Girls and their Pearls

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gold Digging 101

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

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

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

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

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

Caught in Traffick

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ebony & Ivory

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



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




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




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

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




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

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


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

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

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

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

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

The Manhattan Transfer

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Safety in Numbers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Muppet Show

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Reality Bites

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jeepers Creepers

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Matchmaker, Matchmaker Make Me a Match

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

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

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

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

My Little Black Book

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bye Bye Love

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

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

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

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

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

Requiem for a Dream

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not So Crazy in Love

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

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

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

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

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

Lets Hear it for the Boy

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Plan C

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

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

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

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

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

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

Doom with a View

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

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

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

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

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

Snaggletacular

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

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

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

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

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

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

Back to the Grind

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

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