issue 23: patterns
Dating and Data Points
Welcome to Season Three of Love & Other Rugs. You can find the archive here.
Three years ago, a licensed medical professional told me that I was a mermaid. “Honey, you would be better in water than on land. I’ve never met someone your age with less stability or strength.” she said. “You mean like Ariel?” I asked. The red hair certainly didn’t help.
Apparently, it was something about my (lack of) core strength, and my absolute insistence on wearing heels as I clomped around the city. I had to change some of my behaviors, she warned. Although, she lost me at the words “sensible shoes.”
I left her office clutching a prescription for pilates in one hand and a dust bag with Manolos in the other, cementing myself among the ranks of single millennial women scrambling around Manhattan with too many bags and poor arch support.
And if I was diagnosed as a mermaid, where the fuck was Prince Eric? And how was my busy ass gonna find him?
“This is the number one reason people hire us,” said Sandra, a seasoned matchmaker who I’d met in Brooklyn a decade ago. “They simply do not have the time.”
I had known Sandra as a Bushwick beauty salon owner for nearly my entire time in New York, never knowing her gravitas for connection and love. This spring, we reunited at a party to celebrate her latest venture: a matchmaker-fueled dating app. To a room of presumably single women, she spoke of New York as the backdrop for romance, dating, heartbreak. I felt right at home.
“What is happening in your dating life?” Sandra asked me as I watched Candace Bushnell float around the room in 5 inch patent pumps and an Hérve Léger dress. I told her that I had spent the majority of last spring waiting for someone else to make a call re: whether our relationship was platonic or romantic. As I spoke about in the last issue, I told her how comfortably I could coast in ambiguity. It also meant I could avoid the truth that maybe the thing I wanted didn’t want me back. “Give me a call,” she said.
In the spirit of, well, seeking the attention of men, it was not shocking to me that the top song on my 2025 Spotify Wrapped was Sue Me, a song by Audrey Hobert. She was joined by all the pining girl artists you could’ve guessed—Olivia Dean, Gracie Abrams, Suki Waterhouse, a hint of Celine Dion and Doja Cat. Plus a rogue song by Lil Wayne called Uproar for the aforementioned strutting around the city. At the very least, I thought, it wasn’t another year where Gavin Degraw topped the list.
Sue Me begins, “I knew you’d be at the party/drinking a Coke and Bacardi/not that it matters, but I’m breaking patterns/and getting so good at pilates.” Overnight, this became my anthem.
Audrey then proceeds to sing “sue me I wanna be wanted” thirty-three times. I guess that also rings true.
A few weeks after Sandra’s launch event, which fell a month after this song was released, I decided that I, like Audrey, wanted to be wanted AND maybe it was time someone helped me figure out who I wanted it with.
In other areas of my life, I had no trouble employing help—I had a tailor, a cobbler, both a regular and physical therapist, an acupuncturist, a personal trainer, a colorist, a handyman, an upholsterer, a framer, a woodworker, an editor, a financial advisor, a taxman, plus, two psychics, an energy reader and an astrologist. Not to mention, a large list of friends in every industry who would receive texts about buying a shoe from depop or a lamp at a vintage store or where to go for dinner that night.
If I needed that much help stringing my life together, surely I was never going to find love out here on my own. So, I got in touch with Sandra. On our first call, she told me we needed to start thinking reflectively, ie: patterns.
Could we identify and then possibly break down some of the intrinsic ways I interacted with the opposite sex that were prolonging my singlehood? (And as a bonus, rid myself of the “traditional” dating apps which served as one unnerving, unending algorithm-centric pattern).
As it turned out, my love life is chock full of bad habits—letting other people sit in the driver’s seat, high expectations, hopeless romance, not knowing if I’m dating someone, aversion to risk. It became clear as I talked to Sandra that my own wistful patience [read: absolute fear] was cockblocking me. That and, obviously, the looming presence of my dead mother, which made every decision of mine carry an overwhelming weight.
It’s interesting because, unlike my love life, my home is entirely devoid of patterns. Until recently, most of my walls were stark white, linens muted or solid, even the rugs I’ve had are mostly neutral and not at all daring. There are punches of red of course, the art is bold: evocative photography or text-based. I’m certainly not without texture, but as far as wallpaper, bedding, or even upholstery fabrics go—I am afraid of commitment.
It is not that I don’t appreciate the way people and places can play with patterns—bathrooms especially, couches that match their curtains—brights, plaids, moody tones. My camera roll is filled with versions of a life where patterns reign supreme and my desk is covered in wallpaper and fabric swatches wondering if they can find a way into my space.
This summer, I once again had no rug (or love) prospects. I had been casually using a tiger stripe swatch as a coaster on my desk while deciding if, in fact, an animal print was right for me. I’d look at the various other swatches I had saved in case this time they’d say something louder, or differently, or confess their undying love (a rare act for inanimate objects). And on a daily basis, I found myself annoyed by my decision paralysis and the bare parquet floors that looked up at me with such judgement.
Then this fall, I got a text from my godbrother: “anyone want this rug?” It was a large brown and blue Nordic Knots rug that happened to be designed by Giancarlo Valle, no longer needed for an interiors project and totally new. I would’ve been stupid not to try it in my space. Moody, romantic, and patterned. And giant. It took up 75% of my living/dining room. A space that had once been two zones was now one big space, underscored entirely by a large pattern.
To no surprise, this addition of a pattern caused me to rethink everything in my apartment, again. (Maybe it’s again-again at this rate). The couch moved back to the spot where it was when I moved in. All the surfaces normally covered in books were cleared. I ordered baby blue paint swatches to paint the living room ceiling, or maybe it would be the walls. I would need a new dining table, the art came down and then went back up when I was hosting (so as to not look so unkempt).
It’s funny how breaking one pattern and embracing another one can be a catalyst for structural change. I started to think that this new rug was as much of a rug as it also was a lesson (funny how even objects contain multitudes). A lesson in commitment to something, for now. A lesson in trust or maybe even chance. A lesson in trying something on for size. A lesson in embracing possibility.
And as the year ended, I couldn’t help but think about how I had embraced shifts that simultaneously pushed me forward and grounded me. The addition of a new print or new person is inherently a risk. A text about a rug or a DM about a job can change your world order.
Now, as I find myself in the throes of January, my resolutions include a full renovation of my apartment, many new prints included. Plus, a commitment to breaking some of the patterns that may or may not be responsible for my unluckiness-in-love. Matchmaker and architect willing.
This past weekend, in the snowstorm, I was sitting on my new (and still grey) couch, reviewing home reno plans and plotting my year of weddings and travel. It was daunting to think of another year as a party of one. Again, I thought, maybe it was time to bring in the professionals.
What I didn’t realize was, that unlike my cobbler who will city-proof my heels for under $100 with Goodyear tire treads, a handful of suitors expertly arranged by a matchmaking professional would cost $5K at minimum. I had a sneaking suspicion that, despite my wanting to be wanted, thousands of dollars would go farther in a revived bathroom than a relationship guru. Patterns be damned, I’d rather opt into potential heartbreak for free. Wanting to be wanted apparently comes with a pay-out.
home goods: patterns (and prints and textures)
A quilt from Meg Callahan I saw at Design.Miami
A blue textured room of my dreams
A woven wallcovering from Backdrop
Scene from a dinner at Francesca DiMattio’s house to celebrate her collaboration with Calico
scene report: wet january
I don’t really believe in limitations, therefore, Dry January has never been for me. Here are some highlights from an inebriated kick off to the year.
Bufon: The boys of Demo recently opened a new favorite of mine, Bufon, in lower Manhattan. I spent the first moments of 2026 eating steak and drinking martinis at a 48-person NYE dinner with some of my closest pals.
Stars: Speaking of close friends, stop everything you are doing and go try to get a seat at Stars. A perfect, and I mean perfect, 12-seat wine bar by the team from Penny & Claud.
Bistro Ha: In one evening, I dined at two established with (and I mean adjacent to) Joe Jonas. The first was Stars, then we went to the impeccable Bistro Ha where on top of a smattering of dishes, I had three Lychee Cosmos and something that resembled a Baked Alaska. In a recent Grubstreet Diet, my friend James said Cosmos were the drink of the year. I concur.
Mission Chinese: I hadn’t been since it reopened and went with some friends as a cold-prevention measure. I ordered: one martini, addictive cabbage salad, pork & shrimp wonton’s, and a large fish.
shop girl: not slowing down
When I got my new job, I walked straight into Kallmeyer and spent too much money on these gorgeous pants—co-star had told me to be decadent that day. FINE.
Gasped upon seeing these martini glasses with attached olive picks. Sexy, no?
Eliou has only recently been on my radar, mostly as I send the one thousand brides in my life white lacy little things. Well, they also make jewelry and these are fab.
I picked up a copy of this Playboy’s Host & Bar book. Hundreds of cocktails and hundreds of ridiculous ideas for hosting as a single man.
Over the holidays, I bought myself a swan spoon for absolutely no reason.
The coolest person I know is my friend Margaret. She told me to buy these leather opera gloves and so I did.
A chair from the Superhouse show at Design.Miami. We all know I love red.
My winter personality is the faux fur coat from a vintage store in Bellport called Starke Naked.
My crush Devin just launched a collaboration with DWR. A garnet cocktail table, literally what more could I need??
One day at work, I took a mental health walk around the block. I ended up at APC, I had been needing a “bitchy going out bag.” Retail therapy does indeed work for me and this chic little number is now mine (and in general this Demi-Lune line is great for work and play).
xx See you in Feb.
"In other areas of my life, I had no trouble employing help—I had a tailor, a cobbler, both a regular and physical therapist, an acupuncturist, a personal trainer, a colorist, a handyman, an upholsterer, a framer, a woodworker, an editor, a financial advisor, a taxman, plus, two psychics, an energy reader and an astrologist. Not to mention, a large list of friends in every industry who would receive texts about buying a shoe from depop or a lamp at a vintage store or where to go for dinner that night."
At some point I'd like an illustrated book of your relationship with all of them.
You are simply the coolest with such amazing taste. I love these letters and am always left wanting to hear more! may your person find you and spoil you. ❤️❤️