Classifieds: Dating and market efficiency

Okay, I'm tired of beating around the bush. I'm a beautiful (spectacularly beautiful) 25 year old girl. I'm articulate and classy.
I'm not from New York. I'm looking to get married to a guy who makes at least half a million a year. I know how that sounds, but keep in mind that a million a year is middle class in New York City, so I don't think I'm overreaching at all.

Are there any guys who make 500K or more on this board? Any wives? Could you send me some tips? I dated a business man who makes average around 200 - 250. But that's where I seem to hit a roadblock. 250,000 won't get me to central park west. I know a woman in my yoga class who was married to an investment banker and lives in Tribeca, and she's not as pretty as I am, nor is she a great genius. So what is she doing right? How do I get to her level?

Here are my questions specifically:

- Where do you single rich men hang out? Give me specifics- bars, restaurants, gyms

-What are you looking for in a mate? Be honest guys, you won't hurt my feelings

-Is there an age range I should be targeting (I'm 25)?

- Why are some of the women living lavish lifestyles on the upper east side so plain? I've seen really 'plain jane' boring types who have nothing to offer married to incredibly wealthy guys. I've seen drop dead gorgeous girls in singles bars in the east village. What's the story there?

- Jobs I should look out for? Everyone knows - lawyer, investment banker, doctor. How much do those guys really make? And where do they hang out? Where do the hedge fund guys hang out?

- How you decide marriage vs. just a girlfriend? I am looking for MARRIAGE ONLY

Please hold your insults - I'm putting myself out there in an honest way. Most beautiful women are superficial; at least I'm being up front about it. I wouldn't be searching for these kind of guys if I wasn't able to match them - in looks, culture, sophistication, and keeping a
nice home and hearth.

_________________________________________________________



I read your posting with great interest and have thought meaningfully about your dilemma. I offer the following analysis of your predicament.
Firstly, I'm not wasting your time, I qualify as a guy who fits your bill; that is I make more than $500K per year. That said here's how I see it.

Your offer, from the prospective of a guy like me, is plain and simple a cr@ppy business deal. Here's why. Cutting through all the B.S., what you suggest is a simple trade: you bring your looks to the party and I bring my money.
Fine, simple. But here's the rub, your looks will fade and my money will likely continue into perpetuity...in fact, it is very likely that my income increases but it is an absolute certainty that you won't be getting any more beautiful!

So, in economic terms you are a depreciating asset and I am an earning asset. Not only are you a depreciating asset, your depreciation accelerates! Let me explain, you're 25 now and will likely stay pretty hot for the next 5 years, but less so each year. Then the fade begins in
earnest. By 35 stick a fork in you!

So in Wall Street terms, we would call you a trading position, not a buy and hold...hence the rub...marriage. It doesn't make good business sense to "buy you" (which is what you're asking) so I'd rather lease. In case you think I'm being cruel, I would say the following. If my money were to go away, so would you, so when your beauty fades I need an out. It's as simple as that. So a deal that makes sense is dating, not marriage.

Separately, I was taught early in my career about efficient markets. So, I wonder why a girl as "articulate, classy and spectacularly beautiful" as you has been unable to find your sugar daddy. I find it hard to believe that if you are as gorgeous as you say you are that the $500K
hasn't found you, if not only for a tryout.

By the way, you could always find a way to make your own money and then we wouldn't need to have this difficult conversation.

With all that said, I must say you're going about it the right way. In loosely relateved economics terms, you are a classic "pump and dump."
I hope this is helpful, and if you want to enter into some sort of lease, let me know.

Coger el libro más cercano, ir a la página 18 y transcribir la línea 4:

"en las de tipo abierto, ambos bandos avanzan 2 casillas su peon de rey"

Cuenta lo último que viste en la tele:
American Muscle Cars en el 22 creo.

A parte del ruido del ordenador, ¿qué más se escucha en este momento?:
Decisiones de Ruben Blades y par de pajaros afuera jugando "hide the pickle".

¿Cuándo te reíste por última vez?
Hace pocos minutos

¿Qué hay en las paredes donde te encuentras ahora mismo?
Routers, hubs y cables.

¿Cómo estás vestido/a en este momento?
Un jean y una camisa champagne (sera q soy el unico hombre q define el color de una camisa como champagne?)

Algo que los bloggers no sepan sobre ti:
Soy calichin nomas... ya pronto se sabra mas

¿Cómo son tus manos?
Alguien me dijo una vez q son pequeñas... pero SOLO las la manos ah!! :P

¿Qué ves desde tu ventana?
A los mismos pajaros de unas lineas atras montados en un arbol, dandole a lo mismo. oh!, la primavera

¿Qué imagen podría definirte?
Dr Jekyll y Mr Hyde.

Mi Primer Choque

muy cierto.
yo recuerdo mi primer choque, el mas webon en la historia de la humanidad.
fue hace no mucho, en ese entonces tenia un carro q habia comprado hacia menos de 6 semanas. no tenia ni 1000km en el odometro, estaba aun sin placas ni nada.

una noche sali a comprar una pizza al plaza vea de san borja. a la hora de salir, me piden mi "recibo de compras"... y le muestro a la muchacha mi recibo de pizza hut, a lo q ella respondio "no joven, solo recibos de plaza vea cuentan... es 3 soles por la hora o fraccion"... a lo q yo emputadisimo y JAMAS dispuesto a pagar las 3 lucas tome la decision inmediata de poner retro, entrar a plaza vea, comprarme una gaseosa de luca y regresar, mostrarle mi ticket de compra de 1 sol de plaza vea... irme y no pagar 3 soles por tamaño abuso de no recibir mi ticket.

puse retro... no mire para atras y pise.... TOMA MIENTRAS!, jajajajaja le di a una camioneta con mataperro q tenia estacionada atras.
el pata se bajo, yo me baje... el tipo era un argentino muy caballero mas preocupado por mi carro q por su camioneta, jajaja, reviso su parachoque, su capot, todo estaba bien, no nos hizimos paltas y el pata me dijo "pucha hermano, q pena por tu carro!"... pero mi parachoque de plastico se habia hecho un hueco y abollado porq le di a su mataperro.

y nada ps... obviamente q la chica del parqueo se rio, y me dejo ir sin cobrarme parqueo.
al dia siguiente, dolor en el taller. no solo era mi parachoque, sino q la maletera de mi inmaculado carro casi nuevo, ya no cerraba..... jajajaja

leccion aprendida

And then, there was C… and the Pledge.

Freshman English, in the 102 variety. As it would be become a custom in the next few years, I sat on the back of the room, glimpsing the board every now and then and musing about life and at times, how on much I missed Lima.

Interestingly enough for the day, there was an interesting sight up front of this otherwise boring 9am class

A pretty redhead attached to the prettiest, (thanks warm southern fall!), legs seen this side of the universe.

Of course an immediate plan of action had to be determined. Decisive and swift action had to be taken, casualties being irrelevant.

I honestly don’t remember what the class was about… by this time, the voice of the professor sounded to me pretty much like the voice of Charlie Brown´s teacher (bwabwabwabwa). I was Charlie and THIS was my little redhead. (things of destiny, at the time I had a yellow shirt with a black stripe am pretty sure I must have been wearing that day).

The bell rang and it was the moment for glorious victory or miserable failure.

More intelligence to decide further course of actions was required.

Mission Base to all available forces… scramble all fighters, Mission base to squadron, get in position. Wit, smile and lips locked and loaded… dive-bombing into target at 1000.

And then silence… the raid was in effect.

Total flight mission. Under 7 minutes. Body Count? No casualities reported.

Reporting to Mission Base… Thanks to my wit, the raid was a hit beyond expectations. We gathered enough intelligence to sketch the next few days.

Among the many topics covered in the unlikely time of 7 minutes she disclosed she lived in Parham Hall (just 2 building next to mine), laughed at my silly and cocky jokes and told me she ate at the cafeteria everyday. She flirted back a bit and she also thought I was “kinda neat”. Arrangements were made to secure another encounter in a more fitting terrain, the cafeteria!.

Ladies and Gentlemen, with much less intelligence, the allies won Midway… so luck was on our side for this battle.

Days later we met at the cafeteria for breakfast. We talked for a few hours into lunch, me and my usual wit and charm with deadpan delivery, her and her intelligent remarks and deep insight into things, I was starting to like her….… but here is where the first red flags popped (just my paranoia I thought). She had a ring. “that’s a nice ring” I said (hoping to fish for more information)… “Yeah, its for my pledge, cute isn’t it?”. Then she talked about her conviction on Christianity (I have found a nice Christian girl I thought to myself! and the teachings of Jesus and many things better left untold for the sake of the story.

Back then I was a fresh arrival and almost lost on the details of American culture, so I didn’t know what a “pledge” was, nor that Christian fundamentalism was rampant this side of the states … nonetheless I didn’t bother to ask and reduced it to a simple anecdote, maybe good material for some talk later on. That was one VERY funny omission……. More on that later.

Anyways, we agreed to go out on Friday night to Fridays (back then, my idea of a “good restaurant” was Fridays… hey, I was young, don’t knock on the kid).

Friday came and I picked her up. She was perfectly groomed, not a single hair out of place, and the smell.. oh the smell of Coolwater by Davidoff…. The night promised to be a good one.

We ate, we laughed, we drank (thanks to a friendly water who slipped us, underage kids, a few drinks), we had a great time… but I had the curiosity.. “what was the pledge???”.

So I asked… and answer left me frozen in the middle of a hot September night. “ITS MY PLEDGE TO BE VIRGIN UNTIL MARRIAGE”.

Me, being at the time a superficial and horny 18yo thought to myself.. “out of all the 8 thousand+ girls at my school… I had to want to date the one who was absolutely decided to be a virgin until marriage!”.

Great, now my hopes for the night were reduced to go back to my room, watch comedy central and fall sleep after enough cold showers to send me in to cardiac arrest.

Either way, I really enjoyed her company, and we kept talking and laughing… but the time to go home was approaching.

We got in the car, she hold my hand and kissed me in the cheek.

That’s all the love am getting tonight I firmly believed to myself.

But hey!, she is such a nice girl and such a blast to have around it didn’t matter to me.

We drove back to the dorms… and she asked me to come over to her room… “great!” I thought…. we can cuddle and watch a movie or something I thought.

we walked thru the door, but as soon as we sat on the couch and cuddled and watched a few minutes of tv… my whole interpretation of logic changed, my whole understanding of American culture did a 180.

THERE WERE LOOPHOLES ON THE PLEDGE!!!!!!!!!!!! VIRGINITY HAD LOOPHOLES!!

LOOPHOLES!. Oh the ingenuity of human mind and female logic. LOOPHOLES!. Virginity for the american youth had loopholes!!! Oh, the grace of those arguments.

Needless to say, the tv didn’t stay on for long….

And the next morning, as I walked back to my room, a whole door of posibilites were added to my then limited repertoire, man, I felt as if had been “watching” tv in black and white for my whole life before that” (well, that’s just bluffing, it was just a couple years).
And her? well.. She was still a virgin after that night and her pledge was intact.

I don’t know if Jesus approves, but hell I did!. God Bless America, where everybody wins.