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.

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.

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.

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!

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!

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!