JUNE: The Fadeout

We met at a rooftop party in SoHo during one of the first inclement days of summer. He was tall enough to catch my eye, and young enough that I was sure of my upper hand. We spent the rest of the evening in stereotypical Manhattan behavior- nearly missing each other at each of our following venues.

He unsuccessfully tried to meet me at Provocateur (toughest door in the city), I pity-followed him to Greenhouse, where I walked right in but couldn’t suss him out amongst the sweaty B & T. He valiantly offered to meet me at Rose Bar, but I knew he couldn’t get in and saved him the trouble.

We planned to meet at another rooftop, Highbar, the following week. I accidentally walked right past him. I should’ve left then.

Instead, we spent several weeks together, meeting for dinner and drinks, tanning in Central Park, hitting jazz bars, and lounging around, talking about our lives. After a month of bi-weekly dates, I met him to celebrate my brand new job offer. He toasted me over champagne, and I hinted that the celebration wasn’t over yet.

We tumbled into a cab together after a few too many cucumber martini’s worked their way through my system. (I’m no good at brand-new sex, I always need a pre-coital cocktail to calm my nerves). Once upstairs in his large, modern, FiDi apartment, I stall by taking a call from my best friend, chatting nervously. He finally takes the phone from my hand and puts it down. We begin to kiss and undress…

I wake the next morning to him sitting on the edge of the bed, carefully brushing my hair from my face…such a sweet, unexpected gesture for a budding relationship. I wake slowly and roll over to him. He kisses me hello and tells me to enjoy sleeping in, as he works punishing bankers hours and has to be out by 6 am.

When I rouse myself at 9, I notice that he has quite obviously left his bank statement out on the nightstand with the total number facing up, in big bold letters. Having dated my fair share of bankers, I know this move all too well. Every banker whose house I’ve awoken in has found a way to prominently display his net worth in a completely obvious manner. I call it his “Deal-Sealer”. Men seem to think this is all women need to know.

Of course, the figure doesn’t seal the deal for me, (but it certainly doesn’t hurt).

Over the next few weeks, I notice his work has begun to pick up. Sure, we still see each other, just not with the regularity to which I had become accustomed. He sends me sweet texts daily, so I resolve to be understanding about his work hours. After all, if you want to date a successful man in the city, you have to put up with certain inconveniences.

Then there was the time I went all the way down to his apartment only to find he’d fallen asleep and I was locked out. And the time I gathered my friends to meet him, only to have him be a no-show. And finally, the time I canceled all my Labor Day plans to go to his beach house… but ended up tanning in Central Park, alone, because of a work emergency.

Still, I was somewhat mollified when the beach trip materialized the following weekend. I packed my bikini and Prosecco in the car with him & his friends, and we were off. I was looking forward to his place on the water and a fun night out. When we arrived, I realized I really was dating a 27-year-old boy. The house was obviously a rental and so run down that it felt like a necessity to keep my shoes on at all times, including the shower—especially the shower.

Regardless, I made the best of it, joking with his fratty friends, taking shots of Jager and trying to socialize long enough that it wouldn’t be too awkward when I pulled him into the bedroom. Apparently, I cannot hold my alcohol like a college girl any longer, because I totally blacked out. I woke up next to him in the morning and confessed that I didn’t remember a single detail of the night before. I apologized for what I was sure was my bad behavior but he insisted I had done nothing untoward. Still, it was disconcerting that I didn’t remember we’d had sex four times (according to him).

We spent the afternoon on the beach, throwing the football around with his friends and splashing in the water. He brought Thoreau to the beach and we engaged in a spirited political discussion. I started to think that perhaps there was more to him than I thought. Maybe, he could be great boyfriend material.

He walked me to the train, holding my hand the whole way. He handed me the ticket, tilted my face to his, and held it in his hands. He kissed me deeply and said, “Don’t worry, we have the whole summer”.

I flinched.
I knew immediately that it was over.

***

The following Wednesday, I stood in head-to-toe Dolce & Gabbana, waiting for him to pick me up at 10. At 9:30, he texted me saying “It looks like it’s going to be 10:30”.

10:30 came and went.

At 11:30, I took off my makeup and hung my clothes, and crawled into the safety of my covers. He wasn’t going to call. He wasn’t going to come over.

I would never see him again.

***

This, ladies, is the classic New York Fadeout, and there is only one way to survive it. DELETE.

There is no point in playing the what-if game. (What if he lost his phone? What if he was hit by a car? What if he was in a freak accident rendering his thumbs unable to text?)
Let me save you the trouble right now… he’s FINE. Maybe he never really liked you, maybe he just wanted to get laid, maybe he lost interest, maybe he’s afraid because he likes you so much (this one is highly unlikely, but popular amongst the slighted).

The best thing to do is delete him before he can delete you, move on, and vow to never speak of him again.

Welcome to dating in Manhattan

*scorpio*

Wishful Thinking

Last week, we attended New Museum opening of Rivane Neuenschwander's exhibit 'A Day Like Any Other'. After nabbing some complimentary pineapple margaritas, we entered a ribbon-filled room (I Wish Your Wish). Along two walls, colored ribbons were stuffed into small holes, creating a multi-colored waterfall effect. On each ribbon, a wish was typed. Some were daring: I Wish To Find The Strength To Divorce My Husband. Some were fun: I Wish For Sex and Money. Some were trite: I Wish For Peace On Earth, or sweet: I Wish To Marry My Soulmate.

We walked the walls slowly, tilting our heads to search for just the right wish. The instillation encouraged visitors to find a wish that spoke to them and secure that ribbon around their wrist. In return, each visitor was to elaborate on their wish or create a new one on a small slip of paper, and place it in the now-vacant slot.

Of course, we took the instillation very seriously, painstakingly considering each option as if the slip of colored ribbon would determine our fates. At one point, a man started following Aries along the wall, watching her. I stood back and watched. She was crouched on the ground, furtively writing her wish on the small slip of paper (utilizing all possible corners!). He stood over her, asking obvious questions to jump start the conversation. Aries, thinking that he was surely looking at her wish (I told you we took this seriously), tried to dismiss him. He didn't take to her hints, but I knew as soon as she stood up, he would be gone.

She slowly begins to stand-and she keeps standing-far surpassing him in height. I can see his head tilt upwards, almost in disbelief. I look on, enjoying his awkward attempts to truncate the conversation.

With our wishes secured, we had just enough time to zip through the other floors and mingle on the roof before closing.


One week later: My wish is perfectly intact. It's going to be a long time before it comes true.

*scorpio*

Summer Lovin'

Things we are lovin' this summer around the city:

*Serious eye candy jogging along the Westside Highway (annoyingly, this is the ONLY place in NY that we see tall, muscular men)

*Bumble & bumble white hair powder. Restores your ice-white blonde in the days between washings or the weeks between salon appointments.

*Reese's Peanut Butter Cup and Cakebatter fro yo from Phileo Yogurt- 267 Bleeker Street

*Fresh sliced Watermelon and Mango. If it's been a particularly punishing day, just puree, add tequila and ice. Sit on your roof deck, close your eyes and pretend the roar of traffic is the roar of the ocean.

*Mac n' cheese tasting. We are on a search for the best in the city...We're very picky about our Mac. Must be baked, gooey inside with a hard cheddar and breadcrumb shell. So far Lure is in the lead- 142 Mercer Street

*Angel Perfuming Hair Mist. Makes that awful subway-steam smell like Sex on the Beach.

*The Help, by Kathryn Stockett. Riveting novel about race relations among Southern women in the 50's. I read it in 36 hours straight, barely stopping to eat.

*A low-key, moody night out. Rabbit in the Moon. Curl up in the big club chairs and pass judgement (you know you do). Say hi to our old friend, Chris, the doorman. (semi-secret entrance near the flowers) -47 West 8th St

*OPI "We'll Always Have Paris"- the perfect summer plum pedicure for those of you who avoid pale pink like the plague.

*Clubs remixing Toto's "Africa" with old school Snoop Dogg

*aries* & *scorpio*

Save The South

The southern lifestyle as we know it is currently being compromised due to the massive oil spill in the Gulf. I was fortunate to be born and raised in the south. My childhood was filled with long days at the beach, BBQ's, pool parties, boating, banana pudding, all at a gentle pace that allowed you to enjoy the simple things in life. The devastation is growing by the second as toxic oil continues to pollute the once crystal blue waters, wetlands, and beaches. We look at the pictures from a distance, but only those who have lived the southern lifestyle truly grasp how heartbreaking this is for millions of Americans. There are ways in which we can help. For instance, I have adopted Brown Pelicans as gifts for friends and family members. If you choose to educate yourself and become aware of the issues at hand, the passion to help will grow as it has started to around the world. I have included some links below where you can make a difference:

http://na.oceana.org/
http://www.crcl.org/
http://www.tristatebird.org/dwh/help
http://www.deepwaterhorizonresponse.com/go/site/2931/
http://www.nwf.org/Oil-Spill/On-The-Ground.aspx
http://www.nature.org/multimedia/features/art31637.html
http://saveourgulf.org/
http://www.ecwildliferefuge.com/

*aries*

Reality TV vs. Reality

I have dated at least 4 if not more Reality TV veterans whose true character was only revealed once the cameras stopped rolling. Below are the four worst offenders.

1. Millionaire Matchmaker (Bravo)
I actually met this man at an event in Los Angeles when he was normal, a.k.a. before he embarrassed himself and possibly anyone who ever knew him on national television. He was respectful, intelligent, tall, dark, and handsome. A few dates later he offered me a plane ticket to come to visit him, however I declined to move out of the LA LA Land and back to New York City. He contacted me in the city and after a few flirtatious phone calls and one face-to-face rendevous. I was being offered another plane ticket, only this time it was only on Southwest?? I would have had to take a train over 2 hours towards the Hamptons to fly on the preferred airline of cheap assholes. I told him “No”. Then he countered the offer with any airport in New York City as long as I researched a cheap ticket?!?! I really had to laugh at this point and told him I would get back to him. The next thing I remember, I was walking to brunch on the Lower East Side when I get a call from my stepmother telling me to sit down. Apparently, my new love affair would be cut short as Romeo had proposed to his first date on a classy show called the Millionaire Matchmaker. Our brief rendezvous at the W hotel was not a Real Estate conference, but a live taping of him and his fiancé promoting the network on a morning show. I told him to never call me again as I would never be interested in a man of his character, or lack there of. (Shockingly enough, he went on the second season!)

2. The Bachelor (ABC)
I met him at a wedding, which you would think would be innocent enough. A few dates and romantic sleepovers quickly turned into solo bubble baths in his grandmother's luxury 5th Avenue apartment, terrible 80's porn, and awkward behavior that could be a link to his coming out of the closet moment. This bachelor was clearly not a prince, he just played one on TV.

3.The Fifth Wheel (MTV)
I thought I had it made with his blueberry pancake and goat cheese omelet breakfasts after nights of amazing sex until I realized he screamed like a girl at the sight of bugs and winced in fear at incredibly unrealistic reenactments of Shark Week on the Discovery Channel.

4. Queer Eye for the Straight Guy (Bravo)
The Queers on Queer Eye failed to teach the 35-year-old DJ how to behave like an adult. My New Years Eve was full of promise with dinner at The Waverly Inn with his actress friend and her entourage ready to party from Los Angeles. Instead the night became tainted with his constant crude penis jokes, including actual thrusting movements with a Grey Goose bottle at Bungalow 8. I took a gypsy limo home, sitting in the back with a Lasa apsa wearing a bow tie. I could have been driven by Michael Jackson and not even noticed after the night of horrors I just endured.

The lesson here is that all these guys have strange personality glitches that drive them to find fame on reality TV. Look at Jake Pavelka and every other douche looking for their 15 minutes even at the expense of their morals and dignity. My advice is: RUN away as fast as you can!!

*aries*