Guilty Pleasures

I am currently being courted heavily by two men. A good guy and a bad guy. They both could be considered rulers of the financial worlds. One has his own private plane and the other just rents one on an as-needed basis. They are both in their early 40s, devastatingly funny, and "easy on the eyes" would be the understatement of the century. One might say that I have found myself in quite an envious position - with the exception of one little thing - they each sport a certain piece of jewelery that I find highly objectionable. No, not a nose ring or even a thick, gold chain. They both have wedding rings on...because, they are, well, married.

The "good one" is my friend, Will. He has been happily married to his wife for 16 years and they have three kids. They have the perfect life, the perfect marriage, and the perfect family. They have a full floor apartment right on Park Avenue and spend their Summers in Maine. The kids to go the very best private schools and Will has never once had an affair. I know this - because we are good friends - and he is the straightest arrow that I have ever met. His wife is super duper cool...and they tell each other everything. He even told her that he has developed a crush on me and she thinks it is cute. She calls me his "girlfriend." She isn't worried and she is happy that Will has someone he likes to go out with because her social schedule is always above max capacity. Sometimes, she calls when we are out - and he will put me on the phone to say "hi." Not exactly a lurid affair happening here - but I think Will likes to imagine it in his mind...and his wife is smart and secure enough to know it will never happen. A sort of innocent game of "pretend affair" - if that is even possible?

The "bad one" is the Hedge Fund manager from Colorado that I met in the Four Seasons Hotel a few months ago. Like Will, Colorado has been married to his college sweetheart since pretty much forever and they also have three children and an outwardly perfect life. However, Colorado and his wife fight like cats and dogs and he cheats on her all the time. He had admitted to having mistresses all over the country that he is currently supporting. His wife is a total nag (according to him, of course) and he can't smoke enough pot on a daily basis to dull the pain of still being married to her. He tells her nothing - yet he is seemingly careless about his affairs, that it is obvious he wants to be caught. He is a bad, but charming, egg. When Colorado's wife calls - he hits the "ignore" button and continues on with our platonic date. I often insist that he picks up - especially as I like to remind him, that nothing is happening between us that he would have to hide. I might be right - but perhaps he is just hiding from wifey-poo like the cowardly husband that he seems to be?

Despite the fact that Will and Colorado know very well that I will never lower myself to the status of being anyones side dish - they both treat me like we are dating. I mean, it is total hands off......but in the past few weeks I've been to lunch at Michael's and to the theater twice with Will - and Colorado has taken me to a lavish dinner at Il Mulino and to to have $200 pasta with truffles at Joël Robuchon. They both make me feel like I am movie star pretty and hang on my every word. There is never a date that doesn't include round trip chauffeured cars and both men are total gentlemen - each and every time. I am adored, fussed over, and I get to not ever have to worry about fending off advances at the end of every expensive and glamorous evening. They both just leave, smiling, after a peck on the cheek...and call me to do something fabulous again just days later.

Clearly, this arrangement can't go on forever - but I think it is so successful because we are all getting something out of it we so desperately need. I am getting the attention that the Hedge Funder refused me and feeling almost "goddess like"; Colorado is hearing the word "no" from a woman - possibly for the first time and he clearly loves the challenge; and Will is getting all the satisfaction of what it would be like to have an affair, but without actually having one...so that itch has been scratched - with no one has gotten hurt - and his curiosity largely satisfied.

It all sounds so perfectly neat and tidy...but with a good number of my evenings these days being divided up between two married men - I'm not exactly sure where this road leads? Could friendship with a married man be the "gateway drug" to an affair with a married man? I certainly hope I am not being terribly naïve here. However, for now - it seems to be smooth sailing ahead - even though it is quite possible that I lost my telescope!

Disappointment 101

"Shock and Awe" has been described as a military campaign, most notably in relation to the Iraq War. However, more recently - that term can also be applied to the way one feels when a guy dumps you right before Christmas; says he will call you after the New Year; and he follows up on his promise. I was definitely shocked and awed, to say the least. The Hedge Funder wanted to get together. He wanted to see me. He felt we had unfinished business. Oh my God. Was he going to apologize? Had he regretted everything? Was letting go of me the worst mistake of his life? O.K. - I know maybe I am getting just a tad carried away here, but I thought those were all distinct possibilities. I mean, as of mid-December, this guy was telling me that he has never felt more sure of anyone in his life. He could have been legitimately scared of his own feelings. It happens. Right?

In any case, I left nothing undone to myself that could possibly be done. I was determined to not let him get away a second time. We had a connection and I had felt completely miserable after he broke it off. So, full diva glam he was going to get!

We had planned to meet for drinks at the Mandarin Oriental Hotel at 8 p.m. , but I was ready by 6:00. Call me crazy, but make up artists and hair people don't work much later than that...so, if one is doing "the full kabuki", then one must generally get it done earlier in the day and try to stay pristine until "show time." However, the Hedge Funder called to half-cancel. By half cancel, I mean...he apparently had to work late and wanted to meet instead around 10 or 10:30 p.m. He couldn't re-schedule because he was leaving the next day for a week and he needed to see me. Damn. Not how this was going to go in my mind. What happened to version 2.1 of the Hedge Funder? The one who flew home a day early just to spend more time with me?

Incidentally, my married friend, Will....a super debonair, rock star of the financial world called to say that he had theater tickets and his wife couldn't go. She had suggested he take me. It would start at 8 and finish around 9:30 or 10 p.m. - so, in fact...it was all quite perfect. I think I would just let the Hedge Funder know that I would call HIM instead, when I was finished with my "other plans." Ha, ha...Will had totally saved me from turning into a miserable little shrew at home - obsessing over the time, then my phone, then the time again. I actually have the upper hand back. Yay me.

So - Will sends his car down to pick me up and I meet him at the theater and something really odd happened. He looked at me with a crushingly gentle and adoring look on his face. I mean, Will had never seen me totally made up or anything - but it was definitely a confidence booster that this happily married man could forget, even for even a second, that he was indeed a happily married man. Interesting. Throughout the play, Will stole sideways glances at me and afterward offered to have his driver take me up to the Mandarin Oriental to meet the Hedge Funder. I gladly accepted the ride - and texted the Hedge Funder to let him know I was en route and to check if he was there yet.

Ten minutes later, I am sitting in Will's car and with nothing back from he Hedge Funder. Finally - when it was all becoming slightly more than I could handle...I hear the sharp double beep of a text. He wrote that would be there in a half hour. I guess he wanted me waiting for him by design - regardless of the fact that I had managed to fill the space gap once already this evening due to his suddenly overwhelming work load. My spirits sagging - Will offered to go upstairs and have a drink with me until Mr. Not So Fabulous turned up. Thank God he did because it was almost 11 before I saw the Hedge Funder's stout legs marching into the bar with a flustered look on his face. Will gave me a look as if he didn't believe that the guy I was pining for could be such a small, chubby Cabbage Patch of a man - but it was true.

My night with the Hedge Funder was over almost as soon as it began. He admitted that I looked stunningly gorgeous and seemed to actually mean it. He then followed that up by saying that he didn't feel that I was able to take disappointment well. Due to the nature of his business and hectic life, he would be disappointing me often and if I couldn't handle a "slight change of plan" (otherwise known as cancelling a trip over Christmas with me to meet my Dad), then we were a bad fit. I uttered that I truly didn't need him to teach me about disappointment - that certainly daily life can offer up enough of that and that normally I....and he stopped me right there. He was now seeing someone else. He left Arizona early to come back to New York City and he had met a cocktail waitress in a nightclub. A cocktail waitress in a nightclub that doesn't even open until Midnight.

I almost wanted to ask him for $150 as reimbursement for what I had spent getting my hair and makeup done to meet him - only to be met with the news that he had already moved on...a mere three weeks later, but I couldn't. I was certainly not about to let it show that I couldn't take disappointment well after being called out on it. Because you know what? I can't. At least during the second big let down from him, I was smart enough to hold my "waterworks festival" until I was in the back seat of a cab by myself. Live and learn. I certainly hope for the waitress' sake, that she is an android. God forbid the girl has a display of disappointment over something disappointing....and starts to appear, um, human - as "human" apparently doesn't hold the same appeal as it used to, back in the day.

Auld Lang Syne

A word to the wise. New Year's Eve is for couples or large groups. If you don't fall in either of those categories - stay home, save your money, and watch the ball drop on T.V.

Needless to say, Annie and I emptied our wallets at the Waverly Inn.....at a tiny table squeezed in between nuzzling couples who toasted each other every five minutes and big tables of happy drunk people - who also toasted each other every five minutes, albeit in a slightly more noisy fashion. Once the clock struck Midnight, the entire restaurant exchanged kisses - overlooked us...and hurried out onto Bank Street toward their waiting town cars for their second parties of the evening. By approximately 12:20 a.m. Annie and I were staring at each other in an empty room covered in confetti wondering what next? I think we were both hoping that at the very least, a waiter would take pity on the two single girls left behind at the restaurant and we'd end up in some tenement party in Brooklyn with their waiter friends...but no. No one asked us, so we put on our coats and went home.

Let's hope that this isn't a bad omen for how my dating life in 2008 is going to turn out. Eek! Banish the thought!

Bah Humbug!

Quick holiday update - the holidays were kind of a bust, as I'd feared. Literary Darling was a perfect escort - but despite the fact that Bill Gates has actually paid this guy to talk to him about his research, my Dad had less than zero interest in him at all when he is sitting in his house - for free. My date might have a few books on the New York Times bestseller list, but my Dad doesn't read the New York Times....or anything else, for that matter. He has a new obsession since I've last seen him - and no, it is not his little rug rats, but golf. Seriously - what is with the golf? First the Hedge Funder and now my Dad? It just makes the pain of his absence even worse as the Literary Darling doesn't have so much as an athletic bone in his frail little body. He is thus duly ignored throughout dinner by my Dad. I suppose that is better than to be berated by him? In any case, my Dad and the Duke spoke about golf courses in Scotland all night; while my Step-Mother and the Duchess discussed the children (the Duchess is apparently the Godmother to one of my half-siblings); and my date was riveted by none other than the supermodel - who has just decided to become a race car driver. Whatever! How does one follow that up?

I couldn't wait to leave. I checked out of the Peninsula (in which I downgraded the suite to a mere room due to the absence of the guy who was actually supposed to be paying for all this) and flew home. The Hedge Funder hasn't called even though I check my phone constantly. How can someone be that interested and then suddenly go completely cold? I didn't do anything. I was just sweet and receptive to his advances to me. I really can't dwell on him though. It is just too depressing.

Speaking of cold, because I have no date or even a single party invite for New Years Eve - Annie and I have booked a table for two at the Waverly Inn for dinner. It is over $300 per person - but I feel like it will be worth it. Otherwise, consider me officially looking forward to the end of 2007. ASAP!

California Screaming

Well, I guess I have good news and bad news. Bad news first. The Hedge Funder dumped me. I didn't have a bad dream. This is not a joke. This actually happened. All was perfectly fine and we had been in constant communication while he was in Arizona and just when I asked about his arrival date and time in California to meet me for the holidays - he dropped the bomb. We had moved too fast and he felt it was way too early to meet my family. OMFG.

I mean yes....we had moved fast - fine! And yes, it was very soon to be meeting my family. I agree with him on pretty much all fronts....however, I was only following his lead on how fast everything was going (I think?) and he was the one who offered to come to California with me on Christmas. In fact, I hadn't even invited him. He just offered...and we weren't even staying with my family. We had a suite at the Peninsula for God's sakes and he was coming merely for moral support - not as some announcement of our future together to my dear 'ole Dad who I don't even like. I never even see my Dad. It is not like I am introducing him to my Mom (which would actually count in my eyes!) Who does this kind of thing? My Dad was expecting the Hedge Funder to show up. A real life, actual boyfriend of mine. Me - with a boyfriend - the one thing my Dad never thought I would ever be able to get if my life depended on it. How on earth would I even explain this to him? My Dad already thinks I am enough of a loser and this inopportune break-up was the last thing I needed just days before Christmas. I mean, if I wasn't already dreading the thought of being made fun of by my Dad; being mocked by their pretentious guests for being "so American" as they put it; or meeting siblings that I've never seen before in my life...I can now add to the list, that I will also be dealing with having been freshly dumped. Dumped by a short guy with stained teeth and a receding hairline. A distant cousin, perhaps, of Danny Devito...just gave me the boot, people.

I then did the pretty much unthinkable. I decided to not immediately accept the break up over the phone by the Hedge Funder (as if I had any choice?) I broke down. I cried, I whined, I begged him to reconsider. I pointed out how it was his idea to go to California and then I started hyperventilating. I think I even said the words "You can't d-d-d-d-d-do this to me-e-e-e-e-e" that was heavily punctuated with sobs. I literally became so hysterical on the phone over the fact that I thought I had found my soul mate (and he was anything but); I felt close to being considered a little less than a total loser to my Dad (which I undoubtedly would be to him now); and that someone could dump me on Christmas as I was heading to the airport...thinking I'd see him in a day or two.

I know - I should have accepted the break-up with grace and gotten off the phone with my dignity intact, in an ideal world. I know that I showed the Hedge Funder the most psychotic possible version of myself and I will never, ever, get him back after that reaction. I acted like an imbecile and I made the mistake of proving that dumb Hedge Funder right. I took the news so badly, that I made sure that he would have zero regrets about his decision. He said he'd call me after the New Year to check in on "where we are." I don't even know what that means, nor do I care. In fact, I'm pretty sure that he just said that to get off the phone with me, the blubbering idiot, as fast as he possibly could have.

Oh.....almost forgot - I did mention that there was good news. I found a replacement. I remembered that a friend of mine....who just so happens to be one of Time Magazine's 100 most influential people of the year (three years in a row) and a best selling author was planning to be in California for Christmas and he was available for dinner. I mean - maybe I did have to dangle that a 23-year old supermodel would be there. But quite frankly, my Dad won't know the difference between a Hedge Funder and a darling of the literary world. The guy just has to be straight, impressive, and standing next to me when I ring the doorbell on Christmas Eve. He wasn't exactly gorgeous, but one can't complain with that resume and his last minute availability. Now, my ego might be taken care of in the context of dealing with my Dad, but my heart is in total shambles in the context of dealing with the Hedge Funder. How could I have been so wrong about him? What did I miss? I supposed I never claimed to be "love smart" - that is for sure.

Daddy Dearest

I have never been so happy in my life to call my "oh so scary" Dad. I wanted to let him know my travel plans for my upcoming visit and to let him know that my "boyfriend" (ha, ha...haven't been able to say that in a while) is coming with me and that we will be at the Peninsula. Silence. I was basking in the glow for a few seconds of assuming that he was shocked that either his daughter, or her boyfriend, or both are quite successful (as we will be staying at the most swank hotel in town) and not asking to stay in his guest cottage Oh, I really savored the thought of him looking at me in a flattering light for once when all was interrupted by laughter and him blurting out "Boyfriend??? We were all pretty sure that you were gay. I mean...aren't you close to 40 or something? Gosh, someone has finally agreed to put up with you and that mouth of yours? Good on ya." Ummmm.....and so it begins!

He obviously hasn't changed one bit - and he doesn't even know how old I am? In fairness, I don't think he knows how old his younger children are exactly either - so at least it is across the board disinterest and it isn't just limited in my direction. That makes it somewhat, less bad. Kind of. My Hedge Funder will definitely be in for an interesting holiday though - that's for sure.

My Dad (who is still enjoying the fame from the one hit song he was famous for in the 1960s) and his Emmy award winning newscaster wife are hosting Christmas dinner with mostly her family plus a Duke and Duchess from London, and a supermodel. Shit. I forgot that my Dad is so social despite the fact that he is still riding on his success from that one darned song. I really didn't want to share my Hedge Funder with a 23-year old, 6-foot tall model at Christmas dinner (which is probably the reason I look so old and short to my Dad...as she hangs out with him more than I do), but anyway! I am just happy that I have some support - and that I have a (drum roll please) - BOYFRIEND! I mean, my Dad doesn't need to know that I only met the man of my dreams about three weeks ago and that we've only been actually dating for a little less than a week. Details, details. In fact, I think that arriving with a person who thinks I'm great might just be the wake-up call that Daddy Dearest needs.

The Sky's the Limit

Vroom, vroom...the Hedge Funder and I are full speed ahead. As two people who are completely obsessed with each other would do...we spent every last second of the weekend together. I swear, I would just move in with him if he asked me - and yes, I know....we have been dating for all of about two minutes, but still.....when you know, you know.

So, where oh where do I start! First of all, he devastated me with news that he leaves on Monday for the rest of the year. He is heading to Arizona to stay at the Fairmont Scottsdale Princess where he has a casita for two weeks by himself. I guess his dirty little secret is that he has an almost crack like addiction to golf? His apartment had one entire closet dedicated to golf stuff. His coffee table was covered in golf magazines and his TiVo was chock full with - you guessed it - televised golf tournaments. He even added that when he gets married that he plans to have vows which somewhat relate to his future wife allowing him plenty of time on the golf course. Mmmmm-kay. I suppose of all the vices out there, golf addiction should be on the lower end of the anxiety scale, right?

I confessed to the Hedge Funder that for the first time in ten years, my Dad has invited me to his home in California for Christmas. We have had a tumultuous relationship - at best - but I was so flattered that he even cared to ask me to see where he lives for the first time, that I blurted out an immediate "yes" without really thinking it through. Quite frankly, I'd rather be heading in the opposite direction...to Belgium to be with my Mom and my Step-Dad, but I was kind of locked in already. Plus, my Dad has a wife I'd only seen in magazines and three (yes, three) young children that I'd never met. It was definitely time...although, I wasn't quite sure that I was as mentally prepared as I would have liked to have been for what will most definitely be a Christmas full of insults, low blows, and constant criticism. Unless, of course my Dad is either recently medicated or has undergone a frontal lobotomy? One can only hope.

The Hedge Funder then threw out the nicest Christmas gift anyone could have ever given me. He offered to join me in California for the holidays. He said he would book a suite at the Peninsula - and that he would be as involved or invisible as I needed. Being Jewish, he didn't exactly celebrate Christmas - and besides, he was quite sure that a few days away from the golf in Arizona to be at my side when I needed a friendly face the most was not just was he should do - but it was what he would do. Wow. I was beyond blown away and I think that my Christmas is going to be just perfect after all.

The Hedge Funder even promised that if my Dad wasn't going to be in the holiday spirit, then we would certainly find some somewhere along Rodeo Drive. If only the Hedge Funder knew what his three day trip out to L.A. meant to me. He is seriously the kind of man every woman wishes for and he now has me wrapped completely around that chubby little finger of his. He is seriously wonderful. Like - oh my God - incredible, just amazing, and stupendously great. If I might say so myself!

Shiny Happy People

So, my dinner last night at Smith's with the Hedge Funder went just as swimmingly spectacular as the first. He picked me up in his chauffeured car; we were quickly escorted to the best seat in the house by the owner, no less; and everything was impeccable from his choice of wine, to his outfit, and his sense of comedic timing with our endless stream of amusing conversation.

I can't be quite sure if my face hurt more from laughing or from making out by the time I arrived home - but regardless, I am in heaven. The worst part about the entire evening was that it had to end - but I think that he and I like each other so much that we don't want to completely mess things up by moving too fast, so a "good bye" at the end of the night was definitely in order.

I have never liked a someone so much, so quickly - and thankfully he feels the same, otherwise, I would be totally embarrassed that a veritable orchestra strikes up a symphony inside of me every time he looks at me, calls me, texts me, or even accidentally bumps my knee with his under the table at dinner. One could just stick a fork in me at this point - as I am pretty sure I'm done!

Prince Charming

Just like the man of your dreams would actually do in your dreams - the Hedge Funder came home a day early, because he couldn't wait to see me. He booked a charming restaurant I love called August on Bleecker Street and made sure that I knew that he still had me the next night as well at Smith's. I asked him if he wasn't being slightly cocky assuming that we would hit it off as much in person as we had on the phone, but he insisted that he has never been more sure of anything in his life as our two back-to-back dates. I suppose a guy who has gone from nothing to looking at $20,000,000 apartments before the age of 35 probably has pretty good instincts, so why doubt them?

The Hedge Funder called me on his way into Manhattan from his chauffeured Escalade and sounded funny. He actually sounded so weird that I was sure he was cancelling on me and I had only told my Mom, my co-workers, my high school friends, the Junior League girls, my neighbors, and just about any one else that would listen that I had found my Prince Charming. Cancelling on me just had to be out of the question. Luckily - that wasn't what was wrong with him. He wanted to know if I remembered what he looked like? Of course I did. No, actually I didn't. Ummmm, truthfully - all I could remember what that he had on a great outfit. I had a clear vision of him in my head from the neck down. If he was stunning - I would have remembered....or deformed, I definitely would have remembered. In fact, I am pretty sure he looks normal. I'd say, brown hair, brown eyes...6-foot tall - if I had to guess? Silence. I guess I guessed wrong. I really didn't care though. We had the best connection that I have ever had with anyone - and he can look however he wants to look and I will be fine with it. I am beyond being superficial. Also, I am pretty sure he has no idea what I look like exactly either. Can he?

In any case, I was a little underwhelmed when he showed up at my door. He was probably about 5'7", thinning brown hair, bulging blue eyes, a massive nose, and a perfectly round face - like a Cabbage Patch Doll. When he opened his mouth, it got worse because he had dark, stained, pointy teeth and an underbite. I must have been extremely distracted the day I first met him...because missing the fact that he had been beaten with the ugly stick this badly was really quite shocking on my part. Had I gone blind? Or was I just growing up?

On the plus side, he had on yet another spectacular outfit (which I later found out was styled for him by his "people at Bergdorf") and he was a total gentleman. We did hit it off in person and when his tiny, little baby hand reached across the table to hold my significantly larger one - I actually felt sparks. No - not sparks of shame to be out with this dapper little dwarf, but real sparks of physical chemistry. I think I will be able to kiss him, after all. And I was...

After the Hedge Funder's black card was swiped - we had barely left the restaurant and we kissed and kissed and kissed. He took me home and didn't even try to come upstairs. We had an amazing night and I couldn't be happier that I only had to wait less than 24-hours for the next date. I have definitely just kissed a toad and I am fully expecting Prince Charming. How on earth did I get so lucky with this one?

The Marrying Kind

The hedge funder called me the very next day to let me know that he was in a car heading to the airport. He had a business trip to Sweden and then to London and would be gone for about ten days. Damn. So much for my distraction that I so much needed! His voice was ridiculously sexy and he had something I hadn't experienced in quite some time - wit. He had me laughing for about half the phone call and I seriously was disappointed when he had to go. I have a slight inkling the Hedge Funder doesn't play "Guitar Hero" after work for entertainment. I finally have a guy with a brain. Hallelujah. I wonder what is the catch? Or have I actually found "the one"?

Then, I get a funny e-mail from him when he arrived in Stockholm.....with a very detailed account of his seat mates on the plane. He was seriously hysterical. And so literally every single day - for ten days - we wrote each other twice...and he called usually once per day. He wanted to know every detail of my life from the moment I was born to the present day. He asked a zillion questions and he had just the right balance of sensitivity and humor when I revealed myself to him...day after day.

The Hedge Funder had grown up poor and lost his Dad from pancreatic cancer when he was about 12. Raised by a single Mom, he did his best to do well enough in school to earn a full scholarship to Yale. His Mom was a psychologist - but she struggled to pay the bills and he vowed that he would always take care of her. And he has. He still misses his Dad as if he died yesterday - and the one void in his life....now that he is so successful at the tender age of 34 is to find a real soul mate and start a family of his own. His plan was to retire at 40 and to be a stay at home Dad...never missing a moment of his own kid's lives. Seriously - split screen to me.....melting into a puddle on the floor. The Hedge Funder could not be more sincere and I have never felt a deeper connection to anyone more than I did with him in my entire life. I adored him and hearing from him was the highlight of my day.

We were both so excited about his return to New York. He had booked us a table at Smith's a new restaurant on MacDougal Street and he noted my address so that he could pick me up - as he was quite sure that I would never forgive him if I ruined whatever fabulous shoes I planned to wear on our first date. He also admitted that he had never, in his entire life, had the feelings for a complete stranger as he had for me. He was sure that we must have shared a past life experience or something? It was all so weird. I mean - I never understood how people can get married after knowing someone for a month or two, but now I get it. There are some people who just get you. Like right away. I am in trouble and I can't wait for the Hedge Funder to get back to the city! And fast! I have SUCH a good feeling about this one. I might have actually met my future husband, I swear.

High Maintenance

Fresh from my double New York Rangers rejection, I am walking down Central Park West and someone shouts my name. I turn around and I see a good friend of mine, who is a tall, fabulous, and very gay real estate agent to the stars standing in front of 15 Central Park West. We chat for a minute while he is waiting for his client with a $20,000,000 budget to show up - and a chauffeured, black Escalade crawls to a stop moments later and a really young looking guy in a great....like really great - outfit emerges from the back seat. He was the client. Not his Dad, not his boss, him. Wow - now I officially feel like a loser as I think he and I are about the same age and he is buying a place that is maybe $18,000,000 more than I could afford. So much for feeling like a success - when you have someone like this guy to remind you that you are not. I say goodbye to my broker friend and I am literally trying everything in my power to get over the fact that I was stood up the other night by Fatso on Ice. I stroll through the bizarre mall like setting of Time Warner Center. I peruse the aisles of Whole Foods and I even popped into Barnes and Noble - so that I could flip though "He Is Just Not That Into You" because I lost my own copy and I am feeling too cheap to buy another. I should have just bought the book again. It has such pearls of information.....like "Don't give him a chance to reject you again"; "You are not easily forgotten. Let him find you when he's ready." and "No answer is your answer." My God, that Greg Behrendt is my guru when it comes to dating. He really is.

Meanwhile, by the time I get my nose out of the book I am borrowing - so to speak - my broker friend had left me a couple of messages. His client was apparently more taken by me than by the $20,000,000 apartment! Wow - that is quite a compliment - well, by New York terms, at least. The client wanted permission to ask me out on a date. According to my broker friend, he runs a huge hedge fund; he is a Yale grad; and his charm and sweetness far exceed his tremendous bank account. Gulp. I'll take one please! Things really can change in a day. Permission granted.

Dough Boy with a stick - consider yourself forgotten. Officially! Nothing like a cute hedge funder to erase my memory of you completely. Whew!

Puck You!

I called my baby faced New York Ranger back two days ago and left a message and wishing him lots of luck against Dallas. Yes - you read that right. I now follow sports. In fact, over the Thanksgiving weekend - I pretty much studied the history of the New York Rangers, memorized the names of every current Ranger, and I even can name all the coaches (Tom, Perry, Mike, and Benoit!) I have stopped in my new found obsession only short of walking around Manhattan sporting an oversized-blue jersey. I have come quite a long way in the last week with my comprehensive hockey knowledge - but I certainly don't want to come off as completely clueless when we start hanging out.

A few hours after Dallas beat the Blueshirts, I didn't get a call back - but I did get a text. "Wht r u up to?" Ummm....I was actually in the middle of "Googling" his head coach in between commercial breaks on 60 Minutes, but I replied "Not much, you?" About ten text messages later, I had found out that he was quite busy playing "Guitar Hero" in his apartment post-game (a regular past time of his, no less) and wanted me to come over the next evening and hang out while he catches up on all the reality T.V. shows that are backed up in his TiVo. Wow - these Rangers are quite the Casanovas! Clearly, in Tom Renney's bio - there was no paragraph that he was helping his clueless young things when they were off the ice - like with "Dating 101", for instance. What is with all the invitations to watch television from these guys? I suppose sometimes you just need to try to go with the flow and see where it leads? I am really not good at that, but I said I would come over and we could discover the joys of "The Amazing Race" together. Once I was there - then I would certainly start dropping those "Let's go skating in Central Park" hints within hours, if not minutes. I may be a lot of things, but easily deterred - I am not.

Needless to say, yesterday I spent the day "prepping." Manicure, blow out, cute/casual outfit...my manicurist, hair stylist, and Barney's sales girl were all quite impressed that I would be hanging out that night with a New York Ranger. I sent him a text saying that I was looking forward to tonight and what time would be good for me to come by. No response. At 7:30 p.m. - I sent another text admitting that I didn't actually know where he lived exactly. Still no response. At 9:15 p.m. (my dignity just got up and walked out the door at this point), I sent him a third text...admitting that I might have gotten the night we were supposed to meet up on wrong (even though I know I didn't) to give him an undeserved out. And finally, at 10:30 p.m. - I threw in the towel, removed my carefully applied make-up, and jumped into my own bed - quite sure, when I had gotten un-ready that I would hear from him with a massive apology. But I didn't.

He totally stood me up for the worst date ever. A fat, "Guitar Hero" playing, 24-year old with a G.E.D. stood ME up. Oh my God. He was literally the cultural equivalent of a truck driver who happened to be good at ice hockey - and he rejected me. Now - this - will take a bit of recovery time. Ouch.

From the Mouths of Babes

So, it is Thanksgiving weekend and my only invitation for the weekend was to go to my ex-boyfriend's estate in the Hamptons. He is a 40-something year old tycoon with two ex-wives, three children, and one very hot girlfriend that he has been dating for about a year. I don't even seem to rate on the "hot-o-meter" to these people, so no one - including the current girlfriend (who is with her own parents for the holiday) seems to care that I am spending four days in the country with the Tycoon, children, and full staff of maids, nannies, and a chef. Clearly, I am not viewed as a threat - just more of a table filler and entertainment for the kids. However, I don't really mind how I am viewed....because spending four luxurious days lounging at an impeccably decorated $25 million dollar estate certainly beats staying at home, alone - and I just happen to find my ex-boyfriend hysterical. He was a nightmare when I was dating him, but he has been a terrific ex. A sort of Jimmy Carter of ex-boyfriends.

On Friday night, all of the boys in the house are in the library watching a scary movie and so six-year old Lucie and I are in the den watching "Hannah Montana." I am quietly realizing that both of the New York Rangers that had taken my number had actually not called me. Scottie from Alaska has thrown out the lame Sunday night football offer and never called back with a follow up offer and baby faced Ryan had never even called at all. Out of sheer curiosity, I convince Lucie to let me change the channel to the Rangers vs. the Florida Panthers game to see if I can read into anything on their faces as they skate by. Lucie - by far, the smartest and savviest six-year old I have ever met in my life realized that I had either lost my mind or that I needed to explain how ice hockey could possibly compare to watching Miley Cyrus. I admitted - due to lack of having any good girlfriends to talk to at that very moment that I think I have a little crush on numbers "44" and "19"....and that she needed to look closely at the television and tell me which was the better one. She squinted her eyes at the T.V. and complained that they were going a bit too fast and finally decided that I should not go for either one. "Why?" I asked. She looked totally irritated and said that I should be going for "Number 1." However, there was no "1" on the Rangers. She then looked at me as if I was an idiot and told me to find another team then. God, she is good. Children from Manhattan are really scary. But I get it. I really need to find a number one. Who knew that I was watching hockey with a four-foot tall philosopher?

Coincidentally an hour after the game, Ryan sent me a text asking how my Thanksgiving was. I looked over at Lucie and told her that number 44 has just texted me and she told me to ignore him - because "it will make him wonder." Seriously, I wasn't kidding when I said children from Manhattan are freakishly good - but you know what? I'm taking the kid's advice. Number 44 can just sit and wait.

Careful, danger....it's the Rangers!

Annie and I showed up early at the Wall Street location where Amy Sacco's charity "Free Arts" was hosting a massive Thanksgiving dinner for underprivileged children and their families. We were perfect little soldiers doing everything from hauling bags of ice to setting the tables. We colored with children and refilled people's glasses and handed out "New York Rangers" stickers to the little boys...and we were having a great time, actually. I am not quite sure that Amy remembered who we were exactly, but that was fine, as she was busy with her celebrity volunteers that ranged from Alan Cummings to Miss Jay to Parker Posey.

A little more than an hour into the event a group of hot guys showed up that Annie and I were more than happy to see. The event was up and running and we were hard pressed to find any extra errands until clean up time, so we made our way toward the pack of gorgeous men who were standing in a tight group - glancing uncomfortably at the children - and frankly looking a little bit lost. We introduced ourselves....and if I have them straight: there was Ryan from California who was a little chubby, but with a baby face and great floppy hair. Scottie, a Hispanic guy from Alaska with huge doe eyes. Sean, great bone structure with a scar across his face and sexy green eyes. Then Jason - a total fox, who must have been about 6'4" on a short day and finally, Henrik from Sweden....the best looking out of all of them, but the most difficult to talk to - he was actually, almost, a mute. I swear.

A voice behind us called out "Finally...the Rangers made it. Follow me, guys, I will show you where to put your coats and then I will bring you over to Amy." Rangers! Well, I have I have found my new favorite sport. Hockey it is. Wow. Seriously, hot. If I had known that athletes could be this good looking, then I could have paid more attention a long time ago. Better late than never, I suppose.

Toward the end of the event, Annie and I made our way back over to the Rangers. We were literally baffled by choice for once in New York City. They were just a veritable catalogue of men - something for everyone. Short, tall, bald, curls, blue eyes, American, foreign.....they literally were a buffet of options - but time was short...and Annie and I had to make a decision on who to focus in on. We actually pre-planned the ultimate date with the two of our choice - ice skating in Central Park with men who could actually skate. Almost too good to be true - well, that is, of course if we found any Rangers who had any interest in us and who wanted to take us skating? Small detail, but not insurmountable, right?

Annie zoomed in on Henrik (the goal keeper), but he was either not into her or he had difficulties with the English language and was unable to express it. Personally, I found him to be a bit of a cold fish despite his exterior perfections. I liked Sean, but I got the total player vibe off him....so I directed my attention instead toward Scottie from Alaska. He lives about five minutes from my apartment (totally geographically desireable), he had a great soft and scratchy voice, and a real sweetness to him. He asked for my number and said he would call me later. Goal! Little chubster, Ryan, also asked for my (or our?) number a little later....and he was heading off with Jason to see Dane Cook perform that night, so he would call me during the week - but I was hoping to pawn him off on Annie, so we could each have one.

Fair is fair. I would have hoped that she would have given me one of her Rangers as well if she had an extra, of course. Scottie DID call later, as promised - but with an offer for me to come to his apartment and watch Sunday night football with him!? I don't think so! First date, in a strange guy's apartment, watching sports!? That was the worst first date invite I've ever had in my life. We are certainly not off to a great start here, unfortunately. What was he thinking?

Take two, buddy.....you, me, skates, Central Park. Get with the program - before I go back to the days of not even knowing what sport is is you play! Ugh...

A Star is Born

Newsie was a man of his word. A large color photograph of me and a glowing bio about what I do was published in the New York Post - just as he had promised. My phone was ringing off the hook, my clients were thrilled, and competitors were green with jealousy.

Amy Sacco from Bungalow 8 called as well to make sure that Annie and I were still available to help her out with the Thanksgiving dinner for her charity. She promised Rangers tickets in exchange for our help, but quite frankly, I wasn't exactly sure what sport it was that the Rangers played - nor did I care? It was sweet of her, nonetheless, to offer us tickets to anything though.

And lastly...I received a call at my office from the crazy guy at the Four Season Hotel who had grabbed my arm and asked me who I was. He had read all about me in the Post and wanted to take me to dinner the next time he was in New York. He lives in Colorado and runs a hedge fund. All I was hearing though was "blah, blah, blah" because I had seen the wedding band on his finger, so Mr. Colorado can just forget it!

I have much more important things to concentrate on....like what to wear to Amy's charity event and reading and re-reading the article about myself in the Post. Dare to dream - I am so happy that I barely know what to do with myself. Yay.

Extra, Extra....Read All About It!

The Four Seasons Hotel in Manhattan is known for a lot of things. Great service, fabulous views, amazing martinis, high end clientele, and high class hookers. As a woman, one must be very careful when having a drink at the bar - to not wear anything that might indicate that you are available on an hourly rate...unless, of course - you are. I figured that after our latest Junior League meeting, my new prim young friends, Annie and Marina, would be up for sipping a $20 cocktails with me as slowly as humanly possible - and they were. Clearly, we were all wrapped in enough clothing to ward off possible Johns....and while I was scanning the room - I spotted my target. One of the big shot columnists from the New York Post. I had literally been dying to be profiled in the Post for my business and I took this as my opportunity. Sandwiched between two sweet, 20-something year old blondes....we made our move toward his table and scored an invite for a drink. Maybe this whole Junior League thing was going to work out after all?

Marina and Annie were perfect wing-women...keeping Newsie's friends busy - while I pitched my business to one slightly tipsy writer. He definitely seemed interested (in what exactly -remained to be seen), so a second and third round of drinks were ordered. Marina cut out early, as did Newsie's two friends - but Annie stayed in place, right next to me. Thank God. Her recent drinking years at college obviously served her well and she seemed to be showing no signs of needing to stop drinking any time soon. My cat was near the bag, but hardly in it at this point. Newsie suggested that we change venue's and head down to Rose Bar at the Gramercy Park Hotel...which I felt obliged to agree to and as we were heading out - a man grabbed my arm.

"Who are you?" he asked, somewhat agressively. He was handsome, but sporting a wedding band and was sitting with a bunch of guys who were all clearly from out of town. I thought he was quite rude, so I shrugged and tried to pull away without answering - but he didn't let go. Newsie and Annie appeared right behind me - laughing at this crazy guy....and Newsie looked down at him and said "Her name is Britt and she is my new star." Oh my God. Best night ever. Bye, bye, lunatic.

At the Rose Bar, the three of us did get progressively drunk - and finally I ended up in someones chauffeured car....Annie still by my side - heading to Bungalow 8 at 2 a.m. on a Tuesday night. Newsie had a hankering for grilled cheese sandwiches...and apparently, Bungalow 8 serves them. Who knew?

An hour later - we have all been terribly over-served and I can't remember how many grilled cheese sandwiches I had scarfed down, but I am quite sure that it was one too many. Newsie is explaining to Amy Sacco, the intimidatingly statuesque owner of Bungalow, how Annie and I are in the Junior League...and what good girls we are - which is hardly what we appeared to be at that exact moment in time. Amy called us out on it though and said that she would love to have us help her on Sunday morning with feeding underprivileged children at a pre-Thanksgiving dinner - since we are such good girls. Was she serious or was she making fun of us?

We said yes, in any case. Why not? We had pretty much eaten this woman out of her own nightclub with our voracious grilled cheese appetites, so it was the least we could do. Besides, Amy Sacco doesn't exactly seem like the type of person that one should say "no" to. She might not even call us. It was, after all, the middle of the night when this conversation took place. The only thing that I was hoping would be remembered was that Newsie had offered to make me a star.

Girls and their Pearls

In my business, I get paid to think outside the box. However - oddly enough...I never applied my creative thinking skills to my dating life until now. I have signed up to spend a ton of time in a place where no men are allowed. None at all, in fact. No - I haven't become a lesbian....I just became one of the latest card carrying members of the New York Junior League. That's right...the 100-year old organization of socialite do-gooders that serve soup to homeless people while still wearing their pearls and who are known just as much for throwing a good party as they are known for helping the communities they live in. The Junior League has its headquarters in a mansion on the Upper East Side and getting in was nothing short of costly and time consuming. Between all the fees I had to pay, the letters of recommendation I needed for my file....and attending not one - but seven training sessions in addition to the orientation and three soirees thrown by our group leaders, getting in to the Junior League was not terribly different from getting into a sorority, but without all the hazing and the keg parties.

My plan was essentially to meet men through women - mostly married women. I am sure that most of their husband's have at least one single friend...and why not set them up with me? The girl who is tutoring underprivileged youth in her spare time? The girl who is so dedicated to helping the poor? And the girl...who is cute, nice....and yes, married Junior Leaguers - is totally single! My plan however...though well intended, did not go off exactly as I had imagined.

For starters, there was a clear divide between the new members of the Junior League. Those who were married and those who were not. The married women were mostly my age and either had a young child or were hoping for one soon and all they wanted to do was bond with women like themselves. The other half of the group were the young and unmarried - average age about 24, many of whom were from the deep South and they were freakishly happy to have these big "ladies only" get togethers. After the married group clearly wanted nothing to do with me, I was welcomed with open arms by the 20-somethings in a sort of "big sister" type role.

What on earth had I gotten myself into? They all had Facebook pages, they were still wearing their college sweatshirts on Sundays, and each and every one of them lived in a studio apartment, very reminiscent of the dorm rooms that they had vacated in the not too distant past. Don't get me wrong - these girls were as sweet as could be, but unless one of their Dad's was single...I wasn't exactly sure where my newly formed friendships would take me in the contexts of dating here?

And so it seemed my two new best friends - who were ten years my junior - had all kinds of plans for us....starting with an all girls brunch; then an all girls dinner; then all girls "movie night" to see what else? A chick flick! Annie was a bushy tailed assistant to an assistant at Christie's auction house with a wardrobe of an 80-year old woman and Marina was a teeny-tiny, Ivy-educated, world traveller from Long Island who is "currently in between jobs." I did have a brief moment when I thought they could be used as bait to lure in men, but both Annie and Marina were so respectable looking for their tender ages - that there was nothing very "come hither" about them. I suppose I could always try to get them into something slinky and see if me....surrounded by them...could work? Or maybe I'd just end up looking like a chaperone to my young nieces having a night on the town?

I might have barked up the wrong tree with this whole Junior League plan. Or not? Time will certainly tell. In the meantime, I have to reply to a slew of text messages now. That is how the youth of today prefer to communicate - in case you didn't know!

Gold Digging 101

One of the several match makers that I am working with had an interesting prospect for me. Interesting - in the sense that I wasn't sure that I was going to like it, but not sure if I wouldn't either. You know when you see the classic gold digger scene in a restaurant...some aging gazillionaire having the time of his life with a tarty young thing with blonde hair and huge boobs - and it is just so typical, yet fascinating and repulsive at the same time? I mean, I know that it is common - but where exactly are these rich old men meeting girls young enough to be their grand daughter's, who in turn - are not turned off by the advances of wrinkled, old hands coming at them. Well, one place they are probably meeting them is through a match maker!

My next set-up was literally twice my age with a bank account big enough to make the "Forbes 400" list. Daddy Warbuck's - as we will call him, has two failed marriages, two children...oh and a private plane and a fully staffed mansion in the middle of New York City just steps from Central Park. The match maker told me that he is really looking to settle down for good "this time" and that he would definitely like more kids. He is retired, but is extremely active and looks much younger than his age. Daddy has an Ivy education, loves to travel, and collects art in his spare time. I was completely questioning my own motives for even wanting to meet this man. What was wrong with me? Would we look like Anna Nicole and Howard Marshall to the gasping public? Had I become that girl? I mean, the entire reason that I had signed up with a match maker to begin with was to meet men who were interesting, successful, and who wanted to settle down...but I really hadn't been hoping for anyone so wealthy or so old - to be perfectly honest!

Daddy Warbucks was perfectly nice on the phone and had recently returned from a Butterfield and Robinson bicycling trip through Burgundy. He wanted me to give him 48-hours to recover from his European jet lag and then he was happy to take me out for a night on the town. He booked Chanterelle - a fantastic restaurant in Tribeca - which is both elegant, refined, and located a mere ten minutes from my apartment. Daddy wasn't messing around here. I intentionally dressed to look as old as possible to try to visually narrow the age gap - just like Katie Holmes did after she started dating Tom Cruise - and I put on a ruffled Chloé blouse buttoned very high and some great Balanciaga pants with a long Alhambra necklace. I couldn't look more like a really well put together 40-year old if I tried. Now if only Daddy Warbucks could wear something trendy and hip, then perhaps he might look 50 and we won't cause quite the stir I am dreading we will once we enter the restaurant.

Daddy turned out to look just like Bill Maher and was dressed in a business suit. I knew immediately the moment I saw him that it just wasn't going to work. He did turn out to be everything the match maker had promised...as he was definitely interesting and he barely looked a day over 55, but still there was still a definite age gap. I felt as if I was having dinner with a very rich uncle. He was polite. The food was amazing. He was easy to talk to, but at the end of the evening - "giddy" is not a word I would use to describe what I was feeling.

I had a nice time and that was it. I felt nothing for him and I knew I never would and so I was relieved. I felt as it I had just passed some sort of "Gold Digger Test" and was personally thrilled to know that at the end of the day, money isn't even the half of it. I think that Daddy Warbucks picked up on the fact that I wasn't interested in him as anything more than friends and he dropped me off at home in his chauffeured car with a good natured peck on the cheek. I'm not worried about him though. In this town, he probably won't be single for any longer than about a week - tops - as the gold diggers far out number the loaded, old single men out there. Good luck, Pops - even though you probably won't be needing it!

Caught in Traffick

September in New York is feeling more like September in Los Angeles with the unseasonably warm weather we are having. My Yorkie, Edith, was having the time of her life in Washington Square Park, and as usual - she was a total kid magnet. However, for once Edith had reeled in a kid with a ridiculously hot Dad attached and no Mom in sight. A rare score - and no ring on his finger either! Good job, Edith Piaf.

I intentionally fostered good relations between the dirty, little four-year old girl and my dog by giving her some treats to feed Edith - while I began to chat up the "DILF" (an acronym for "Dad I'd Like to $#@*" for those of you not as familiar with the even more common acronym of "MILF.") He was completely responsive - and totally gorgeous. Once his daughter's attention span had shifted away from my dog, the DILF got my number and promised to call - soon.

He completely had not been kidding about calling soon - because he actually called within the hour and asked if I wanted to get a glass of wine that very night! His ex would be picking up the little girl in a few hours and then he would be free. I had no intention of delaying gratification here because he clearly was not into playing games, so why not just go with it?

We met in a cozy, dimly lit bar just South of the park that was thankfully free of NYU students despite its proximity to the school. The DILF was tall, with dark curly hair, green eyes and a chiseled face. He clearly had to be a model at some point - because he looked as if he had just stepped out of the pages of a men's fashion magazine. His voice had a slight outer-borough twang to it (ewwwww!), but luckily his looks more than made up for the slightly Soprano-esque accent. It turns out that he was indeed a model a few years ago and now he is a personal trainer. Hmmm...O.K., so he falls into the "Mr. Right Now" as opposed to the more desirable "Mr. Right" category. Good enough though for a last minute date on a Saturday night though when I had zero plans anyway! I must consider the alternative for the evening before I get too picky.

Conversation didn't flow terribly easily. It didn't seem this guy got out much. He complained about having trouble making ends meet and having to pay child support. He rarely sees his daughter and he is currently staying on a friend's couch. In fact, the DILF even admitted that the child was the product of a brief fling he had with a woman in her late 30s who lied about being on birth control. She had basically tricked him into getting her pregnant because she was dying to have a baby and time was running out for her. Clearly, this guy has some great physical genes and it seems she found him to be the perfect sperm donor and she had hoped he wouldn't stick around. However, she miscalculated slightly and the DILF actually wanted to have some role in the child's life and so in exchange for paying child support he can barely afford, he gets to see the kid about one afternoon per month, if her Mom doesn't forget that he exists.

This evening was clearly going nowhere and this guy was turning out to be a complete loser. He proceeded to order a second round of drinks that I got the feeling that he had no intention of paying for after he had eyed the Cartier on my wrist. He asked me my age (which is SO polite on a first date) and I, in turn asked his. He is eleven years younger than I am. I suppose because he was so tall and he had a daughter, I was mistakenly assumed him to be in his 30s. Misreading disappointment for disbelief, the DILF pulled out his passport to prove his tender age - and here is where it gets interesting. Very interesting!

The DILF's passport was absolutely full of stamps from international travel for an impoverished, young, washed-up model turned personal trainer with an illegitimate child. There were probably ten trips to both France and Argentina taken within the past couple of years and a few to Brazil as well. Maybe this guy wasn't a total loser after all? I began questioning him about his favorite spots in Paris and Buenos Aires - two of my favorite cities, and he surprisingly seemed to know nothing about either of the cities which he had frequented quite recently. He had not been to any museums, did not have a favorite district, never heard of even the most touristy restaurants, and couldn't even place the name of the hotels which he had stayed in. Something was not right and it was clear that he regretted letting me leaf through his passport.

Finally, the DILF decided to come clean. He laughed a little and told me that I was going to hate him. He asked me if I knew what trafficking was. Gulp. I admitted that I did and then I asked him if he was a drug or (gasp) human trafficker, as I wondered if I would end up in a cage headed for Thailand in the not too distant future. Luckily, for me he turned out to only be a drug trafficker. I actually ordered a third round of drinks that I was suddenly all too happy to pay for as I planned to get the entire story before this night was over. It was bad enough that I had ended up on a date with a drug trafficker (who had my phone number, no less!) - but at the very least, I was going to get the skinny on exactly how he did what he did for the sheer entertainment value of it all. Why stay at home and watch CSI, when you can be on a date with an entire episode of it?

The DILF said that there are several different people involved in transporting the drugs (cocaine - in his case) and they don't know each other. He will receive instructions on where to do his pick up and from whom. Usually, he will fly to Argentina and then he will travel close to the Bolivian border where the drugs arrive from and he picks them up. He takes the cocaine (which costs about $2-3,000) to Buenos Aires where it is packed in brick like forms, wrapped in Glad Wrap, and sprayed in some substance from an art supply shop that makes it impossible for the dogs to smell the drugs through. It is then wrapped in some sort of carbon paper in reverse so that it does not show up on an x-ray. Lastly, the bricks are sewn into a huge bulky hang glider and packed in a hang glider's travel case with lots of complicated folds that would be too cumbersome for most custom's agents to want to deal with. He then boards the plane, with the hang glider as over sized luggage to Paris. He pretends that he is a avid hang gliding aficionado who frequently visits the Andes, the Alps, and any other mountain he can think of and then he delivers the hang glider to someone in France for about $25,000 per brick. If he thinks he is being followed he pretends to forget the hang glider because you only have broken the law if you leave the airport with it - apparently - not by simply travelling with it. However, he could get killed if he doesn't complete the delivery and give the money to his contact person - so inevitably, he always goes back to get it. I didn't bother asking what his cut of the money was as clearly it didn't seem to be the most lucrative business in the world for this guy as even renting a small studio seems beyond his reach financially. He also added that he is pretty sure that the DEA knows exactly who he is and what he is doing, but they don't typically arrest the "small people" - and even if they did, he couldn't lead them to the person in charge of the operation as he doesn't know who it is himself. The DEA is probably aware of this and thus he seems perfectly convinced that he will never get arrested. I suggested he rent "Maria Full of Grace." She was arrested. The DILF didn't care. He said movies about drug trafficking are really fake and that he knows what he is doing. Fine. Whatever.

At the end of my fascinating, but not terribly sexy date - I paid the bill. He seemed to find me irresistible...again, mistaking my voyeuristic interest in his criminal activity for a genuine interest in him as a boyfriend. He even added that he would be happy to have more kids if I found myself wanting any since I was in my mid-30s and all. I thanked him for the offer and left in a taxi, alone. He promised to call tomorrow and I silently made a note to self to change my phone number - like immediately. How ever do I find these people?

Ebony & Ivory

It is Fashion Week in New York and the city is literally in full swing.
All of New York's elite stay in town for the shows at Bryant Park and our best hotels are fully booked with celebrities, socialites, and royalty for the occasion. My friend, Isabella, works for one of the big fashion labels and doesn't miss a chance to see and be seen during this time of year. She organized a dinner with four of her prettiest girlfriends (including moi!) at Cipriani Downtown - which was destined to be a scene. However, at the last minute...she informed me that our table would be doubling in size. Some British guy she had met over the Summer in St. Tropez was in town for the shows with a few friends and so they decided we would merge. So much for the girls night! At least now perhaps I wouldn't have to pay for my $15 bellinis I planned to be drinking all night and perhaps they would be cute - as long as they were the types of British who had an understanding of good oral hygiene and the necessity of braces in one's teenage years. One could only hope.



So, Isabella, myself, and three other pinnacles of hotness all turned up at the same time under the yellow awning, past the massive glass doors...perfectly coiffed and styled - ready to admire and be admired. Three blondes and two brunettes, the shortest one probably 5'7". Isabella air kissed the maître d' and spoke to him in Italian for a minute before he ushered us up to the table by the window in front - exactly the table we had been hoping for - and we anxiously awaited our dining companions. I scanned the room and saw Yoko Ono dining with some dorky guy in his early 30s who looked like he worked in an IT department. The King of Bling, Jacob Arabo (aka Jacob the Jeweler) was at another table filled with men in suits. The entire place was packed with the exception of a table for six right next to us that was being held intentionally vacant - clearly for someone very important.




Suddenly, a very attractive, dark, black man (who resembled Djimon Hansu) in a white suit and a thickly knotted tie walked in followed by four other black men in colored (pink, beige, anything but black) suits and Isabella jumped up and waved. Oh my God. It appeared that we were going to have dinner in a time capsule with Boyz II Men circa 1989...or was it New Edition? The band leader extended his hand and introduced himself with a cockney British accent and on down the row of men....the accents became slightly closer and closer to the Queen's English until we got the the last one (the shortest) who might have been the only black guy to have graduated from both Eton and Oxford (brilliant.) They took their places on the opposite side of the table from us and checked each other out. I will just say this - if it had been a bling competition, they would have won. Between the diamond cuff links, diamond studs, and chunky watches....covered in, you guessed it - more diamonds, I think they probably "out-blinged" Jacob the Jeweler himself. Who the hell are these people and why didn't Isabella say more before they got there? Eventually, I found out that one was a London club owner with his star DJ, then there were two investment bankers, and a fashion designer. But still...I can honestly say that I have never dined with a man in a suit of any shade of pastel - no matter what he does for a living. I was cringing at the sight of it, while being blinded by more diamonds than any man should ever be legally allowed to wear out in public unless he is the ruler of a small kingdom - which, as we had just established...none of them were.




My train of thought was temporarily interrupted by shouting on West Broadway and a gazillion flashbulbs going off as the paparazzi surrounded someone and the entire restaurant fixed their gaze on the door. In walked none other than Victoria Beckham in a strapless, red mini dress and a small entourage who were seated at the table right next to us. Jacob licked his lips and went over to his prey immediately and was whispering in her ear for about ten minutes while she was looking straight ahead at us...five British black guys with five white American girls.

A drunk woman with an awful Long Island twang stumbled up to our table and said loudly to us "Excuse me...." and waved her hands at our odd group and continued "but what is this?" The Band Leader obviously didn't understand and said "What is what?" She refused to budge and laughed nervously and said "This.....you guys....I mean, where do you know each other from? I have been trying to figure it out and I don't get it." I glanced over at Posh who was staring intently at the woman with a bemused look - probably regretting her choice to move to America after being introduced the a primo example of the classic loud American. More awkward silence. Finally - Isabella helpfully said "We are friends....friends from St. Tropez" and she turned back to us and said "Is anybody getting appetizers or are we just getting main courses?" The drunk woman finally skulked off. I'm not sure if the bellinis were making me blush or if the entire evening thus far was doing the job, but I was as pink as the club owner's suit.




The blonde next to me nudged me to check out the hot guy who had just walked in and I continued the nudge down the row until all five girls were gawking at him over the dark shaved heads of our dates. He was the best looking man I had seen in ages. Literally perfect. Tall, with floppy brown hair, chisled features, and a perfectly kissable pout. He was with three other guys that were were average at best - and Isabella whispered into my ear "May the best one win when we get upstairs" with a glimmer in her eye that she gets when she is feeling particuarly competitive. "Upstairs" was the private nightclub run by Cipriani that is very much like an intimate loft party with vaulted ceilings, a fireplace, dim lighting, and great Euro-trashy music. It is technically private...for members only, mafia types, Italian glitterati, models, and the odd celebrity here and there - but Isabella and I manage to get a table when we needed one and tonight was one of those nights. Who cares if we looked like groupies to an R&B group from the 80s? We were on a mission.

By the time we got upstairs, Posh was already there at a table with Roberto Cavalli, Damon Dash, and L.L. Cool J. I was praying that David Beckham would stop by - but no such luck! Maybe he was babysitting their three boys? Although I doubt it. However, Mr. Fabulous, who we had been salivating over earlier, was seated at at table right across from us and flashed me a huge smile. I smiled back. Isabella looked temporarily defeated, until she remembered that I can't dance to save my life - so she took the opportunity to stand up and let the music take over her long, lean body with one of the other girls from our table. The foxy brunette on my left was pretending to be interested in what one of the Brits had to say, but she was staring at Mr. Fabulous over the Brit's shoulder and showing more cleavage than I remembered seeing that she had downstairs. The race was on and we were all angling for Mr. Fabulous with what ever we had. My personal weapon at that point was the old fall back of hair flipping and eye contact. Finally he stood up and started to walk over to us and reached his hand out to me (score!)...and said "Britt, Britt Walker, right?" Oh my God. What planet was I on? I swear this was not a dream sequence here, but actually truly happening. The four girls shot me looks of death as I took his hand and was lead over to his table, while the British guys seemed amused at the fuss this guy had caused (he obviously wasn't impressive to them in the least.)


The moment I was seated next to him...I insisted to know who he was and how he knew me. Incidentally, we had actually gone to high school together of all things! He was a good friend's younger step-brother at my boarding school. The last time I saw him he must have been 14-years old and their parents had since divorced and so I had forgotten all about him. He had literally grown up to be the sexiest thing on the planet. Who knew? He had just moved back to the States from Argentina (where he had spent the last ten years) and he has a loft in Tribeca and works in banking. He said he recognized me instantly because I hadn't changed that much from high school - which I suppose was a compliment? Did I mention how gorgeous he was? Anyway...

Isabella was looking truly miserable and so I quickly excused myself to pop back over to our table to get my drink. I gave her the five second version that he was an old friend from high school and she seemed truly relieved that her ego could remain intact and then I sat right back down with Mr. Fabulous. I had always heard that you meet the greatest guys when you are not looking - and I can certainly say that night, I hadn't been. It was originally a girls night that got crashed by by the Commodores in their crazy suits and now finally...the perfect man with a great job who I knew way back when...who was clearly really attracted to me. He was my ideal sort of match - in almost a text book sense...tall, dark, and super duper handsome. Heavenly - and how utterly romantic of a situation with our former history. I even managed to imagine for a second what a funny story it would make later in life when we were married with kids!

Fast forward one hour...his arm is draped over my shoulder as he keeps my drink constantly refilled. He is checking out the large packs of models that seems to have sprung up from nowhere, but yet when ever he looks back at me he has an intense stare of affection and admiration. He admitted that he has had a hard time dating in New York so far (as I try to keep a straight face) and that he really wants to settle down because he is finally ready for that stage in his life. I almost needed a diaper at that point.....and he added that he was so happy that we had this chance meeting and that there are no mistakes in life and then - stop the lovely background music. Jekyll exits stage left and in walks Mr. Hyde. I'm serious.

Mr. Fabulous turns to face me and says "So, tell me...are you the kind of girl who will have sex on a first date or the kind who pretends she doesn't - because there are only two kinds." Excuse me? I laughed and reminded him that we were not even on a date. He shrugged and asked if I was ready to go home with him - as if it was something we had done 100 times before! He was so matter of fact about it. Ummm...not really part of the program. He then started to look irritated that I was not on board with his meaningless sex agenda for the evening and said in an exasperated tone "I'm tired and I want to get out of here and you are either coming home with me right now or you are not." I laughed and told him he is insane and he mumbled that it was my loss and tried to give one of his friend's a few $100 bills for the tab and they refused, so he just walked out with a disgruntled look on his face. He didn't ask for my number. I didn't even get a hug good bye. I hadn't even had a chance to tell him that his ex-step sister had just had her first baby...not that he would have cared. What a monster he had grown up to be. So much for fairy tale endings!

I slipped back to my original table with the last shred of dignity I had left - post-proposition - and suggested we move on and we did. Team Domino headed to a nightclub called Tenjune where we closed the place down...several bottles of champagne later...and I challenged Isabella to a dance off and lost. I was so bad that the British guys assumed I was joking because no one could be that bad of a dancer. Oh - how they were wrong on that one, but the thought was sweet.
This morning, I had the worst hang over ever. Consider Fashion Week over for me personally - I can't take a second night of that...at least until next season, which thankfully won't be until February. I should be over my hang over by then. Hopefully.

The Manhattan Transfer

I was feeling really confident about getting a guy who is interested in me to be interested in someone else (of my choosing) instead. I mean, the men in this town have a bad case of "roving eye syndrome" to the point where it is at epidemic levels. At least, for once I was going out with a man who I was hoping and praying would look at anyone and everyone else, but me...and more specifically my friend, Ellen, in particular. It almost seemed too easy.

Here was the plan...Ellen spent a good part of her day getting a manicure, a blow out, eyebrow shaping, and shopping for the perfect dress to pair with a "va va voom" push up bra. We know men are visual creatures and there is really no point trying to pretend otherwise. I spent less than zero time getting ready and showed up in something that could have been pulled from my mother's closet - a khaki linen skirt that went to my ankles, a white button down shirt (buttoned all the way up, of course), and flat brown sandals. No makeup and a low ponytail. I was looking very "Karen Blixen"...efficient, un-sexy, and ready for a day on the African farm, circa 1935. I was respectably unattractive in the most schoolmarm of ways - just as planned.

To round out our table for dinner, we invited Will...a witty, brilliant, married banker and father of three. We had met him and his wife a year ago during a trip to the Miraval Spa in Arizona. His wife, Bridget, had generously loaned him out to us for the evening as we were in need of a "eunuch" and I suppose to a single woman in the 21st century - our choices were either a gay man or a married man. We went with the latter. The Muppet didn't need any direct competition and Will was the perfect table filler.

The restaurant of choice was Paola's on the Upper East Side (where the Muppet, Ellen, and Will all reside.) Paola's is charming with fantastic food - yet caters to an over-50 crowd, so the chances of Ellen getting upstaged by a gaggle of models at a nearby table were thankfully close to nil.

The stage was set - all players (except the Muppet) understood their roles....I was to be dreary and dull; Will was to be pleasant and unassuming; and Ellen would be glamorous and fetching....while the restaurant was nothing more than a backdrop with food to highlight Ellen's fabulousness!

The Muppet seemed thrown off slightly being in the company of two scoops of vanilla and one scoop of chocolate mint chip...and he reverted to being a scoop of vanilla himself....thus forcing Will and I to become more lively or risk making Ellen stand out like a lunatic. The Muppet was not heading down the clearly marked path as we had been hoping he would. He kept trying to steal glances of my cleavage in between the buttons on my shirt when I leaned forward (pervert!) He loved the fact that I didn't tower over him this time due to my flat sandals and he was acting as if Ellen and her fabulous cleavage was some sort of test. A test - he clearly thought he was passing as he remained unwavering in his devotion to me...which was obviously, beyond irritating.

Halfway though dinner, it was clear that the Muppet did not want to trade in his option on a 5'9", 34-year old in exchange for a 5'2", 40-year old - no matter how funny or well dressed the 40-year old was. He obviously found it to be a bad deal - although the fact was that he only really had one option at the table. It was Ellen or nothing because I wasn't interested. We all knew by the second bottle of wine, that the Muppet had no chance with me and Ellen had no chance with the Muppet. It was game over.

Determined not to have a bad evening even though it did not turn out to be the night I had hoped for...Will, Ellen, and I ended up having a blast. The Muppet grew more and more quiet until he was a virtual mute by the time the check arrived. It was a literal three-to-one. The three of us love our wine...while he nursed his mineral water (was he coming from an AA meeting?) The three of us had pasta...while he ordered a steak (who orders steak in an Italian restaurant?) The three of us almost got thrown out of each of our respective boarding schools (and had hysterical stories about it)...while he was a straight-A public school student from upstate New York (yawn.) The three of us travel all the time...and the Muppet doesn't like to travel (of course.) The worst part was when Will told the Muppet the best way to get over hating to travel is to fly private and watching the Muppet nod and stare at Will, wondering if that was a serious comment - and it was. Muppet Man had no response to that. Not even a laugh.

Finally, when we all ordered coffee...the Muppet had a chamomile tea. He just had zero personality (like everything he had to drink.) He really was just a dud. You don't have to be raised in a certain type of family or to be cultured to be interesting. I know some people who have been all over the world and have nothing to say while some people walk around the block and can tell me ten fascinating observations they had. He contributed nothing - literally - except for some mild disappointment on Ellen's side for not even offering a minor flirting session with her after all the effort she had put into getting ready.

At the close of the evening, we left the Muppet standing out the front of the restaurant and we all climbed into the back of Will's chauffeured car. He promptly gave us the responses we desired all evening - at long last - and assured me that I looked positively dreadful and matronly and he told Ellen that she was a total knockout. He felt that the Muppet was below either of our standards... and he had the courtesy to wait in his car to make sure that each of us got safely inside our apartments before he drove off.

Sadly, the dreamiest man I've met in a long time was someone else's husband. I will have to remember to thank his wife for the loan. If you had been reading "The Great Salt Lake City Manhunt", we might have offered to become Will's second and third wives at the end of this story...but thus far, polygamy hasn't quite taken off in the Big Apple, and so I have to get back out there with Ellen and all the rest of the singletons in the city looking for Mr. Not Yet Taken, and avoiding Muppet's at all costs.

Safety in Numbers

My business partner, Ellen, is a woman who terrifies me. She is a brilliant, petite blonde who is a total firecracker. She runs marathons; she has written articles for magazines; she has owned a boutique in the Village...and not to be a total name dropper, but she also dated Jon Stewart about ten seconds before he became famous. Ellen works out with a trainer three days a week at Equinox; she owns a spectacular apartment with panoramic city views; and her closet could easily be mistaken as an outpost of Bergdorf Goodman...filled with more Prada and Chloé than you could shake a stick at. She finishes the Sunday New York Times crossword puzzle every weekend with nary a mistake. She has a wicked sense of humor and is universally adored by all of our clients and co-workers alike. Ellen comes from a wonderful family who gave her the best education money could buy - along with frequent trips around the globe...to hone her shopping, skiing, and scuba diving skills to boot. Did I mention that she is always perfectly plucked, groomed, and manicured at all times as well?

The problem, you wonder? She is 40-years old and single. She has never been married, never had a child, and hasn't even had a boyfriend in the past three years. Ellen goes home every night and watches television alone; she cooks a healthy dinner for one to eat at her dining table by herself; and at bed-time, she crawls solo into her Frette-laden bed wondering things like "Is it too late to freeze my eggs?" and "Why aren't Russian mail order grooms available?"

Ellen's three dating options are as follows: 1) Going to bars in a low cut top 2) Paying a match maker $10,000 to find her a husband 3) Putting her photo up on every online dating service known to the world wide web. She chose option three and is thus a active member of Match, J-Date, and e-Harmony. In the past three years, she has endured countless blind dates and over time her desired age range has gone from 35 to 45, to 30 to 50, and now I think she is somewhere between 24 and 67 years of age for her "ideal match." God help her...another couple years of singlehood and Ellen might end up as the only girl on a dating website willing to date any man between the ages of 18 to 99, of any race, any religion, any income...with the sole requirement of having a pulse.

However - back to me, for a moment. The Muppet called. I did not respond. He called again. I picked up the phone the second time and we had a pretty good conversation. The guy really is charming and told me about his ups and downs of hosting 11 house guests at his Hamptons estate last weekend. He is going to the U.S. Open tennis final this weekend and he is heading off to a big charity event tomorrow. I must admit, looks aside - he is definitely not a loser. I am still not attracted to him, but I do recognize his finer qualities....which got me thinking back to Ellen. She would love him. O.K. to be honest, she would love pretty much anyone at this point - but then I started to imagine it. They could host me at their Hamptons house next Summer! They could invite me to join their table at a fancy charity ball at the Waldorf. They could even give me their U.S. Open tickets if they aren't using them next year as a little "thank you" for setting them up. It was perfect, really....I would love his lifestyle, but just without having to date him...and Ellen could have a "happily ever after" so I don't have to look at her and wonder if that will be me at 40? Alone...and illuminated by the glow of Match.Com on my laptop screen as I slowly go infertile! Argh! Banish the thought!

The Muppet ended our phone call by asking me out on a second date and I managed to convince him that I am so crazy busy, that if he wants to get together at all next week it would have to be a "group thing" and to please agree to join me and a friend or two....or else it would be two or three weeks before I am available again. He bought it and we settled on Monday night.

Ellen is totally up for trying the old "switcheroo game" and hopefully the Muppet will be easily volleyed into her court. We are going to try to find a second guy...a eunuch preferably, who can also join in on the game plan and can convince Muppet that I would be the mistake of a lifetime and that Ellen is the real catch of the two of us? Hmmmmm!

Would this, could this work? We all know the benefits of recycling cans, paper, and plastic - but men? Certainly worth a shot.

The Muppet Show

I am trying to figure out how much the personal taste of a match maker actually goes into deciding who to set one up with - as opposed to the match maker being able to truly decide what a great match is based on another individual's preferences.

My Chicago match maker is a gorgeous, young, totally put together brunette. She looks somewhat akin to Jaclyn Smith in her "Charlie's Angels" heyday. On the other hand, the New York match maker is a sassy, older, cosmetically enhanced woman with a serious Brooklyn twang to her accent. Imagine Fran Drescher, in her 50s, with straight hair and a year-round tan - and there you have her.
So, basically it seems that I have a Charlie's Angel and the Nanny both scouring the United States for my ideal man at the moment.

Incidentally, both are single themselves - which is good and bad. Good, because they are not tied down in a relationship and can be out there day and night searching for eligible bachelors and bad because maybe they are keeping the good ones for themselves? Who knows? In any case, thus far Jaclyn Smith has set me up with one gorgeous, smart, successful jerk and Fran Drescher has set me up with a successful, boring, mutant with an overly botoxed face.

The Nanny has two more men up her sleeve for me...one I went out with last night (and I will get to him in a minute) and the second is a Jewish gynecologist who lives on the Upper West Side. I do like the sound of a doctor, but a gynecologist is definitely an idea that I would have to get used to if we ever got past second base. God knows how looking at va-jay-jays every day can affect a man?

So, my date last night was interesting. Not a failure or a success. All I knew about this guy was that he is an entrepreneur, Jewish (again!), never married, and that he wants to settle down. That pretty much sounds like all of Fran Drescher's clients, but I suppose that is what we are all lining up for....to meet people who want to settle down. I just wish she hadn't say that up front. It just sounds weird - and desperate. Especially the concept of a man who is dying to settle down. I mean, what does a guy like that do in his spare time? Look wistfully at a copy of "Modern Bride" at a news stand and then blush and quickly look away? Does he browse for engagement rings on his own....just because? Does he see children in a playground and hear some sort of biological clock ticking inside of him? Ugh- I certainly hope not!

In any case, the entrepreneur showed up at the restaurant perfectly on time (one point.) He had a reservation (another point) and he offered me the seat with the view (he is on a roll.) I must admit, that I was perfectly under-whelmed by his appearance. He had a slight build, he wasn't really tall, his nose was huge, and his eyes were large and bulging out of his skull. He was also clearly at the back of the line when God was handing out "shoulders" because he certainly didn't seem to have any. In fact, this man looked almost like a human Muppet. He was sweet and cute like a Muppet - but there was certainly nothing sexy or overtly alluring about him physically.

The dilemma was this....he was really nice. He was courteous, well natured, and thoughtful. He was bright and has clearly made himself a small fortune. He has a house in the Hamptons with a pool and tennis court; he just finished renovating his large apartment on the Upper East Side - and best of all, he has done well enough to essentially retire - but he has a few more businesses that he would like to start up - just for fun...at least until he has a family. The Muppet was truly a respectable set-up. However, he didn't make me laugh really hard, I didn't feel any physical chemistry with him, and he reminds me of a stuffed animal when I look at him.

The Muppet made me question if I was really shallow because I could honestly care less if he calls me for a second date based mostly on his looks (or lack thereof.) However, looks should count for something? I suppose the answer is how much and when (if ever) can you get past wanting a super hunk and start finding guys like the Muppet attractive.

Oh - I just wish I could like this guy. He seems great...but I am just not feeling it. He said he would call after the Labor Day weekend, so we will see? Maybe he wasn't feeling it either and I am off the hook?

Reality Bites

Hedge Fund guy sounded gorgeous on the phone. His voice had a perfect pitch to it that leaned a bit to the gravelly side - which is totally sexy. We had a great conversation and so I was totally excited about our date set up by the matchmaker in Chicago.

He placed his call to me from the Windy City just before getting on a plane. He had to host a board meeting in his Greenwich, CT office and then he had a meeting in Manhattan. He was able to slip me in for a quick dinner after his last meeting and before getting on another plane to go God knows where the next day. He sounded perfectly in control of his hectic life. He didn't try to seem overly important and considerately booked a restaurant across the street from my apartment. I liked him already. Well, the only irritating thing was that he double-checked that I would convert to Judaism if it came to that ("that" meaning "marriage", I suppose)...and I quickly agreed. If Charlotte on "Sex & the City" could do it to marry Harry, then I am sure I could too? I think.

Hedge Funder was the kind of blind date you dream about initially. He looked exactly like Michael Douglas. Not Michael Douglas of today, mind you - but Michael Douglas of the 80s (Wall Street, Romancing the Stone, you know what I am talking about!) - he was just plain gorgeous. He was perfectly on time and wearing what was clearly a ridiculously expensive suit. We were offered a small table and he asked for a booth - and we got it - despite booths only being for parties of four or six. Way to take control, Hedge Funder.

We ordered a bunch of appetizers and some cocktails. We decided to hold off on ordering the main course until later. And then the Spanish Inquisition begun.....Hedge Funder had 10,000 questions and he shot them off at the speed of a military assault rifle. He prefaced the Inquisition by saying that he was not wishing to waste anyone's time and that he has a good idea of what he wants and what he is looking for. I guess you could call me warned?

He asked if my parents were divorced (yes); Do I have a close relationship with my Dad (no); What was my longest relationship (3 years); have I ever lived with anyone (yes); Am I an only child (yes, but only because my brother died when we were both in our late teens); Do I have more male or female friends (about equal); How many children do I want to have (1-3); could I raise children in Manhattan (maybe); City I would like to visit next (Prague); and on and on and on....until finally he asked if I had any questions for him. I just looked at him and laughed.

What was he thinking? This was a date not an interview....or was it? It was supposed to be an easy exchange of information - not a Q&A session. I didn't prepare a list of questions before meeting him - I was too busy fussing over what to wear than thinking about specific topics of conversation before I had even met him. I stammered and asked if his parents were still married - even though I really didn't care - and they were (of course!) for the past 47 years and they were still madly in love. Hmmmm, O.K., good for you, Wally Cleaver.

He then did the absolute unthinkable. Our second round of drinks had just arrived at the table. We were not even half way through our appetizers - and he threw $80 on the table and stood up. I remained seated looking up at him on the other side of the table with my mouth slightly agape and he said "This is not going to work. I have a car waiting for me outside and I need to go." He wasn't kidding and he picked up his jacket and started putting it on while I remained seated staring at him incredulously.

I asked if he was seriously just leaving - and I regret asking that question. He turned and said to me "Listen, having divorced parents - you didn't have a good view of what a healthy relationship looks like from a very young age. Clearly, you have been abandoned by the most important men in your life from your father leaving the family after the divorce and by your brother dying. Even though you "seem" normal, I am quite sure that you have serious issues with men as a result of your background. I am sure a lot of men will be interested because you are pretty and smart - but I doubt anyone will stick around. A girl like you just doesn't have the skills to be successful in a long term relationship. Sorry!" and with that - he walked out.

I felt sucker punched. He just left me in a crowded restaurant, with three plates of hardly touched appetizers, two full drinks, and a small stack of $20s on the table. I felt like there was a huge neon arrow hanging over my head pointing down at me with the word "LOSER" written right above the arrow, blinking off and on. The waiter scurried over quickly to the table to ask if everything was O.K. I suppose everyone within earshot had heard what he said. I took a few more sips of my drink and had a french fry while I tried to gather up my dignity and regain feeling in my legs so I could get out of there and far, far away from the apologetic looks of strangers after my rather public rejection.

I walked back home burning with shame and wondered if anything he said had any truth to it. Obviously, it is beyond my control that my parents marriage didn't work out. I always wanted a good relationship with my father, but he married a much younger woman and had a new family that I am just not a part of. My brother died of cancer and that was neither his fault, nor mine. I suppose the hedge funder wasn't saying these things were actually my fault - but more just the fact that they had happened and thus I am damaged goods, due to history that I had nothing to do with. I am a product that no one will want and I am incapable of achieving the picket fence dream, well...according to him, that is.

The worst part of it is that I finally met a guy who is gorgeous, brilliant, successful, well-traveled, athletic, with great personal style....who really wants to settle down and have kids and he literally looked at me, right in the face, and said that I wasn't even worth sitting with for a main course, let alone dessert, or (gasp) an entire lifetime together.

This is the first time I have ever been abandoned in the middle of a date and I seriously hope that was the last time. Ouch.

Jeepers Creepers

My first "match made" blind date was with the New York match maker's guy...the real estate developer. He sounded a little creepy on the phone, but he did suggest to meet me in person at Giorgione - so he can't be that bad. The food there is great and so he does have a modicum of taste, at least.

I arrived first and exactly on time. I know I should always be ten minutes late - as no one in New York is ever on time. There was no reservation in his name, the restaurant was packed, and there was a one hour wait for walk-ins. This was not boding well. Hopefully he has some pull with the manager or something?

He showed up 20 minutes late - complaining of traffic. Granted, he probably forgot that he told me where he lives and so I know for a fact that his apartment is a mere four blocks away from the restaurant...but I will let the little white lie pass. Who doesn't lie about being stuck in traffic when late? I then asked him if he had a reservation, knowing full well that he did not, and he started to look nervous. He rushed over to the hostess who then informed him the same thing she had already told me. Fully booked...and we would have to either go somewhere else or wait for an hour...or more. Nice job, loser. I had actually been looking forward to eating at Giorgione more than I had been looking forward to meeting him, so I guess that is what I get for thinking such evil thoughts.

He stood there at a loss and I suggested we head over to Giorgione 508 around the corner - the more casual branch of the same place. We went out into the rain and as I suspected, 508 was completely empty save a few tables because it is really more of a breakfast/lunch place than a date spot, but whatever. At this point, I just wanted to get it over with.

Real Estate guy was boring, hesitant, and had zero game. On his second glass of wine, his neck started to go all red and he had no problem eating off my plate without permission. Ugh - disgusting. If I had wanted to share, we would be in either a Chinese or a fondue restaurant.

On closer inspection, I was finally able to put my finger on what exactly was wrong with the Real Estate guy physically. I mean, he was tall enough, attractive enough, and dressed O.K. (most likely Banana Republic/Kenneth Cole kind of guy) - but there was something definitely off and then it hit me during dinner what it was. His eyes! He had old eyes....a little hazy, yellowish, blurred irises - but oddly taut skin on his face. He was completely over-botoxed and there was no way this guy was 40. In fact, he might have even been 60 with a face lift. I swear.

My first impression of him from the phone had been accurate. He was creepy. Even the waiter didn't like him that much. I can totally imagine this guy on Dateline "To Catch a Predator" series or some similar show.

I just have one word for this experience.....NEXT!

Matchmaker, Matchmaker Make Me a Match

I finally picked up the phone and called both the matchmaker in Chicago and the one in New York. They were both very happy to hear from me and they both had my ideal man all ready and lined up and ready to go. How convenient.

The New York match maker has a 40-year old real estate developer who lives in a full-floor SoHo loft as my first set up. He works in the family business, he loves to travel, and he collects art. He is dying to be married since yesterday and have children. He has three brothers who are all happily married and all he can think about is marriage. He is Jewish, but doesn't care that I am not. He likes tall blondes...and particularly one who is ready to start a family immediately. I mean, I suppose I could physically have a baby within the next nine months - but that whole starting a family now thing sounds a little strange. That said, I agree to meet him anyway. Why not? I could do worse...and I have.

The Chicago match maker has a 43-year old, hedge fund owner, who is 6'4", stunning (according to her), witty, never married, and has homes in Chicago, New York, and Greenwich. He is Ivy educated, he competes regularly in triathlons, he comes from a wonderful family, and he wants to settle down as soon as possible. The catch with him is that he is Jewish, but not attracted to Jewish women, so he ideally wants a WASP who is willing to convert. I guess I could convert for the right guy? I mean if George Clooney wanted me to become a Branch Davidian to marry him, I'd probably fill out the paperwork and get started within five minutes on the conversion process, so "yes" - if he is "George Clooney Hot", then perhaps I will change my religion. What the heck?

And that is that. The Real Estate guy and the Hedge Funder will be given my number today and the dates are imminent. I'd put my money on the Hedge Funder as being the more interesting one, but you never know? I've been wrong before and hence I am writing this blog!

My Little Black Book

I figure that I have about six weeks left of Summer and so I may as well make the most of it. It is my final few weeks to play, have fun, and date slightly inappropriate, but super charming guys before I can get back to dating the more "serious types" again in the Fall. I figure that most of Manhattan's finest stock is in the Hamptons until the end of August and as the Hamptons is not my scene...I think it is time to dip into my little black book or just hit the streets with Edith Piaf as my sidekick and see what we find.

Count Bambi never called and it has been a week, so we will consider that case closed. Plus, I have no respect for him. Snaggly Toothed Brit has been calling non-stop which I view as quite pathetic since I treated him so badly and he is still interested. I have no respect for him either. He is off the list.

The Street Performer is still around and Miss Milk Fat has probably gone back to where ever she came from, so we can put the Street Performer back in the "maybe" column. I would still actually like some more dance lessons. How fun would that be?

The 21-year old, Venezuelan, Adonis from Freya's wedding sent me an e-mail to let me know he will be in New York for a visit by Summer's end. He must have "Googled" me as I never gave him my e-mail. Either way, he is getting put in the "maybe" column as well. I will never get over those abs of his. Shockingly hot.

Who else? Ex-boyfriends...always a pond worth fishing in every once in a while (for fun, of course, nothing more) and there are three possibilities there. The Tycoon...a mid-40 something player with two ex-wives, three children, a black Amex card, and access to a private plane. He has a girlfriend, but he still calls me all the time. I have a feeling he is about to be re-released into the dating pool in the near future. If it happens in July or August, he goes in the "maybe" column and in September, he is a definite "no." I don't trust him at all even though he is a blast with a wicked sense of humor. Number two, is Harvard Oil guy....poor boy done good kind of thing whose fortune came recently as a result of the spike in oil prices. He is a little rough around the edges which is absurdly sexy. He is also married, but it is teetering on divorce. He is calling me as well. We will put him into the "no" column and see what happens in a year or so. Last one is the Viking...strapping, Danish stunner living in Copenhagen. You know what? Forget him for now as well. Copenhagen is not happening this late in the Summer.

Moving on...I am wildly obsessed with my neighbor - he is a scruffy bohemian artist whose work is in the Whitney and MoMa already and I don't even think he has a single grey hair yet. He is a literal genius, a pot stirrer, and a maverick. I can feel the sexual tension between us every time I am in my tiny little elevator with him. He actually asked me point blank one day if I wanted to f@#$ him and I said "yes".....what was I thinking? He then replied that he would like to f$#@ me too and that he was glad we had that out of the way. Alrighty then - what is the problem, you might ask? The usual. He has a girlfriend. So, I am waiting patiently for the perfect moment - which for me would include the simultaneous break-up of his current relationship coupled with his moving out of the building. Who wants either an attached man or a fling with someone who lives in your same building for when it inevitably ends? Awkward - although in reality, the chances of those events actually taking place are pretty close to zero, so I regretfully put the Artist in the "no" category. Well, he is in the "no" category for real life, but a "yes" for my fantasy life!

There is a Slovakian Baron who is also an artist and a creative director for one of the top stationary firms in the world. He tries really hard to be overly artsy though. He isn't the real deal as an aristocrat like Bambi, nor is he a renown artist like my neighbor. I think he is just a bit of a Eastern European farm boy who decided to put a "quirky" label on himself and go with it for as far as that road would take him. There is something that isn't quite genuine or authentic about him that I can't quite put my finger on. He tries really, really hard from the funky "art guy" glasses to the disheveled hair that is clearly styled to look messy on purpose as opposed to messy hair as a result of a certain lifestyle. Plus, his nose looks like the head of a penis. We will put him in the "no" column based on that last detail alone.

And that is it....a grand tally of six definite "no's" and three "maybe's." Hmmm....not so good. It is definitely time to put "Plan C" in effect and call one of those matchmakers and re-stock the man pantry! Supply is low and demand is high.

Bye Bye Love

We can all rest easy. Count Bambi is back where he belongs - in his native France. His visit was a complete and utter disappointment and I feel like a fool.

I saw him a bit here and there before he took off, but nothing of significance happened. I mean - he did tell me that he thought I needed a hair cut because my hair was too long (when I had it cut less than a week ago.) He did tell me that he would never have a long distance relationship (and why couldn't he mention this when we were in France?) and he also confessed that he felt there were too many differences between French and Americans for it to ever truly work out anyway (ummm, yeah tell that to Johnny Depp and Vanessa Paradis, but whatever!)

I couldn't fake that it didn't matter or hurt. I couldn't hide that I was crushed and I was quite embarrassed that he had access to that level of vulnerability without earning it first. Knowing that it was over before it had even begun, I told him my true feelings that I thought he was amazing and that I had been willing to do most (if not all) of the traveling. I am not so ridiculous that I was positive it would definitely work out long term (O.K. at least to him), but I did know that I had enough feelings in my heart to at least give it a try. I was willing to put myself out there and take a risk. I thought he had been someone worth the leap of faith. All I got in response, was a pained expression on his massive blue eyes and nodding. Lots of and lots of nodding and the feeling that he wanted to hit the eject button and get as far from me as he could possibly get. God, that was an awful realization.

In reality, I suppose that I couldn't really imagine the true love of my life despising my dog or never being able to give me flowers without risking a hospital visit. The guy who is right for me would have said some kind words about my apartment, even if it isn't a castle. He would have noticed how cute I looked and blown off Beyoncé any day of the week to sit at a table with me instead. I guess thinking about it - I do believe that I probably would not have wanted to continue further with him either based on what I saw on this trip, but I didn't have the chance to reject...because I was already rejected before he even got here. That does suck though. He actually left New York thinking of me as a love struck kitten pining for his affections and willing to do anything to make it work.

That isn't the case though. Not anymore. I wish I could tell him. It would be pretty pathetic however if after someone says they don't want you - that you say don't want them either. Why would they believe you? It seems like a knee-jerk reaction from a bruised ego, instead of the truth. But it is true, so for whatever it is worth.....Count Bambi, I don't want you. I would never marry you and I can do 10,000 times better than you, so good luck and good riddance, you cigarette smoking, asthmatic moron! Even my dog is too good for you. Onwards and upwards!

Requiem for a Dream

The Gods of Love must have taken some pity on me because Beyoncé did not show up for dinner with Count Bambi. They had dinner with "Beyoncé's people." Much better! Also, the reason that they are meeting with her and her people is because she is the star of the L'Oreal commercial they are shooting, not Jennifer Lopez. How could Bambi mix those two up? Were they just two incredibly hot, slightly dark, Americans with big booties to him...who were so easy to confuse? Was he a moron? I was starting to suspect he was.

In any case, Bambi spent yet another day cruising around Manhattan with some peons from L'Oreal instead of with me. He told me he thought I had to work during the day and so that is why he didn't call. Understandable I guess - but it wasn't the case. Perhaps stupidly, I had taken the rest of the week off in honor of his visit. When will I ever learn?

In true Jerk-o-Rama style, he was also busy at another L'Oreal dinner last night as well with Count Directeur Créatif's boss and he said he would call or text after dinner so we could meet up for drinks.

I couldn't stand another night of sitting home alone, dressed to impress, and getting let down again and so I called the one person who I knew would gladly take me out, appreciate me, and then willingly let me run off after dinner to drinks with Count Bambi.....Snaggle Tooth, of course!

Snaggles could hardly contain his excitement that I called and wanted to see him that very night. He had a group of buddies from his Masters program at Columbia who were having dinner at some Cuban hole in the wall and I was more than welcome to join. They were all informed that around 10 p.m. I would have to run off to see a "friend from France" and thus I somewhat rudely kept my phone on the table. I suppose by now, one can guess that a 10:00 p.m. phone call did not happen. Neither did an 11:00 or 12:00 call happen either. I might as well have just left my phone at home actually.

One of the students invited me to join them all after dinner at The Box....a swank new club in the Lower East Side with cabaret acts and a wildly interesting decor. With the amount of time and energy I had spent to get the way I looked last night...I was willing to go pretty much anywhere except home. My ego had been flushed down the toilet and heading to a nightclub with a group of international grad students seemed like fun. Snaggles was beyond happy and he slung his arm over my shoulders and I let him. I needed to be adored. He was the perfect guy at the perfect time.....as long as I could forget about those teeth for the time being.

We rolled into the The Box around 1:00 a.m., four guys, five girls, and Snaggle Tooth still holding me tight. It wasn't five minutes before I saw what could not be a mirage. Count Directeur Créatif was talking to a pack of tiny breasted French girls with a cigarette dangling out of his mouth. Snaggle Tooth followed my gaze and asked if those were the French people who had blown me off and I just nodded. Talk about awkward.

Directeur Créatif smiled, waved, and pointed to the other side of the room where Count Bambi and another bland French import were chatting up against a wall. I wasted no time storming right over there. Bambi lit up like a Christmas tree when he saw me, gave me a huge kiss in front of Snaggle Tooth (who I thought might go into cardiac arrest at that point), and asked me what took me so long!? He then showed me his cell phone where he had indeed sent me a text two hours earlier telling me to meet him at The Box. However, I never received the text. Maybe my phone doesn't allow incoming international text messages? How annoying! I supposed that I couldn't be mad as he really did try to get in touch with me. Right?

Bambi didn't believe it was truly a coincidence that of all the bars and clubs in New York that we would end up at the same one at the same time. It was a pretty crazy turn of events. Was that a sign? Were we really meant to be together? How could that not be a sign?

I nestled into Bambi's arms and all of the L'Oreal people came up to tell me how glad they were I came and how worried Bambi was about not getting to see me. We proceeded to their table near the front, an extra glass was ordered for me and a few bottles of champagne arrived. I saw Snaggle and his friends glaring at me from the bar area as if I was the biggest bitch on the planet and maybe I was...but if only they had any idea what I had to go through to get to that point?

We stayed until about 5 a.m. when we were about three sheets to the Moët & Chandon wind at that point. Bambi wanted to take me back to his hotel, but I wasn't having it. My apartment was in its glory days and would be seen....even if it would be seen by a rather drunk Bambi in the middle of the night...it would still be seen.

And no...the evening didn't go the way that you, me, and probably he imagined. He walked into my apartment, quickly found my bedroom, flopped onto the bed, and screamed. Edit Piaf was prancing all over his tiny little chest. He begged me to take her off of him. He said he couldn't stay in my room and luckily I have a guest bedroom as well - where Edith never goes, and so we retreated there. Apparently, he is deathly allergic to dogs. Why did I not know this before? I guess I never had Edith Piaf around any time that I was hanging out with Bambi. Hmmm....petit problème.

During our make-out session in my guest bedroom his eyes proceeded to get more and more red, he was breaking out in a rash, and his nose was running like a faucet. He then noticed that my guest bedroom - as well as my entire apartment was filled with flowers of every variety. And guess what? He is also allergic to flowers. I then carried several vases out of the room into the front hallway and opened the window for him, but not before he started to gasp. I am so not joking. He apparently also has asthma and he left his inhaler back at the hotel.

Talk about the most un-sexy evening ever. I walked him down to a cab around 6:00 a.m. A small, sputtering, snot nosed, bleary eyed, wheezing Count with itchy skin. Was he really what I had been dreaming of for the past couple of weeks? Maybe I had lost my mind? All I can say is that I am glad he was leaving in a taxi and not an ambulance...or was I?

Not So Crazy in Love

I am raising a white flag. I surrender. I give up. I don't understand men at all.

Count Bambi and his cousin, Count Directeur Créatif, landed at JFK airport on time. I know because I checked about five times. I gave them a generous two hours (in my mind) to make it to the city with their luggage and figured I my phone would be a-ringing by 2:00 p.m. at the very latest. At 4:00 p.m., my blow out was flattening against my head, my mascara from the morning was starting to flake, and even Edith Piaf's perky bow was looking a little deflated. It was only a matter of time before one of my perfectly folded, Gap store-esque, towers of sweaters toppled over in my closet. Perfection really only can last so long! So I called him and pretended to be calm and cheerful. He and Count Directeur Créatif were lunching somewhere downtown as their rooms were not ready at the SoHo Grand. He said he would call me back in an hour.

Two hours later, it is now 6 p.m. and I call him again. He had checked into his room and gone to visit Central Park with his cousin and some of the L'Oreal people who were here for the shoot. Apparently, he hadn't called because they were still figuring out dinner plans. His cousin might be eating with Beyoncé and the people from L'Oreal and he was waiting to see if either himself or he and I could get included. Dinner with Beyoncé ? That was not what I was imagining. I had spent the last two days and gobs of money trying to look amazing and now on my first night with Bambi....I was about to get upstaged by a freaking international sex symbol!? Was this happening? Life can be incredibly unfair sometimes. Why don't we also invite Angelina Jolie, Cameron Diaz, and Jessica Biel to come as well? How did I not see this one coming?

In any case, by the time I was dressed and ready for dinner by 8:30 - he called to say that he would be going to dinner with Beyoncé and Company and that they couldn't get an extra person included. I guess the only thing worse than having to sit next to Beyoncé in front of a guy you are trying to impress is having the guy you are trying to impress go to dinner with Beyoncé without you. Damn!

Right-O. Kill me now...how on earth could I ever compete with Beyoncé? Please, tell me that Jay-Z is still in the picture or else I can't imagine why Bambi wouldn't fall dangerously in love with her! Argh! Nightmare!

Lets Hear it for the Boy

God bless Bambi! He called! I am ecstatic, jumping for joy, and beyond giddy. He was polite, casual, and kept everything fairly brief. Sometimes, I really want to think he is being a bit of an insensitive jerk - but then I remind myself that he is from another country, and another culture...and perhaps it would be small minded of me to hope he would act as the Harlequin romance hero I have in my head and just calm down. He was busy. English is not his first language and he did have a life in full motion before we started our romance. I guess waiting over ten days in between phone calls isn't the end of the world and he is getting on an airplane and coming to see me! Keep it in perspective, right? My friends say "wrong", but I am committed to seeing this one though.

Bambi gave me 48-hours notice of his arrival and didn't ask to stay at my apartment. I imagine he is probably being respectful...the way a guy who really likes a girl would be. So, he will be staying at the SoHo Grand, he will be here for four days, and can't wait to see America for the first time. I double checked his schedule to see if he would be busy with his cousin or if he had any particular day either totally free or totally unavailable...and he assured me he was open and he wanted to see me every day. He laughed that I was silly enough to even ask that question and I felt 1,000 times better. In fact, that statement gave me the hope I needed about this trip to guarantee complete lunacy for the next couple of days.

I spent almost every waking moment since I got off the phone with Count Bambi to his arrival day in "crazy mode." I mean - think about it. I have four days to host a guy who lives between a palatial, Parisian flat, a villa in the South of France, and two castles, who has the pick of any woman in Paris, who is terrified of planes (and I suspect, somewhat terrified of Americans as well), and who is getting over a life long fear of travel to see if I might be someone he could settle down with. He is going to see my life, my apartment, my morning/noon/night selves, the places I find cool, and the people I hang out with. He is coming to my turf and I can imagine he is somewhat skeptical of what he will see. My goal is to completely enchant, dazzle, and impress him. I refuse to let this be a disappointment. That is not an option.

I hired my cleaning lady and her friend to spend two full days in my already spotless apartment doing detail work. I wanted every drawer organized, every book arranged neatly on the shelf, every sweater folded perfectly with a square of cardboard so my closet looked like it could be a section of a department store. I had about 40 boxes of food and wine from Fresh Direct delivered, so my kitchen looked like a high-end grocery store. A wine guy stocked my cabinets with the best of the best French wines. I bought a case of Bambi's favorite champagne and stocked up on champagne flutes so Bambi would feel right at home at my place. I spent four hours and several hundred dollars in the Chelsea flower district so that every table and surface of my apartment was filled with gorgeous, exotic, spectacular blooms. My God - where was "Metropolitan Home" when you needed them for a quick photo shoot? Even my toilet paper was folded at the end into a small "V" just like at a swank hotel.

Other than a five alarm "cleaning/decorating/stocking up" fire happening at my apartment, I pretty much did the same thing to my entire body - head to toe. The hair was highlighted, trimmed, and blown out. Eyebrows perfectly shaped. A manicure, a pedicure, and a glorious tan. I certainly did not look like a girl who had spent the last two weeks moping. I looked like the pampered wife of a tycoon just home from their yacht in St. Tropez. Finally! I even had my eyelashes dyed black, so that I would look pretty in the mornings when I woke up with no make up on. The magic is all in the details - I say!

Of course, little Edith Piaf was also sent to the groomers and arrived home with brushed teeth, trimmed nails, a shiny coat smelling of mango and papaya, and a tiny, dusty rose colored bow on the top of her head. She would really be the talk of the dog run if we went, but who has the time? It is a full time job trying to knock the socks off a handsome aristocrat - trust me.

In any case, he arrives tomorrow morning at 11:30. I can't imagine anything I may have forgotten to do. Brazilian bikini wax - check. Reading Time Out cover to cover for this week's touristy happenings - check. Immaculate apartment - check. Glammed up self - check. Sound mental health.....um, let me get back to you on that one.

Plan C

About a year ago, I had read an article in Cosmopolitan Magazine (or some similar magazine?) about matchmakers and I had decided to call the top one in the country (based in Beverly Hills) and see who they had for me. It was a miserable experience and a story for another day.

However, about six weeks ago I decided to try two of the other top matchmakers in the country because maybe I just had bad luck the first time? I can't afford to risk my professional reputation by being on Match.com - and so this seemed like a more discreet means to the same end.

The way they work is that successful, eligible men who truly want to settle down will pay these people between $10,000 to $50,000 per year to be set up with attractive, smart women who also want to settle down. Luckily, the matchmakers decided to take me on as "inventory" which means that I'm in their little black book for a man who is looking for exactly my "type." To be considered as "inventory" one has to be considered generally pretty, have a college degree, be physically fit, not previously married, no children, and under the age of 35.

I get to be set up for free as I am a regularly requested "type." There is something that feels slightly hooker-ish about the whole thing, but what are my options? I can't stand the bar scene, or the clubs, and I am busy building a company in my spare time to pay my mega-mortgage! Where on earth am I supposed to meet my greater or equal with limited time and a complete disdain for a rocking social life echoing my college days? Believe me, I have tried taking classes; and going to academic lectures; and going to sports events; and volunteering;with no luck. Every place one recommends to meet men, I show up....with half the female population of New York showing up right next to me. I sadly even tried a sports bar once with a girlfriend thinking that would be like shooting fish in a barrel. The bar was full of men - but there was a game on about 30 televisions scattered around the room and my friend and I may well have been bar stools for all they noticed.

Anyway, I have digressed....the matchmaker it will be. There are two companies...one in New York and one in Chicago. I am leaving no stone unturned. If I decide that I want to have them look for me, for the type I want exactly, then I have to pony up thousands as well. At this point, until I hit 35 and am no longer eligible to be set up for nothing....I will remain in the black book of two of America's hottest matchmakers. Those matchmakers are my "Plan C"....and I absolutely intend to use them should Bambi continue to play this stupid game.

Do you really want me to call in the Dating Guards, Bambi? Because I will, really.

Doom with a View

Well, it has been a week and there is officially a communication freeze between Bambi and I. He is supposed to come here in the next five days. Or at least, that is what he had said when I last heard from him. I am trying to believe that he realized that he has feelings and it is scaring him. I will continue to believe that until his arrival date has come and gone. Then I will believe he is a bastard. Right now, though I am in a hopeful and slightly mortified state.

The Rosetta Stone French Language Instructional CDs that I had ordered the day I got home have arrived. I had hoped that if he saw that I was trying to learn French (as evidenced by the casually strewn language CDs across my desk) that he would see I was serious about not wrecking the past 500-years of his Gallic history. I would become French. I would speak French. I would live in France. I will have croissants every morning and ride a bicycle with a scarf on my head and a baguette in my basket. I would read Le Monde and own loads of striped t-shirts and even drink their disgusting little shot glasses of pure black coffee. If only he would see how much effort I was willing to put in? Where was he?

Actually, Dahlia partially answered that question for me via the Party Pooper. Apparently, Bambi took a very fetching (French) date to a party at the Jockey Club in Paris two nights ago. He also attended a wedding in the country-side last weekend and hosted a dinner party at his apartment for 20 people the week before. He cooked the dinner himself and it was a huge success. Bambi studied at Le Cordon Bleu and everyone loves his cooking. Even the Party Pooper is willing to leave his home for one of Bambi's legendary dinners.

Meanwhile, flash back to me in New York....getting courted by a man whose teeth are likely to fall out at any moment, watching ridiculous amounts of television, eating boxes of cupcakes from the Magnolia Bakery, and having zero invites for any Fourth of July parties. I am sulking every time my phone rings and it isn't him. Maybe I need to start seeing a therapist again? When exactly does one need to do that? At rock bottom....or just slightly before?

I passed the Street Performer in the park as well - which was depressing. I guess the girl he was waiting for is also a dancer. The red head was nowhere to be seen and my Street Dancer was flipping and twirling a gorgeous, giggling, blonde who still had milk fat on her cheeks. I threw a $10 bill in their hat and saw all the musicians give me an apologetic stare. They all knew what had happened between he and I. And my Street Performer was so involved in his dance that he never even noticed me standing there with Edit Piaf among the crowd of onlookers. He looked really happy and his happiness made me feel even more miserable.

Snaggletacular

It has been four days and I've heard nothing from Bambi. I've left two messages and sent one perfectly crafted, witty, little e-mail - with no response. Is he changing his mind about me? Or is the idea of having to get on a plane literally scaring him into a virtual coma?

I decided to return Snaggle Tooth's call. Poor little Brit has left a number of messages and it has becoming impossible to pretend that I am still not back from Europe. Besides it is only a matter of time before I see him in the dog run again. I didn't have the heart to tell him that I met up with someone from my past in Paris and he may or may not be coming to visit me and so I am going to wait and see if he does before I go on any more dates. What if Bambi doesn't come? Going out with Snaggles seemed safe enough. At least I'd have a distraction and I would never be in any danger of either falling for or kissing. That - I know for sure.

Based on that rather unflattering line of logic, Snaggles and I went out. He was beaming, glowing, and almost bursting with joy while stuttering a little bit. There are times when I know I would find this endearing, but at this moment in time I found it irritating. We went to a cheap, but charming restaurant in the Village and we had a ten minute break in conversation while he intently scanned the wine list. What the Hell was he looking for? Something that cost the same as wine in a cardboard box, but in a snappy green bottle with a chateau on the label? It doesn't exist, buddy. I offered to just get something by the glass and he gratefully took me up on that offer and ordered two glasses of "white." The waiter seemed to hesitate about asking which kind of white, but clearly thought better of it and scurried off.

I was home by 11:00 p.m. checking my e-mail and my voice mail but discovering nothing. I wrote Dahlia and begged her to get some information covertly out of Count Party Pooper on what is happening with Bambi.

Hopefully he is O.K. Hopefully, I will be O.K. One thing is for sure, Snaggle Tooth didn't seem O.K. after paying for two dinners and not even getting a small kiss. What does he expect? What do any of them expect?

Argh....misery is setting in. I can feel it.

Back to the Grind

I am finally back in New York City and I am aching for Paris...or more exactly, Count Bambi. I only had to wait a day before he called to tell me that he would be coming to New York in two weeks. His cousin, who works for L'Oreal, is coming to New York to shoot a commercial starring Jennifer Lopez and so he thought it would be a good opportunity to get over his fear of flying. Ummm....yes, you read that small, but significant detail correctly. Bambi is apparently terrified of planes and prefers to stay in Continental Europe. He has never been to the United States or anywhere else for the matter...unless it is easily accessible by train or car from Paris. Understandably, having a long distance relationship with someone who hates to travel could present a bit of a problem, but where there is a will, there is a way. To be honest, I have the time and means to do most (if not all) of the traveling for the right guy and luckily, Bambi fits in that category.

Am I getting desperate or have I totally and completely fallen for Bambi? Hmmm...I will say though that the fact that he is willing to get on his first airplane for me is flattering. Or rather, is he getting on his first plane for J. Lo? That is a tough call. J. Lo could probably inspire a crippled man to get out of a wheel chair and walk, but could I? Better not ask that question. The men of New York have killed any feelings I ever had of self worth and I finally have a bit of it back. No need to kill it again, while I am still on my European high of being wanted by a young Latin fox, a movie star, and a French count. You know what, J. Lo, bring it on!

French Fairy Tale Romance

My last night in Paris was literally one of the best nights of my life. Dahlia joined me in my hotel room to provide moral support and to babysit little Edith Piaf (who of course, I brought with me!) We went over wardrobe, jewelery, and hair decisions as if we were two heads of State discussing the important governmental issues. No decision was unintentional or casual from deciding to forgo gloss over the lipstick (too sticky and not conducive to hours of kissing) to making sure that I had a secret stash of Visine in my purse so I could still look bright eyed at 5:00 a.m. should my night go that long. My hair was in a pony tail, so I could do the dramatic loosening up the hair thing later in the evening...and so my blonde locks wouldn't have to be burdened with any hair products to take away from its caress-ability once the time was right. There is nothing less sexy than a guy getting his fingers stuck in your overly-spritzed hair.

On my way out the door, I ran smack into one of France's biggest movie stars who I happen to know from way back when. Was that happening? Where were my eyewitnesses? Ugh... He was visiting his Mother (who lived two doors down from my hotel) on his baby blue Vespa. I forgot how gorgeous he was since he has never appears in any English language films - and fame outside of France, has completely eluded him thus far. He is the classic Latin dream boat....tousled messy hair, five o'clock shadow, expressive eyebrows and oozing sex appeal. Christ - why did I have to run into him on my last night in Paris when I don't have a minute to spare? He offered to take me to dinner (damn!) He also offered to give me a lift to the door step of the luckier man than him - as he put it. It would have been quite cool to have a huge movie star drop me off for my date with Bambi - but in reality, I knew that the chance that Bambi would actually see my drop-off would be slim and the Vespa would surely ruin the perfect ponytail. Besides, I was done playing games. I truly liked Bambi and as tempting as it was, I left as if it was God's way of asking if I was serious about him. So God, did you notice I turned down a ride from a gorgeous movie star to take a smelly cab ride to my date with Bambi? Please say you did - and that I will be rewarded for my efforts!

Bambi had picked a sultry, velvet swathed, restaurant off the Invalides where we had an intimate table by the window. He was quick and decisive with the wine list. He asked me a zillion questions about myself and was incredibly open and frank about his own personal life and deepest feelings on a range of important subjects. In addition, he oddly gave me a brief synopsis of his family's history over the past 500 years which I didn't really care about. Hmmm....what do you say to that? I mean, I am happy to hear about any of his "living relatives" that I might meet, but anyway. I will chalk that part down to "cultural differences."

He did say he was ready to settle down and that he really wanted to start a family. Who talks like this on a first date? But we have known each other for a long time, so maybe it isn't so strange? Bambi is currently finishing up his Masters Degree in Philosophy and wants to spend more time painting in his studio. He also has a book in the works. A perfect Renaissance man. He gently inquired if I would ever consider moving back to France and I exclaimed I absolutely would - in a New York minute, in fact.

After dinner, we walked through the city to the Pont des Arts....a wooden pedestrian bridge linking the Right and Left Banks - and that was where it happened. The kiss, under the stars....right next to the Louvre, Notre Dame, and boats filled with tourists cruising down the Seine. Under the stars, over the water, in between two gorgeous pieces of Parisian land. It was a kiss worth waiting for. He was a guy worth waiting for. I felt as if my heart was full and that happiness was all my body and mind knew at the moment. It was the type of kiss that sets off fireworks inside of yourself...even despite all the champagne!

The kiss broke a dam between us - as one would expect and we probably kissed about 10,000 times on the way back to his apartment and we made out until all wee hours of the night. When the sun came up, he offered for me to sleep in with him, but I declined and went back to my hotel. You can't go too far too soon with the guy you really want. I did want to go further with him and I did want to sleep there, but I resisted the urge. Lose the battle, win the war.

I woke up Dahlia when I got back to the hotel (who has a small Yorkie nestled in her hair on the pillow) and told her that I knew he was the one. She said she knew he was too and then Dahlia, my Yorkie, and I all fell asleep in a yellow hotel room in Paris.

Happy, happier, and happiest all in one bed.

Prelude to a Kiss

The party was neither exciting nor a total snore...especially compared to the amount of time Dahlia and I had spent talking about it before it had even happened. What else were we going to do on our girl's night out but discuss wardrobe, strategy, and possible dreamy outcomes of the evening? Dahlia had an on-again, off-again romance with Bambi's friend, Count Party Pooper. God knows what she saw in him - however, with the new twist of us all being together again and Bambi and I being so close to running off in the sunset. The thought that she would become Countess Party Pooper and I'd be Countess Bambi and we'd have bi-lingual and incredibly chic children to raise in our respective castles was, at the very least....the most exciting idea we had come up with in a long time.

All of Bambi's friends were pretty similar to him....small, proud, and sporting navy blue jackets. They all had the signature "de" in between their first and last names indicating their aristocratic status and at least half were wearing gold rings bearing their family's coats of arms. I suppose back in the day, they would have used the ring to stamp a wax seal on an official document - but these days it is just to show you that 300 years ago that your family was probably working in the fields owned by their family or something close to that picture. Few still have possession of their castles and even fewer have the liquid assets to maintain a castle to this day without opening it up to the (gasp) public - including loads of American tourists in white sneakers and jeans. Count Bambi is one of the few who not only still owns a few fantastic castles, but he maintains them in spectacular style with nary a tourist or the French government to thank for it - thus it makes him the "cream of the artisto crop" for every social climbing French girl, gold digger, or some Henry James-ian type character who needs Bambi's wealth to save her own family castle. Luckily for him, I fall under none of the above categories.

The girls at the party (whom I viewed as my competition) were about as small as the men, without a stitch of make-up on, or a single manicured hand between them. They had imperfect noses that would have long ago been fixed by plastic surgeons should they have been raised in the States and tiny breasts that were not given a likely boost with the aid of a bra. I have to say - it has been a while since I have seen so many sets of nips that have gone incredibly unnoticed. My own ample cleavage seems remarkably out of place in this sea of what seems like pre-pubescent boobies. Where was the young Bardot of the crew? Luckily for me, nowhere!

Dahlia and I took our places at the stars of the evening - glowing brighter by the glare of angry French girls' beady stares. Count Bambi, Count Something de Someone, and Prince Pepe le Pieu bantered and danced the night away with us. Just like the old days. Just the way I hoped it would be. Well, except that Count Party Pooper was a no-show, as usual, but who cares about him? Dahlia could just as easily become Princess le Pieu....and have her arms kissed up and down by Pepe. Although, I think that Prince le Pieu is without castle at the moment? Details, details!

Bambi - who generally never dances...made an exception to dance "Le Rock" (a form of French swing dancing for the Upper Crust...generally to disco or 80s music) with me. He wrapped his twiggy little arm around my body so tightly that his fingers were often grazing the side of my boob - which, even if it wasn't accidental...was exceedingly sexy.

We ended the night with a smaller group - at Mathy's...a small lounge off of the Champs Elysees. We drank pink champagne with ice cubes in it called a piscine (swimming pool) and Bambi and I were giving each other "love eyes" all night. It was heaven. Madame Giggles was among our crew and she told me that Bambi had been waiting for months for the perfect form to trace for his "disco rug" and it was quite an honor that he had chosen me above so many others. Apparently, he is having a seamstress cut out my form and sew it onto some other fabrics to create a fun rug for the Winter to give a sense of humor to Bambi's prematurely mature apartment. She thought that his choosing to have my literal body in his apartment to look at and admire every day is quite a statement - and gave me a knowing glance with a nod. Who knew Bambi was this creative? And he didn't even say a word about it. Me - on a disco rug....what next? The possibilities seemed almost endless!

We had planned for my last night in Paris to get a group together from the old days for a small dinner party (in English!) at Bambi's palatial flat, but he pulled me aside when we were leaving Mathy's and asked if I wouldn't mind terribly if it was just a tête-à-tête because he desired more intimacy with me. I suppose being the gentleman he is, he couldn't bear to kiss me in public and required a more private prelude to accomplish what I had been hoping he would do for years. Oh yes, please...I honestly can't take it anymore. I want my kiss and I want it now!

Sword-Fishing

As Dahlia, the all-knowing one, predicted - Count Bambi called and called again! What a refreshing change to those cooler-than-thou New York City men who hardly know how to use a telephone. Bambi let me know he had a dinner party the other night, but could either try to get out of it or get me invited last minute. I insisted he stick with his original plans - trying to create added desire through tension - although in reality, I dislike dinner parties (particularly those where no one is speaking English.) Plus, I already had a girl's night planned with Dahlia. He didn't need to know the real reasons...and the thought that I was just gracious and not overly eager would definitely put me in a better position for the rest of the weekend. I was sure of it.....and so was the all-knowing one!

Bambi did invite Dahlia and I out to a party on Saturday night with some of his friends...and he invited me over to his apartment by myself earlier this afternoon to watch a film, since I was unable to join him later. Those French men are not thrown off easily, nor are they ashamed to relentlessly pursue, I am quite happy to report. I think they feel if you are not worth chasing heavily, then you are not worth it - period. They enjoy the chase. They are hunters - literally...and when they are not actively targeting deer, boar, or birds in the countryside - then they are hunting women in the city.

Count Bambi is a man of leisure - so why not watch a movie in the middle of the day? I had placed an order for a kiss with him over ten years ago and I was hoping to pick up my bisou on his couch, 1/4 of the way through a romantic film that we had no intention of finishing. I threw on my sexiest jeans and a ridiculously soft, low cut, grey t-shirt over lingerie that cost about the same as my hotel room did for the night. Not that I was expecting it to go that far, that quickly....but your most impressive bra and pantie set is a sure fire way to ensure it doesn't happen. The Murphy's Law of Love. Had I worn old granny panties with holes in them then it definitely would have gone there. So, thank you, La Perla for keeping my virtue intact this early in the game.

The Count answered the door in a tailored button down shirt and a blazer making me feel suddenly under-dressed or wondering if I had mis-interpreted the invitation. Behind him, I heard giggling French people in his salon and immediately realized this wasn't a solo invitation. I got a quick and efficient peck and an approving glance at my décolleté and I followed him down the marble hall to the salon which looked more like the lobby of a grand hotel than the living room of a 33-year old bachelor.

There was a couple sitting on the couch who shot me a bemused look and a tiger print fabric lying on the floor in front of them. I was quickly introduced to the shiny, pert, newlyweds before being instructed to lie on the floor, on the animal printed fabric, as if I had fallen down. I was not given an explanation as to why, nor did I ask for one. The moment I was down, Bambi straddled me and started tracing my form with a piece of chalk while the couple looked on. The chalk went down my nose, and along my throat, up my arms, and in between my legs. There wasn't one inch of my periphery that was untouched by Bambi and his stick of chalk. The end result was quite cool. Almost like one of those I-Pod commercials of the dancing silhouette people.

Shortly thereafter, the four of us took our flutes of champagne further down the marble hall to Bambi's screening room to watch "Swordfish" with Halle Berry and John Travolta. That was honestly the last film I had expected to see, but apparently it was the only one they had in version originale (otherwise known as an American film in English with French sub-titles.) Bambi and Monsieur and Madame Giggles sat perfectly still on the couch, all wearing clothing requiring dry cleaning, sipping champagne, chain smoking, and intently watching the film as if it was some riveting piece of cinematic brilliance. Meanwhile, I was on the floor propped up by pillows I took from a nearby chair, in my jeans, wishing my champagne would turn into a Coca-Cola because it felt so wrong at 4:00 on a Thursday afternoon to be drinking on an empty stomach. Was I in a twilight zone? Was this the real existence of the gainfully unemployed French population? Hmmm...

At the end of the film, Bambi turned the empty champagne bottle upside down in the bucket of melting ice. The afternoon was over. Doesn't he realize how sexy of an afternoon this could have been? Why did he invite that other couple? Was the chalk tracing foreplay for the party on Saturday night? Maybe I should have agreed to join him at the dinner party tonight instead.

Ugh - I feel totally off my game. I really like Bambi. What on earth does he think about me? I did feel as if they thought of me as some exotic creature who watches movies lying down. They did ask about five times if I wouldn't prefer joining them on the already small couch - leaving zero room for a modicum of personal space...which didn't seem to bother the French one bit. I honestly didn't feel there was room and I had hoped that Bambi would leave the couch to the lovebirds and pull a pillow up next to me on the floor, but we remained separated like a smoking and non-smoking section. Perhaps I should have tried to squeeze myself sideways on to the last remaining five inches of couch space? I know I am over-thinking this. I can't help it. I can't remember the last time I was this excited about someone. Was he really paying attention to Swordfish...or was he plotting his next move? There is a mere 48-hours left to make something happen.

He had better kiss me - and soon - or I might explode just like one of those cars, vans, and trucks did on the rather un-romantic film I was just made to watch.

An American in Paris

Yesterday I arrived in my old stomping ground, Paris. I lived there for four years during my 20s and had the most amazing time ever. I lived in a top floor flat in the Marais with my roommate and partner in crime, Dahlia. We both worked as fashion industry interns getting paid almost nothing while being rewarded with every glamorous party invitation under the Parisian sun. Between borrowing clothes from work and begging our parents for extra spending money, we actually made do. When our internships were over, Dahlia (originally from San Francisco) took up a magazine job in London and I moved to New York to start my own company. However, last year Dahlia was transferred last year back to Paris and is now living on the Left Bank in the swish San Germain-des-Pres. I was so excited to be reunited with her again and look up all the boys from our past. What had happened to them? Had they married? Had they gone bald? Would they remember us? And more importantly, would they still adore us if they did?

Dahlia had organized for us to go to a White Party. We had to dress in all white and the food would be all white and so were the drinks....and yes, because it is France - the people were all white too. Thank God I was tan for once - because usually white is not my color and all of the boys would supposedly be in attendance.

The party was fun, the music was great, and we did see the boys, but it wasn't exactly as I had hoped. They all said "hi" like they had just seen us yesterday...not some ten odd years ago. Some were married and some were indeed bald - but most of them were largely just nonchalant. I suppose due to all the crazy nights we had together, I would have expected a little more excitement from them - but maybe when people are "party friends" it doesn't mean as much in the long run? Had they all moved on and Dahlia and I.....still single, still swilling cocktails, and dancing our 30-something hearts out a pathetic sight to them? Did we look like the aging party girls who didn't hear the music turn off a few years back? Ugh....I just wanted to shout at them that I had grown up. I own a multi-mullion dollar apartment in Manhattan and I run a successful business, but did it matter? Maybe not. By European standards, I was starting to look like an old maid.

There was one bright reunion in the evening, however. I had the most unbelievable crush on this French count with the largest blue eyes ever for the longest time. We used to call him "Bambi" behind his back because of those massive eyes and his slightly fragile stature. He is (and was) sweet, charming, and incredibly stylish. I adored him for almost the entire time I lived in Paris, but he had a girlfriend, so nothing ever happened. He broke up with her a few months before I left - but it still never happened. He is one of those guys who can be so disarming that you lose your game and your nerve - and hence - me, never one to be shy, could ever get up the guts to make a move on him.

Count Bambi did seem genuinely happy to see me though. He instantly wrote down my European cell number and he had a giddiness to him that I had never seen. Even Dahlia noticed it and she informed me that he had just broken up with his latest girlfriend. What brilliant timing. Bambi is the type that would fall under the "future potential" category and definitely not in the "holiday hook up" category. I adore him. Always have and I can't wait to see what happens.

Wedding Bell Hell

Freya's wedding went off without a hitch. Theo was crying his tender little eyes out staring at his pure as driven snow bride. Bernard was beaming with pride at his eldest daughter and her glorious match. Pippa was the most charming maid-of-honor ever and my Mom's right hand for organizing everything (thank God she was there) and Manon the Menace was perfecting her scowl behind a champagne flute. I suppose I can't remember the last time Manon had a boyfriend, so maybe weddings are difficult for her? Yet I have zero sympathy. This is my fifth wedding in the past twelve months and I am six years older than she is. If anyone should be sulking in a corner it is me, but I was too busy flirting my butt off with a college student to be bothered.

Adonis was far more difficult to land than I had originally thought. Once I knew his age, I honestly thought I had it in the bag. How could I not outfox the fox? It was "Game On" from the moment I entered the 16th century church in my Gucci silk dress and Blahniks. I smiled at him, then ignored him, then pretended to be caught looking and did the quick away glance thing, and ignored him some more. I sucked in my stomach, my posture was perfect, and I have my hair flicking down to a science at this point. After the church, I ignored him again but made sure to walk in front of him to show my also "down to a science" swishy hip walk. I waited for him to start to feel nervous and insecure at the reception before I made my first official contact. He did not appear as relieved as I had hoped when I walked within feet of him. Striking distance for him to make his move. He was totally cool about it - and made zero attempts in my direction, except to laugh with the guy next to him about something. Perhaps I had made him wait too long or not long enough? My timing was obviously not "down to a science" at this point.

There was nothing to do, but abort the mission and relaunch myself again.....which I did a few hours later to much greater success. Thanks to the legion's of Theo's fraternity brothers in attendance, it was easy to bide my time waiting for Adonis to be forced to make a move. His move was juvenile - but what would I expect? He asked if I wanted to smoke a cigarette in the woods. What were we? Twelve? He then proceeded to explain (almost blushing) that his parents don't know he occasionally smokes and so he would like to smoke somewhere away from the tent where they wouldn't see. Ah....got it. So off we go into the dark, creepy woods, with the band playing disco music in the background, and my $700 shoes sinking into the soft earth below at which point I just stopped him and called him out on it.

I told him that I knew he didn't smoke (nor do I for that matter) and if he wants to just kiss me, then just do it....and he did. Heaven....it was really amazing - yet I still couldn't fully concentrate on the fact that I had this obscenely hot co-ed all over me because my Blahniks were getting ruined. I then decided to drag him up to my Mom's house...which is supposedly off limits during the party, but I didn't care. Actually to be safe - we went into the attic because I thought my room would be a place where we could get discovered. Like any good college kid these days, he did have some pot on him and so we got our own party started in the attic on an old couch. Half a joint and just passing first base - we are interrupted by a steady stream of people charging up the narrow attic stairs.

Oh My God.....it was my Mom, Bernard, Adonis' parents, Dodie, and Manon. I guess Manon had told people that she saw us going into the woods and she gathered a "search party" to find us and they thought something bad had happened since they couldn't find us. Ummm....likely story, Manon. Anyhow, six people saw me in my bra and a shirtless Adonis (with six-pack abs, no less) and the half smoked joint. No one was laughing. My Mom was furious. Adonis' parents wanted to know who the drugs belonged to and of course, I took the fall. So, I was the bad one - preying on youngsters and plying them with drugs and alcohol. Me and Mary Kay LeTourneau!

Well, we know that wasn't the case - but still....I haven't felt like a teenager (in a bad way) since I was a freaking teenager. I was actually sent to my room - at 30-something! God knows what happened to Adonis. His Dad probably gave him a spanking and grounded him!

I could have sworn that was the only time the entire weekend that Manon seemed happy. At least I am off to Paris in 24 hours and I'd like to think this will all be forgotten, but like I said.....I definitely don't have the timing thing down to a science! Something to work on in the future for sure.

Cradle Robbing in Belgium

My trip to Europe is divided in three parts. Art Basel in Switzerland, my sister's wedding in Belgium, and my long weekend in Paris. My Mom is married to Bernard, a successful Belgian businessman. They live on a beautiful estate outside Antwerp and they speak to each other in Flemish all the time (which is very much like Dutch) - even though my Mom is British. They have three daughters - Freya, Manon, and Pippa. Freya is the serious one who never jokes and could quite possibly still be a virgin on her wedding day to Theo (who is quite adorable.) Manon is the "middle child" - with lots of complexes, baby fat, and evil lurking within her and Pippa is the much celebrated darling of the family. She does everything perfectly - and yet we don't hate her for it - because she is, well, perfect.

Although I'm quite sure that Freya had been given an unlimited budget for her wedding, knowing her....she scrimped on everything because she is quite the frugal one. She is also very practical and hates frills. She has no hair appointment, no nail appointment, and no make up artist coming. We are also have to sit through a 15-hour day without a single meal served because she thought the cost of catering is outrageous and we could just have "snacks" according to her. Incidentally, alcohol will be in full supply as Theo has invited practically every living member of his fraternity house to attend. The only reason that I mention this (besides hoping for sympathy) is also because when you have four girls in a family and the first one gets married...it sort of sets the stage for the other three. I am the oldest, so had we been living in Jane Austen Land - it would have been my turn first and it would have been spectacular...paving a wonderful road for the others to follow in. Yet - here I am having to watch Freya go first and also having to put protein bars in my purse so I can make it through the day without passing out simply because she insisted on becoming betrothed for pennies on the dollar, or centimes on the franc, or whatever. Cheaply. That is what I am trying to say.

Having met all of Freya, Manon, and Pippa's friends - I know for a fact that there would be no cute guys coming to the wedding. I was also not allowed to get my hair or nails done and upstage the bride-to-be, so I went to the rehearsal dinner more drab than fab. And lets just say now, that if I could have done the getting ready part over again, knowing what I know now - I would have.

To the right of me, at the rehearsal dinner (the one meal that was served in two days) was the most gorgeous man on the planet. Imagine, Antonio Banderas from Mambo Kings (when he was still young and cute - and unmarred by the likes of Melanie Griffths.) He was Theo's cousin from Venezuela. Theo's Aunt (whom I'd never met) married a Venezuelan man and they produced this Adonis, who was raised in Caracas. I had never known of his existence until that very second. He had piercing green eyes, floppy brown hair, and unbelievable bone structure. When I spoke, he stared at me with an intensity that made me keep forgetting what I was talking about halfway through each story. I thought I was going to melt into the chair if he gave me one more of his intense stares. Were all Latin Americans like this? He had no shame with the staring. It was sexy as Hell, to be perfectly honest.

Adonis was 6'4" with a perfect figure and a senior at some university somewhere (do we really care?) He was also 21. A mere, 14 or so years younger than myself. My second encounter with a lusty 21-year old in a week. What was going on and since when did I officially become a cougar? Well...I suppose I haven't become a cougar yet until something has happened - technically speaking. Adonis and I spoke during the entire three hour dinner to each other as we were probably the only two people (other than his Father...at the opposite end of the table) who didn't understand any of the speeches in Flemish.

Adonis' Mother, Freya, and Manon all shot me irritated glances throughout the dinner. Meanwhile, Adonis' Father, Pippa, my Aunt Dodie, and my Mom all gave amused, teasing, and approving looks.

Oh was it that obvious? Yes - I wanted a piece of the young, hot Venezuelan. So shoot me! Is this a potential boyfriend or future husband? Ummm....not the latter, but maybe that search is temporarily on hold while I am on vacation?

Andele, andele, arriba, arriba! I have one more day to make it happen.

Art Basel Debacle

At the urging of my fabulous Aunt Dodie, I decided to go to Art Basel this year. It is the world largest modern art show with the top 3,000 dealers from all over the world coming to sell some of their most precious pieces to museums, celebrities, and the absurdly wealthy. Think of it as one-stop shopping for gazillionaires to pick up Picasso's, Miro's, and Warhol's all under one roof - some of which are never before seen by the public. Instead of having to trudge through the top galleries in Toyko, Milan, New York, and Paris - all the art collectors have to do to is just head to Basel, once a year and get it done in a period of about 48 hours. Aunt Dodie coaxed my Mother into taking me as it would be a great Mother/Daughter bonding trip (which she is always up for, of course!) complete with culture, shopping, and a lively international atmosphere that we would both enjoy. She insisted that Art Basel is to art junkies what Mecca is to Islamics - a pilgrimage that must be made once in one's lifetime...and many more times than that, if possible. I was later pulled aside, and like a drug dealer - Dodie coarsely whispered in my ear that the trip was more for me to meet the "right sort" of men than anything else. The cultured, wealthy, international, intelligent types - and to look fabulous and mostly of all, not to disappoint her.

Dodie set Mom and I up with VIP passes to everything, plus all the necessary party invitations. I looked chic, Mom had her check book out, and we literally stopped short of the entrance to the show with our mouths agape. Right out the front was a five-story high, bronze garden gnome holding a giant butt plug in his hand. Was that a sign of what was inside? Gawd....it was certainly a long way to travel to be welcomed by pornographic sculpture in the presence of my Mom.

Interestingly enough that gnome was telling.....the massive convention hall was packed with hordes of tiny gay men. After three hours of cruising the stalls, my mother had a hard time understanding my foul mood as I ate ice cream in the VIP Lounge on the balcony overlooking a circular garden. I really couldn't admit that she had been a pawn in my search for the ideal husband. I honestly think my Mom could care less if I did become the lady with the tipsy house full of cats. Wing-woman, she was not. What had Dodie been thinking? Where were those men she had previously described?

My fears were finally confirmed that this was all a big mistake when I saw Stephanie Seymour hanging out in Tony Shafrazi's stall...surrounded by none other than more women and more short, gay men. If she couldn't attract the straight men like moths to a flame - then I certainly couldn't. Game over - that much was clear.

I did end up meeting the cute son of a gallery owner (boy, how the standards had fallen within 24 hours) at the Kunthshalle - a huge restaurant with an upscale beer garden. To be honest, he was technically very good looking and had an adorable British accent- but he had Adolph Hitler's exact haircut (which I have never seen on anyone outside of Nazi documentaries) and he was a mere 21-years old. O.K., he also seemed slightly homosexual, he had a body like a reed, plus a strange ghoulish giggle, and he allowed my Mom to pay for drinks all night - but nevertheless, I was getting desperate to make this trip a success in one form or another. I was very close to bestowing the esteemed title of "holiday hook-up" upon him and then he did the unthinkable - he picked his nose. He just jammed his finger right up his tender little nostril. And then he did it again, and again, and again. He looked at us and did it. He did it while he was telling a story. He did it again after ordering another drink on my Mother's tab. He just couldn't keep his finger out of his nasal cavity to save his tender young life - and thus, his narrow window of having a make-out session with me quickly vanished right up there with whatever it was that was in his nose.

I glanced at my Mom and she was staring right at me, horrified. We had both been witnessing the same thing. Gay Baby Hitler could pick his nose for the national team. Consider me officially disgusted. And consider Art Basel a terrible place to meet men......unless you are looking for someone who plays for the other team, nose pickers, or men wanting to sell you something for $10,000,000. Count me out for Art Basel 2008 because it just won't be happening. Thank you, Switzerland!

The Young and the Restless

I have been packing for my trip to Europe for the entire, soggy, overcast weekend. Getting out of town could not come at a better time. I honestly can't take one more rainy day. Between using 80s music as a packing motivator and having a full "America's Next Top Model" marathon playing on my muted flat-screen television for the past several hours...my last day in town was turning out to be rather ho-hum until I received a very unexpected call.

It was the street performer and he was wandering around in the rain. The band decided not to play due to weather and he wanted to come and hang out. Interesting. Of course - I said "yes" and told him that I fully intended to put him to work as my assistant packer. A thought crossed my mind that knowing I would be out of town - he might try to see if he could house-sit (especially once he saw my digs)...but I came up with a fake story in my mind to head that one off at the pass - should the subject even come up. I understand that a two-bedroom townhouse apartment in the Village with a terrace might have some appeal to a guy living in a flophouse in Harlem...but my plants don't need watering that badly and who knows what I'd come home to afterwards, if anything. A note probably saying something to the effect of "Thanks for the furniture, jewelery, and electronics - and have a great rest of your Summer, you overly trusting moron." So, no...not happening, dancing man.

We ended up ordering Lombardi's Pizza and drinking an entire bottle of 2004 Chateau Grimard Bordeaux....followed by a bottle of 2002 Chateau Rocher-Calon Saint-Emilion in my dining room. Pizza was probably not what the vinters expected these "Grand Vin's" to be paired with, but my God....it was a lunch to remember. I put on my favorite Django Reinhardt CD and we proceeded to get very, very drunk. I think, in fact, one could call me offically wasted by 4:00 p.m.

The miserable rain turned romantic...once I was drinking, staring at the most gorgeous man ever, and jazz music was floating through the rooms - at admittedly indecent volumes. He taught me how to swing dance, we made out for hours...and once we were too tired (I mean, drunk) to dance or kiss any more - he pulled a tattered notebook out of his shabby little backpack and read me some poems he had been working on.

Little Edit Piaf - my yorkshire terrier avoided the shenanigans by falling asleep in my half packed, long forgotten suitcase.

I hit the fast forward button on the tape in my mind - prematurely - as I always do when I start to like someone lots and lots and started to tell the Street Performer how much I was going to miss him when I was away and I mused out loud that it was almost a shame this had all happened right before I left instead of when I got back because it would make being away not fun at all. Ummm...yes - I'd like to say that was the wine talking, but sadly...it might not have been. He swept me off my feet - literally - in my living room.

He looked down at me cradled in his arms on the floor and smiled. He then proceeded to tell me that this girl he was crazy about in California was flying out to meet him in a few days and that he was so excited to see her. She was going to stay with him in Harlem and she would still be in New York when I got back.

Oh my God...that is all I can say. I literally took a cold shower, had a coffee, and threw a last couple of things in my suit case. I had the worst hangover from earlier and still feeling a bit tipsy. What a waste of good wine. He seemed shocked that I expected we would have anything other than a fling. He pointed out how different we were and said that the band calls me Miss Posh Pants. Did I really expect him - a Street Performer - and myself to ever have a relationship? Gulp - I guess I didn't, then I did....and well, now I don't have a choice because it is not happening.

I leave on the red eye tonight to Zurich. I hope the Street Performer trips on his shoelaces on his way home. He was the classic example of a fantasy that should stay in your mind - because the reality just isn't that great.

At least he didn't ask to house-sit my apartment with that girl...although he may as well have asked - just to finish me off completely before I left town.

Is something wrong with men - or is something wrong with me?

Something for Miss Posh Pants to ponder on the plane, I guess.

London Calling

I think Mr. Snaggly Tooth Brit Man has been reading manuals on how to date. I am utterly confused as he hit every note in the song of taking a woman out perfectly. This is just not normal in New York. I mean, it never, ever happens.

First of all, he called the same day I gave him my number in the dog run to let me know it was a pleasure to meet me. He then called the next day - and asked me out with 48-hours notice. He booked a charming Italian restaurant filled with candles located conveniently near my apartment and he picked me up! I haven't been picked up before a date in over a year - honestly - it is very un-New York. He also paid the bill, walked me home, and called this morning to say what a nice time he had. He didn't try to ply me with alcohol or pretend to have to use the bathroom to get inside my apartment. He knew to order a dessert to share - even though it was really only for me and he didn't forget to tell me how nice I looked at the beginning of the night. He listened to every word I said and didn't even glance sideways at any of the hot women scattered around the room.

Other than his absolutely princely behavior - he still looked as gay as Carson Kressley to me and I am still having trouble getting beyond that crazy tooth of his. It is like a tiny porcelain finger pointing right at me throughout dinner. Mr. Otherwise Perfect did flinch at the bill and handed over a rather beaten up ATM card with a large red arrow on it to pay for dinner. He even bowed his head for a moment when his scuffed, little debit card was carried off. I do find debit cards a rather un-sexy form of payment. He seemed both relieved and dissapointed at the same time that the card was approved. I wonder why he can't have his Dad get him a gold or platinum card? At 32, this guy is way too old to be using a piece of plastic with a giant arrow imprinted on the top. Seriously. I know 18-year olds with more impressive peices of plastic to show for themselves.

I did ask - out of curiosity - what his father does for a living in London and I almost died laughing when he told me. A dentist....and yes, you read that correctly. Maybe if his son is the best example of his work, then poor old Dad is probably running around with nothing better in his wallet than a sad 'ole ATM card as well?

My God....I should stop laughing at dear snaggles though - because he is one of the nicest guys I have ever met. A true sweetheart and despite my laughing probably a little too loud about his father being a dentist (yikes!) - he did call and I will definitely see him again.

A dentist - wow - I really did not see that one coming!

Dancing with Myself

This morning I got the “Looking forward to tonight!” text from my street performer – nice – and I responded positively back…..this guy really doesn’t need games. He is probably dying that he got asked out enough already for me to further taunt him……...with a long pause before a reply (see how taunting that is?)

Yours truly was perfectly dressed in sexy casual…the “oh, this old thing?” type look hoping it would read as accidental although personally I find dressing down to be far more tedious than dressing up…..the fancier a place is, the fewer options I have in my closet – thus wardrobe decisions to go to the Oscars would be made in a millisecond and yet the choice for what to wear to the movie theater can take an hour….anyway….you get the picture.

I am ready at 6:00 p.m., then it is 7:00 p.m., finally 7:30 and watching “Access Hollywood” is just not taking my mind off the potential blow off that was happening. I called a girlfriend who was in the dog run with her Chihuahua to see if she could spot him from her perch and indeed she did. He was laughing with guys from the band, under a tree, while smoking a cigarillo. Bastard!

I called him from my other line while my spy was watching (to see if he looked at the phone ringing and ignored my call), but he picked up (good boy.) It was now 8:00 and I tried to sound nonchalant and said “So, what’s up for tonight…” in as much of a laid-back tone as I could possibly muster considering the cicumstances (even though I was actually boiling under the surface trying to maintain my composure) and he responded by saying the absolute unthinkable. He canceled on me.

He said he was too tired to go out, but we would do it another time. I told him that I am leaving for Europe in four days and he suggested getting together when I got back. I said “whatever” and hung up. Not cool – I know….on either of our sides. Spy….still on the other line hung out long enough to see him gather his things and wander out of the park alone – away from the direction of my apartment. She offered to tail him for as long as her Chihuahua could hold out, but he really wasn’t worth the effort.

An hour later – he called! He was sitting in Café Reggio by himself and wanted to know if I still wanted to have a date tonight before he headed home to Harlem. He felt bad and couldn’t go through with canceling. I picked my discarded, casually cute, outfit up off the floor and rushed out to do what…..I wasn’t sure? Either save my pride or crush it completely.

The date was awkward, we had a coffee with rum and watched homeless people and rambunctious NYU kids ramble past our sidewalk table. The bill came and my dancer started pulling crumpled dollar bills out of his pocket and straightened them on the table, one by one. The sight was too much to bear – and I paid the bill with very little resistance on his side. I couldn’t let our two drinks wipe out half of what he had made that day…and he did seem relieved. However, at that moment I felt an odd role reversal for the first time that I didn’t quite like. At least my trip to Europe was right around the corner…and even a five year old French boy would know better than to let a girl pay a bill! From what I remember, at least. Oh tell me the old country hasn’t changed!

Kibbles and Bits

Just as I was filling in the details on how I wanted my bohemian romance to play out in my mind - the street performer actually called. It could have all been so exciting - except for one thing..he called from a cell phone - actually worse, a cell phone with a "310" area code. I thought he was destitute...and from New Orleans? I guess the non-animated, non-canine version of "Lady and the Tramp" won't be happening....spaghetti kissing scene and all. It appears what I might have on my hands here is an out-of-work actor from L.A. doing a stint as a twinkle toed gypsy man for the Summer...giving himself a break from the usual ho-hum of his normal life of waiting tables and rushing to casting calls in a smelly, old Dodge Pinto that reeks of jockstraps. Ugh - his sex appeal is wearing off by the minute...yet - needless to say....he did ask me out after he finishes dancing in the park tomorrow and I, of course, replied "yes." Normally, I might have acted busy and had him work a little harder for it - but who are we kidding here? I am going out with a man whose monthly salary gets paid into a hat instead of into a bank account. At the very least, this should be interesting!

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of Washington Square Park is where my Yorkie, Edith Piaf's, social club is located - otherwise known as the dog run. We spend quite a bit of time there and one might think it could be a good place to meet men - however, this is both true and not true. It is definitely true if you are in the regular dog run...yet due to Ms. Piaf's small stature, we are confined to an eternity in the small dog run - a place for chihuahuas, malteses, dachshunds and the like to run amok with creatures 25-pounds and under. Our run is a perfect square where all the dog parents sit on benches around the periphery watching, cooing, breaking up little tussles, and admiring each other's latest canine accessories from tiny cashmere sweaters to dog bags with crocodile trim. As you can imagine from the description - the average small dog owner is a woman (young or old), a gay man, or some woman's dutiful husband. The idea of actually picking someone up there is a joke akin to that of cruising for men at a baby shower - it just isn't happening!

Today - however...something different happened. It occurred almost like a hit-and-run....it was all so fast that I didn't realize that it had taken place until it was over. I got asked out. In the small dog run.....and not by a women, a gay man, or some other woman's husband! An actual straight, single man...my God - if word got out that this happened - I could be a legend, but I will back up and fill you in on how the unthinkable happened.

So there I am...looking reasonably cute - because I had just intentionally walked past my not-so-private dancer and needing to keep his interest piqued - my skirt was admittedly shorter than usual. I did my wave, smile, dropped a dollar in the hat and sat my wickedly under dressed self down on a bench to do my 30-minute, mother-daughter time, with Edith at her club. Minutes later - in strolls what appears to be yet another West Village gay fashion victim in jeans that were almost painted on, a pink shirt, a white sweater tied around his neck, copious amount of hair gel slicking back his brown hair, and loafers. He sat next to me because I am a bit of a fag hag and I felt he probably sensed it.

We inevitably start talking...he wanted to know if I minded that he smoked. Truthfully, I don't quite appreciate it when people smoke next to me while I am trapped in the run - except for one thing....he sounded exactly like Hugh Grant. Uh-oh.....Hugh - my weak spot. Actually, I'd say "yes" to anything Hugh Grant asked, but this wasn't Hugh Grant, but whatever....you get the picture. A devastatingly cute British accent - it does the trick, every time. So, smoke away, sailor!

Long story short...we ended up talking for an hour and a half (a record for me in Urine Town)...I mistook the fact that he is European for being gay (common mistake, I know)....and he was completely and utterly charming to boot. An MBA student at Columbia - here for another year, the small dog belongs to his ex-girlfriend (I know....I'm seeing the red flag too!), and he asked for my number and wants to take me and my short skirt out! Hmmmm.....one issue though - I made him laugh and he revealed a complete set of classic "British teeth"......yes, the small, dark kind which have never seen braces, a retainer, or even a tooth brush. In fact, one of those pearly browns shot out of his mouth at such a horizontal angle that I could have hung my dog's leash off the end of it if he kept his mouth open long enough.

Maybe I just need to go to dark places with this one....where there is little chance that I can focus on his snaggle tooth and concentrate more on the fact that if I keep my eyes closed - that I am essentially out with Hugh Grant...Hugh Grant - without the looks, fame, or money - but if I have anything....it is certainly an imagination. Thankfully - that has served me well in this town where I can now feel that getting asked out by a man in skin tight jeans and grey teeth is a score.
Sound pathetic? Well, at least it is one step up from a street performer.....and if all goes well a trip to the dentist could always be arranged, right?

Trying to stay positive......two dates lined up for the week - so far, so good!

Sidebar: Hello Dolly

One of my all time favorite pastimes – is not actually dating, but it is the act of getting ready for a date. Sometimes, the part of sprucing ones self up for a big night on the town can be WAY more fun than the night itself.

Indeed - I am that girl who pours over Allure looking for beauty tips; scours the pages of Lucky for the latest and greatest; and the one whose bathroom contains so many products that it is starting to look like an outpost of a high-end pharmacy.

There are currently four levels to my pre-date process – which depend on a few factors: who you are, how much I like you, and where we are going. The levels are as follows:

Level One (basic)…shaving legs, blow drying my own hair, light make up, and wearing whatever is toward the front of my closet

Level Two (above average)…shaving legs, blow drying my own hair, manicure and pedicure, make up; eye brow shaping, and wearing the newest thing I already own

Level Three (prom night)…shaving legs, straightening or curling my hair, manicure and pedicure,make up, eye brow shaping, tan, and buying a new outfit

Level Four (closing the deal)….all of the above, plus a blow out, a bikini wax, and a new outfit expensive enough to have my credit card company call to make sure it wasn’t fraud before they’d approve the purchase on something positively drool worthy

Level One is for casual or daytime dates, lame invitations, and moments when work is too crazy for me to have time to do anything else. Level Two is what I almost always do for most every date. One would get me to Level Three for a black tie event, meeting the parents, big occasions, or an evening where I am just not getting the attention I deserve from my man so I am kicking it up a notch. Level Four is for if your name is Prince Albert, George Clooney, or Hugh Grant and we are going on a date. OK - there are other ways to get me to Level Four outside being one of the aforementioned men....but it certainly isn't a common occurrence.

Ready to Join the Circus

I have been stalking a street performer lately. I know - it sounds crazy....but it is Summer in Manhattan, it is sizzling hot....and so is he! I came across him when I was walking my Yorkie, Edith Piaf - in Washington Square Park. Well, actually I noticed his gorgeous friend first who plays the accordion. Accordion man looks like James Dean with a perpetual scowl and eye contact is completely out of the question - except one time when Edith Piaf almost peed on his stool, but never mind about that.

I have been flirting for weeks with the Rebel without a Clue and getting literally nowhere despite the almost daily dollar bills I toss in the hat of the band he plays with....so I moved on to number two - the swing dancer - in the interest of time and pride. A girl has got to know when to cut her losses in this town.

Lord of the Dance rules his corner of the park with a petite red head as his dance partner.....while the band plays a jumping New Orleans style jazz. I was about 28 dollars in when I scored his digits.....and a date. Let's hope he can find somewhere to take a shower before he takes me out. He lives in a flop house in Harlem; he arrived in NYC a month ago by train jumping from Louisiana; and he called me "ma'am"....divine!

Maybe I should have given him a quarter to ensure a phone call as you know this one doesn't have a cell phone? In any case - when Fred calls, consider Ginger ready!