Patty Stanger, founder and CEO of The Millionaire’s Club, is a firecracker. I have some questions and reservations about the value of a dating service that hooks up single male millionaires (and on occasion, a female) from all around the country with PYTs in Los Angeles, but I also have to give Patty props. I mean, it is obviously entertaining—Bravo’s The Millionaire Matchmaker is a smash hit. And it is apparently very lucrative.
Are you too busy hopping about in your private jet from boardroom to private estate to just ask a girl/guy out to dinner Saturday night? Are you afraid that those Armani suits are only attracting gold diggers? Well, Patty will take the guess work out of the dating game and deliver the meat market to you…for a LARGE fee. These ain’t Match.com/eharmony prices. For $20,000, and on up there, she’ll bring you sea of average intelligence hot girls in stilettos and push up bras, which is her makeover recommendation for every “average Annie” and aspiring model that shows up at her agency hoping to get an invite to an exclusive meet and greet for the chance to snag a millionaire. Seriously, WTF?
So, while I can’t seem to turn away when my dial stumbles upon the show, I can’t help but feel a little icky about this “reality” show. I’m not quite femangry, but I feel a little set back. I’m shocked each time Patty tells a woman that she needs to lose 15 lbs to be eligible to meet her millionaires, as well as the aforementioned push up bras and stilettos recommendation. I’m shocked at the lengths these women will go to for a rich guy to rescue them from their mundane lives. I recently watched a Northwestern educated SAT tutor haul junk in a mini-dress and a French manicure and it made me sad that she felt the need to do that for the nice (and awkward) dinner after the haul.
I won’t lie. I’ve fantasized about the perks of living the life of leisurely millionaire—in two different scenarios even. In one, I marry a handsome, charming, successful neurosurgeon. I retire from all of the customer service nightmares that come with a “consultant” title, and I finally have time to realize my dream of becoming an Oprah-Martha hybrid super-guru. In the second scenario, I’ve made my own money and I own a sports team (random, I know, but that’s on my to-do list). I go to work every day and can still whip up a rack of lamb and a crème brulee by supper time. It’s an exhausting fantasy, but I love it. It might be fun to have a millionaire boyfriend, but the second fantasy feels better. I feel like I’m in a partnership. I feel independent at the same time. I wear stilettos and push up bras for myself in this fantasy—not expressly to catch a man’s eye, but because it makes me feel sexy and confident. I pick up the check—no man makes me work for my dinner. Haven’t we women been liberated from this crap already? What do you think? What’s your fantasy?