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.

Doom with a View

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

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

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

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

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

The Young and the Restless

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dancing with Myself

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Kibbles and Bits

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ready to Join the Circus

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

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

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

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