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?