Reality Bites

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeepers Creepers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Matchmaker, Matchmaker Make Me a Match

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

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

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

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

My Little Black Book

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bye Bye Love

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

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

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

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

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

Requiem for a Dream

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not So Crazy in Love

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

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

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

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

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

Lets Hear it for the Boy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Plan C

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

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

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

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

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

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

Doom with a View

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

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

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

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

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

Snaggletacular

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back to the Grind

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

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

French Fairy Tale Romance

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Happy, happier, and happiest all in one bed.

Prelude to a Kiss

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sword-Fishing

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

An American in Paris

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

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

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

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

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

Wedding Bell Hell

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cradle Robbing in Belgium

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Art Basel Debacle

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Young and the Restless

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

London Calling

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dancing with Myself

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

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

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

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

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

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

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