yourself. It's one thing if you happen to be quite attracted to white guys. It's another thing if you happen to be quite attracted to white guys who aren't interested in you and never will be, however unfairly. That could prove to be a tangled emotional web that would require a lot of psychotherapy to unweave.

Which is why we encourage you to keep writing in. We may not always be right, but at least our advice comes cheap.


Friday, February 03, 2006

Let Him Eat Cake

Dear WASPdate,

How do you answer the age old question of the woman you have incredible sex with, but can't stand a single word that comes out of her mouth?

I have been seeing this girl on and off for about 4 months, and every time we get together we have porn star sex. But, maybe 10-20 minutes after we're done, like clockwork, the annoying chatter begins on a bunch of topics I care nothing about. I am not a jerk, and I know I should break it off, but every time I try, she waits a while and then comes back saying the one and only thing I want to hear from her: "let's just skip dinner and go back to your place".

She is a reasonably nice person--I just think we're very different people. Then again, when I get lonely she's a wonderful outlet. What better way to cure loneliness than go at it like farm animals?

I guess what I am asking is how can I have my cake and eat it too? Or as the Italians say "have my wife drunk and my wine bottle full"?

Vinny D.


Not to start by way of digression, but we just have to know, Vinny: are you of the Allerton or Tilley lines on the Mayflower? On the one hand, the ship log does make reference to Bartholomew Allerton's "ox-like virility", but, on the other hand, Edward Tilley was notorious across Plymouth Plantation for his "most notable public exhibitions of manly ways".

Regardless from which cabin your people hail, you have a serious question about cake, and it's our sworn duty to help answer it--or at least to pick at it politely with our fork. We want nothing more than for you to have your cake, your wine, your drunk wife, this porn star you're screwing, and eat all of it--even if you're not hungry; rather, especially if you're not hungry.

Though the pitfalls of mind-blowing porn star sex aren't dilemmas oft confronted by WASPs, the perfect solution can nonetheless be found in their time-honored customs. Post-coitus, simply retire to a separate bed chamber. If she protests, explain to her that a newfound respect for the social graces obligates you to part ways. What would people think if they were to find out that you were sleeping in the same bed with a dim-witted nympho? (NOTE: Catholics are also fond of these sorts of sexual rationalizations, though theirs tend to turn on the moral distinction between various bodily orifices).

If the ways of the WASP still seem too foreign, there are other options, however more unseemly. We think you might want to graduate to a XXX hardcore rating from your current amateur status. Do you think Peter North, Ron Jeremy or Dick Nasty would have left their girl so unfulfilled that she was still able to speak, let alone remain conscious? If you can muster a true AVN-Male-Performer-of-the-Year-Award caliber performance, you won't hear even a peep out of her because she'll be in a sex-induced slumber, happily dreaming of her upcoming graduation from the Berkowits Academy of Esthetics and Electrolysis.

But, if your porn star does not burn nearly so bright, you can always put yourself to sleep. Keep an emergency Ambien within reach of your bed, then discreetly take it just as the cuddling commences. By the time she rallies to a full-on break-down of the plot to the most recent ”Laguna Beach", you'll be happily dreaming about the sweet sound of silence.

Anyone for cake?


Tuesday, January 31, 2006

Going for Gold, Settling for Bronze

Dear WASPdate,

My marriage had it all I thought. She was beautiful with the body of an Olympic champion, an easy laugh, and made me laugh too. She didn't take the world too seriously. Trouble was, she thought I was "too much into my head". I thought her shallow.

She also never got it that work has to come first. Deals have a life of their own and you're either a player or you're not. I'm a player; in fact lately the deals are building. I could give her more things, but not more time. The divorce cost me some, but I made it back. Sometimes I still sort of miss her: less laughs around. But it'll wear off.

So now I'm single again. In New York, it’s easy to get dates, but harder if you want a real conversation too. It amazes me how many women there are that have the good prep school, the great college, the right background and not one original idea.

Not sure, but I've been feeling of late that nobody can understand a word I say. Shakespeare had it right: there is often "much ado about nothing", at least in the conversations I'm having outside the office. I'm a little lonely.

A friend of mine told me swallow my pride and get a therapist. But isn't that just copping out?

I need a kindred spirit.



Welcome to 45.

Suddenly, you've had enough success to afford yourself some time to take stock of things and think about what true love is, but not enough success that you'll sacrifice to find it. Quite the paradox, eh? Despite your assertions to the contrary, it sort of sucks to be you.

Let's just, for a moment, dissect the conditions you laid out for true love, so we can better understand why you're not going to find it any time soon. You're looking for a woman of real beauty and intellect who can be emotionally sustained by what amounts to a relationship in absentia. What woman, in her right mind, would want to be wrenched out of sleep at 1 am, when you show up after having closed a big deal, only to spend the next 30 minutes listening as you provide a close textual analysis of Warren Buffett's most recent shareholder letter, only to be left alone again when you do a face plant into the pillows? Not a smart woman surely. Probably not a hottie either, unless she were startled and confused. And most definitely not a smart hottie.

On the matter of smart hotties, we offer a word of caution. They're out there, for sure, but there aren't many of them. In fact, there may be as few as 400 remaining outside of captivity. And, sadly, it gets worse: they are all either happily married to one of the 399 existing male specimens, or carrying Brad Pitt’s love child. Needless to say--but we will anyway--the competition is stiff, so don’t waste too much of your valuable time.

While we always like to give our writers the benefit of the doubt, we're just going to assume, probabilistically, that you're not a member of the master race. In which case, you're going to have to make some compromises if you hope to find love. You could stand to work less. You could also try to be a little more open-minded when it comes to appreciating the intelligence of others, or at the very least relax your physical standards some—if you end up taking home a bronze, you’re still on the medal stand. In the end, you may realize that what you had with your ex-wife was actually not so bad. If so, track that alimony payment down and follow it to the ends of the Earth if you have to.

However, if compromise is truly a deal-breaker, just spare yourself the frustration of romance and buy a Porsche.

Lastly, the male contingent of our editorial board would like to know, when you say Olympian body, are you imagining a gymnast or a figure skater? There's money riding on this, so try to respond post-haste.


Thursday, January 26, 2006

Taking the Plunge

Dear WASPdate,

I have a question for you that is somewhat embarrassing, and hopefully totally way off the

I have been going out with the “perfect” guy for about a year. We both love tennis, our families attend the same Easter services in Palm Beach, we’re both members of The Maidstone and we even agree that the first child should always board in Switzerland. And to top it off, I think he is about to propose to me.

I should be feeling a huge sense of relief about becoming “Chip’s wife”. After all, I’m 29 and most of my girlfriends are already pregnant with their first child. Instead, I have a gnawing feeling in my stomach that something about this “perfect” romance is a little funny.

I first became concerned last summer while watching Chip and his college friends play a game of touch football on the Vineyard. I don’t know much about football, but even I know turning the ball over doesn’t warrant a celebratory butt slap. Though, apparently, Chip doesn’t. Whether his team was scoring or getting scored on, Chip had an open hand ready to extend to his teammates’ posteriors. By the end of the game, I felt like he was trying to organize an all-male conga line.

I tried to put that incident out of my mind, until last week, when I had another alarming revelation. Chip goes to his club most days to play squash an
d perhaps take a steam. I’ve heard from other male friends that the “plunge pool” is pretty much avoided by the younger generation because of the strictly enforced no bathing suit policy. Sure, once in awhile it’s fine to take a dip, but, according to some well placed sources, Chip spends at least 30 minutes a day in the pool. I asked him about it and he told me not to be a prude, that it’s totally normal and every guy does it.

I’m hopeful t
hat Chip is just really in touch with his manhood. But, then again, maybe he’s more in touch with other people’s manhood. The last thing I want to end up as one of those 40-somethings whose husbands leave them for another man. How can I find out if Chip is gay?



Whether or not Chip is gay is not the first question you should be asking. It is the second question you should be asking. The first is whether or not you actually care.

Glaringly absent from your list of Chip’s many attributes is anything about Chip. How is Chip as a person? Does he make you laugh? Has he made you cry? He obviously fulfils your social needs, but is he satisfying your sexual needs?

If in fact a good forehand and an impressive real estate portfolio are your top qualifications for a mate, then we wonder why you even care if Chip’s gay. Martina Navratilova is about as gay as it gets, and it didn’t hurt her game one bit.

So, if Chip is willing to live the lie, why not you? There are certainly benefits to being married to a gay guy. He’ll never object to all-night bon-bon fueled marathons of Sex and the City. You’ll be able to tag team the redecorating effort in your summer place like it was an episode of Extreme Makeover: Home Edition. You’ll never have to worry about him cheating because you can rest assured that he is--but not with any of your friends, unless of course they are dudes. And, until that fateful day when he leaves you for the tennis pro at the lawn club, you’ll have a relationship that’s too good to be true (because it is).

But, if Chip is any more to you than a social adornment, or you just really have your heart set on marrying someone whose gag reflex isn’t triggered by the sight of a naked woman, then you’ll have some more work to do. Outing a WASP is easier said than done, as being a WASP and being gay is often a distinction without much of a difference--the pink polo’s and poofy cravats certainly aren’t going to resolve anything.

While this is a dilemma with no single answer, and one to which we will return frequently, we have an idea of where you might start. Go straight to the source: his boarding school roommate.

If anyone is going to know about Chip’s persuasions, it’s the roommate. Think about it—all those long nights Chip and his roomy spent sequestered in some cramped, lonely dorm room in the backwoods of New England, far from home, toiling over their final compositions on A Separate Peace for tenth grade English, with the scent of adolescent pheromones and unwashed gym socks hanging in the air. If Chip had even an ounce of bi-curiousity in him, it would be nothing short of Brokeback Prep School.

How you go about this task is another matter entirely. We would never advise a direct confrontation—that would be unseemly. A blank email with the words “I KNOW” (in all caps) in the subject line should take care of it.

Give it a shot and let us know how it goes.


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