The City Bar

I recently ended things with someone I had been dating since August. I'm sorry you weren't privy to that but I think it may have contributed to the success of the relationship. No offense, but this blog has a tendency to validate my neuroses. When it wasn't humored, it didn't have the attention it needed to flourish. However, things went to hell in a hand basket anyway. I was breaking up with him every week so I'm not sure why I was so torn up when we put the final nail in the coffin. He was a good egg, though. (I'm not absolutely certain what that saying means but it felt right.)

The last conversation we had was very painful as those dreaded discussions often are. My roommate used to grumble that my now ex and I were like "two girls in a relationship" because we were equally melodramatic. But I digress. I returned to my desk at work to see that while I was ending this relationship another guy I dated back in March had IMed asking me to dinner tonight. What luck! I mean it was as if the universe was showing me that where one door closes, another one opens. Granted, this guy was a creep and didn't deserve my company but it was flattering nonetheless and might take my mind off what's-his-name.

But the schmuck never followed through even though our last exchange was:
ME: Don't bail, I'm not in a good place right now.
HIM: I'm sorry you're not in a happy place but we'll see if I can't make you smile tomorrow.

Honestly, I wasn't really fazed by it and my friend, a law professor, had invited me out. He, too, had sent me an IM asking me to swing by the city bar where he would be meeting with some lawyers. Lawyers, he said, who would all be good contacts for promoting my new documentary.

After work, a coworker said she was going shopping at the Christmas shops at Bryant Park. "That's where I'm meeting my friend and some of his lawyer buddies, why don't you come with me?" Jessica, who is also attempting to play the field was game. We walked to 44th Street between 5th and 6th Avenues and upon arrival, started surveying the block for the aforementioned venue. We stopped and asked a hotel doorman if he knew where the "city bar" was. No, he said squinting as he searched his memory for any evidence of its existence. Then I googled it. Nothing. Jessica called 411- nada. I left my friend an agitated message: "We're on 44th between 5th and 6th and there is no City Bar. We've asked people, googled and even called 411. I'm not sure where this is but it's not here," I said as I hung up the phone. Then I decided to check my gmail chat to make sure I hadn't missed anything:
"I am going to be speaking to a group of lawyers at the city bar tonight. It's on 44th between 5th and 6th Avenues." Oh my. I looked at Jessica and then looked up at a conspicuous, giant blue flag waving above us.

"He's speaking to the city bar," I said conclusively. Jessica had yet to arrive at the same conclusion. "I know! Where is it?" she said, looking around. "He's speaking TO the city bar," I said looking up at the flag for the NEW YORK CITY BAR. What had finally dawned on me was that the watering hole I was searching for was in fact the bar association of New York City whose headquarters dominate the block we were standing in. I shuddered as I recalled the ignoramous voicemail my friend would surely hear and laugh. And that he did, rather loudly, over a beer later that evening.

Back in the Saddle!

The number of celeb sightings in my building coupled with my workflow coming to an abrupt halt is responsible for this blog entry. I won't bore you with the reasons why I haven't been blogging regularly but rather simply pick up where I left off. OK, it's been established that I become socially retarded when I spot someone famous. It doesn't matter if their A-list or D-list, yours truly has a tendency to embarass herself or worse, whoever has the misfortune to be with me at the time. I'm proud to tell you that the longer I live in New York, the more this touristy behavior diminishes.

This week, for instance, I've had a number of stars cross my path in my gym. I live in a Trump building so it's no surprise that celebrities live here but some of them I've never seen. Since I fired my therapist I've been seeing my personal trainer more often. I figured I might as well get toned physically while I continue to deteriorate mentally. I see Montel Williams in the gym all the time and quite frankly, it doesn't faze me because he's a pompous ass. I feel like telling him that his show sucks and his wife is a butter face but whatever.

So...no work really until January and this just happens to occur after the completion of my documentary. So I went from juggling a momentous project with client obligations to watching daytime TV. Why must my life function in extremes? Anyhoo, were it not for my unemployment, ahem, daytime availability, I wouldn't have this antecdotal evidence of my improved behavior.

Tuesday, I was working out with Joe, my trainer, at the same time as Bryant Gumbel and his wife. I was nonplussed. Then today, we were working out and a cute little woman walked in. Literally, little. She was about three and a half feet tall and pretty old. Joe gave her some lip about getting her butt in the gym more often. Joe knows everyone who works out as most of his clients live in my building. "You know I only come in on Thursdays," she retorted good-naturedly in a high-pitched voice. "Oh my gosh, how cute is that little old woman?" I said when she had left. "Two more," Joe said pushing the weight to make it heavier. "She's a munchkin," he said when I was done. I told him that wasn't very nice. "No, she's really a munchkin! She was one of the munchkins in The Wizard of Oz," he insisted and then to my horror he began marching in place and singing, "We represent the Lollipop Guild, The Lollipop Guild.." Stop that! I said knocking his marching fist down. "She can see you!" I hissed indicating the mirrored wall he was facing. "Really?" Joe said sarcastically. "She can barely see over her stairmaster." He was right. Her arms were fully extended as she peered up at the monitor and marched in place just like Joe had been doing moments before.

Five minutes later, a woman walks in who looks familiar. "Hello, Joe," she purrs. Jessica Rabbit! I'd know that voice anywhere! It was Kathleen Turner. "She has not aged well," I whisper to Joe as she mounts the stationary bike. Joe tells me she's sick and her medication makes her bloated. Then I felt as tall as the munchkin.

Whine Country

Portland, Oregon has a secret. Tucked away in this part of the Pacific Northwest are valleys and plateaus that are the granola version of wine country. But pinot noirs, aside, I've found the rain-drenched city of proud non-conformists to be the perfect backdrop for the general malaise that's overtaken my own spirits these days.

I'm so broken up about being away from my beloved New York during one of my favorite months of the year- due to both weather and the proximity to my birthday- that my crew in Portland has accused me of being the Queen of my own "Whine" Country.

What I find particularly perturbing during my sentence- ahem, assignment- in Portland is the repeated claims by everyone I complain to that they love this part of the country. The lush trees, lakes, gorges, waterfalls and mountains that make up the landscape of God's Country is something I have yet to appreciate because work and weather hasn't exactly paved the way. I thought fellow East Coasters would get it. They don't. My gmail chat says "In Portland" to which I have received a slew of responses like, "Portland Rocks!" and "I love that part of the country!" WHAT?! WHY?

In its defense, let me illuminate the circumstances that brought me here and which surround me. I'm working on a federal initiative. That's all I can say other than it's supposed to make our country safer. OK, that's really all I can say. I'm staying at a major hotel at THE AIRPORT. Did I mention I'm here for three freaking weeks? And the airport, as it is in many other large cities, is far removed from the hustle bustle of the city. But that hustle is confined to coffee runs. And the only bustle I've seen is a barista bristling when my friend, a native New Yorker, attempted to order a decaf latte. You're a coffee shop- decaf isn't a tall- or vente- order. Oh, and I don't have a rental car. Actually, I have one starting tonight but that's after a week of "carpooling"- a term that I've come to equate with piling into the subway during rush hour. So I've been forced to essentially bum rides and rely on a lot of room service for dinner. At one point, I started getting creative with the room service menu but were I to elaborate, you'd get bored. And then you would feel like this city makes me feel. BORED.

Last weekend, when another reporter said he was driving home to Seattle, I leaped at the chance to get out of Dodge. Big mistake. HUGE. (yes, I loved Pretty Woman, too) It rained nonstop. I know it's Seattle! But even by local standards it was a bit much and extraordinary. I got to see glimpses between the showers and clouds but neither myself nor my lovely host were particularly inspired or motivated to site see. He's lived there for 15 years. Schlepping around Seattle with Thermos (his real nickname) is like walking into Cheers with Norm. Everywhere we went he knew someone. We'd be walking into a coffee shop (what else) and someone would stop dead in their tracks and stare. "What's up, man?!" and a stream of updates would ensue while I smiled and pretended the weather hadn't soured my already surly disposition.

But I will say I had some of the best Oaxacan food of my life. Granted, it was the only food from Oaxaca I've ever had but that's not the point. That was in Ballard- I think. So if you're ever in Seattle and you end up in that hood, brave the wait because it's worth it. Look at me. I'm actually ending on a positive note.

Question

How many times can you be stood up in one weekend? Oh, I don't know. I guess it really depends on how the stars align, the personality types of the people in your life, the way-- FOUR! Four times I was dissed this weekend!

Shall we? First on deck was the perfect on paper guy I've made an online connection with but whom I have yet to meet face to face. (We'll call him POP- don't make me spell it out.) This is maddening in its own rite but for now we'll focus on all the bad karma I cashed in this weekend.

He's busy. I get it. He's important. I can tell. So when another week passes and our schedules don't jive, I'm told to wait until the weekend. But as the weekend gets closer, I'm informed that there's a chance he may have to go to Europe last minute for a client. I keep my weekend plans and watch in mild awe as everything goes to hell in a hand basket. He hasn't called and it's beginning to dawn on me that pop is too busy to update me on his travel plans.

Saturday morning, I text my girlfriend who works overnights to call me when she wakes up. There's a reggae fest in Brooklyn and we're supposed to go. Late afternoon she tells me she's at the reggae fest. Strike one.

So I spend the day going back and forth to JFK. This is my new past time on the weekends. Oh, it's so underrated, the A train to the Airtrain, so lovely this time of year. Every time one of my relatives has an extended layover, I'm expected to keep them company in the international terminal. Two things: my relatives travel often and JFK has the most uncomfortable transit lounge in the country.

Saturday's a bust except for my friend who's in as much as a funk and we commiserate on her rooftop with the help of some choice organic materials that take the edge off.
Sunday I have to schlep to Queens to interview an exiled Pakistani journalist. My AP and I make the trek from Manhattan only to find out that he's not home. Repeated attempts to reach his cell are thwarted by his wife who's hard of hearing and projecting her impairment as she screams into the phone, "What?! WHO?!" Strike two.

And Pop sends an evasive email regarding his disappearing act which raises more questions than it answers. In more ways than one, that is strike three.
But all is not lost as a girlfriend has made dinner plans with me. I send her a text at 6:30 and receive a response about two hours later that she forgot/already ate/didn't hear from me... at this point, does the reason really matter? It's painfully obvious that the Gods of Follow Through were angry with me this weekend and I was reminded that more often than not "tentative" really means flaky.

Dead End -ands

You know what dead end "ands" are? One night stands- those are usually headed no where fast, hence the name. And then there are one man bands. This is the TV term for reporters who shoot and report their own stories without the advantage of a professional photographer- or videographer as people outside of the TV business are quick to point out. We call them photogs even though they shoot video.

Anyhoo, I spent much of my so-called vacation in the homeland working. Every day I was off to get interviews and footage for a documentary I'm producing on my own. A lofty task but even more ambitious when you decide that you're going to shoot everything on your own. Usually, I shell out for a local crew but this time I opted to go the more expensive route of purchasing my own camera and equipment so I could pose as a tourist as I covered a controversial story on media censorship.

I've been back for about three weeks and even though I was pitching the documentary, I wasn't making any headway in terms of the creative process. A part of me wondered why I was reluctant to start logging the video and transcribing the interviews. Now I know why. I'm not a cameraman! There's a time/date stamp on half my footage which would be great if it were the correct time and date. It's off by 12 hours- at least. But even worse than that is the journalist who gave an incredible interview only to have it taped over by yours truly. When I ejected the tape and realized the irreversible error, I wanted to throw myself into oncoming traffic. In the homeland, that's almost certain and instant death. If only...

I'm probably being too harsh but I really sense that I've gone out on a limb and there's some apprehension about whether it will all pay off. If it does, more people will be aware of the challenges faced by reporters in an emerging democracy. If not, well, if not, then this blog entry about one man bands being a dead end will have been accurate. And you thought I didn't know how to look for the silver lining?

Gut Check

Stop me if you've heard this one: it's raining freaking sideways. WTF? We went from a gorgeous weekend with low humidity to relentless rainfall and 60 degrees. I'm trying to make the best of it, namely by scouring opentable.com for several meals this week. It's restaurant week when fine dining establishments scale down their menus and offer it to the proletariat class at prix fixe, that's French for, "Now you can eat here."

So tonight I'm having dinner at China Grill, then lunch at a Daniel Boulad restaurant tomorrow and at least two more meals will be at participating pretentious places if I have anything to say about it. All this fine dining is hardly the path to leaner pastures. I've gained back all the weight I lost after my trip to the homeland. It was so nice to not have to suck in my gut and imagine what a flatter stomach looked like. Now it's back as an ugly reminder of what happens when I give in to carb cravings.

It's Been A While...

Since I've blogged. It's something I was inspired to do sometimes a few times a day. But in the last couple of months, it's lost its appeal. And, quite frankly, I wondered if I had anything worthwhile to add to the blogosphere.

But to update you, things are pretty much status quo. No fame, no man and consequently, no mayhem to speak of. I went back to the homeland which is partly to blame for my hiatus. Electricity would go out without warning often when I was in mid-email. Composing. That was kind of irritating and the idea of perpetuating my annoyance by losing blog entries wasn't helping my reluctance to put pen to typepad.

I bought my cousin a Gucci wallet for his high school graduation gift... from Chinatown. Of course it wasn't real! But he's 17 and I figured, what the hell. But I wasn't expecting the reaction I got. Bless his still-in-the-closet gay heart if he didn't literally jump for joy and start running around the house with fake Gucci in hand exclaiming, "It's real! It's a real Gucci!" I of course was mortified. I mean I guess I should have figured as much but it made me feel guilty to be a fake gift-giver. Then, to my horror, the wallet started to fall apart during my visit. Morose and stricken at the sight of his beautiful bounty going bad, my cousin came into the bedroom as I was attempting to recuperate in the AC from the stifling heat I had endured by just walking downstairs. He sat down on the bed next to me and put his head on my shoulder. "I don't know what I did but the leather is coming apart," he said, sighing. Again, me: mortified. So I did what any honest person with an ounce of integrity would do, I feigned indignance.

"Let me see that! I can't believe they have the nerve to sell such an expensive wallet with such shoddy craftsmanship!" I went on for a few minutes expressing outrage at my extravagant purchase falling apart. But before you judge me, let me add that I brought the wallet home to "exchange" it on his behalf. And I intend on replacing it with an authentic wallet. It's called paying the stupid tax and I do it often.

The Absent Blogger

There have been some questions regarding my sudden hiatus from blogging. My trip back to Texas last week gave me an abundance of material. In fact, I wrote an entry about a heated exchange with my dad regarding his self-aggrandizing political fundraising. But I find that in light of everything that's happened since I started this public journey towards self-awareness or self-flagellation (you pick), I'm beginning to do something I promised I wouldn't: self-censor. I think we all know why and if you've forgotten, you can mine the previous entries for the answer. Don't get me wrong, I still enjoy the writing and the creativity it nurtures but I'm weary of having some of my more revealing musings enter the immortal webosphere. Hence the absence.

Here's the other thing. I'm tired. Exhausted, really. After everything I've seen and done and left undone or overdone, I'm fucking wiped out. I'm still angry and not really that much closer to reaching that elusive nirvana that every self help guru calls the prerequisite to happiness: self love. But my therapist says there's progress to be applauded. Namely, my instincts for self-preservation that I found conspicuously absent. Maddeningly lacking, to be honest. I mean how many times do you have to get punched in the face by the same people before you realize you shouldn't be handing them brass knuckles and leaning towards them awaiting the next blow? These newfound instincts manifested themselves just last week.

My day had started with an intense workout with my personal trainer at 6:45am. After work, I hit the AllState (an underground watering hole frequented by longtime Upper West Siders for no frills burgers and beer). By the time I got home and got off a late night conference call, it was 10pm. Boston was in town, the filmmaker who had dissed me last December after my successful sabotage of our budding romance. He had wanted to get together but our schedules weren't aligning. I was surprised to get a text saying: "headed uptown now." Where, I asked. As it turns out, to my apartment. My roommate had registered outrage when I told her he may come by. "Do you not ever, ever, ever EVER learn?!" she screamed to both my surprise and her friend Kelly's. I reasoned that we were just friends and if anything more transpired, I was due for some loving so she should shut her trap.

So when Boston arrived and we sat talking in my living room, I wasn't completely shocked when he made his move. We had been catching up while he downed some Yellow Tail wine, he had been over for about an hour, maybe longer. He pounced on the opportunity, so to speak, and at first, I was game. But then it occurred to me that I wasn't on the same page namely because I simply couldn't stop thinking. "Stop thinking," he said sensing my reluctance. I can't I replied. He stopped. "There's something in me that just shuts down," I attempted to explain. After all, this was a foreign concept to me as well. I had never been one to think before I acted especially when it came to matters of the heart. He was surprised. "But we've been through so much," he said in an effort to bring me back to the same page he was on. But no. I said no and I meant it. I just didn't see the point in investing any more energy or emotion, no matter how fleeting, in someone or something that had proven fruitless. I also wasn't inclined to go along for the ride (no pun intended) just because it was easier. I wasn't and I didn't. And it was this revelation that almost knocked my therapist out of her chair. She was simultaneously proud and shocked. This new regard for myself, I think I'll call it my own personal campaign of shock and awe. Even if the only one who registers those two reactions to this new concept of self-preservation is yours truly.

Jetsetter

In the last 48 hours I've been in three cities, three timezones and two continents. Were it not for the fact that the airlines treated me like the other cattle in the herd, I would indeed be the quintessential jetsetter.

From my miserable trip to London back to New York yesterday afternoon and then Houston tonight, I seriously questioned why I'm drawn like a moth to a flame to the idea of travel when I'm repeatedly disrespected, denied and demoralized by airport personnel. Surprisingly, London had the nicest airport employees. This anomaly was eclipsed by the two hour, inexcusable line through immigration at Gatwick. I wouldn't have been so stressed if fun Bobby hadn't been waiting impatiently outside. But there he was in his PF Flyers and leather jacket as I merged through the gates of hell.

It took us two hours to get from the airport to Mayfair where my roommate's hotel, expensed to her hedge fund, was. On the way, I got a lecture on how I needed to embark on a 12 step program of my own. Not because I was an alcoholic like fun Bobby but because I lacked the fortitude and insight to carve out a happy life for myself. "The hardest thing you have to learn is that it's absolutely none of your business what other people think of you," he said. But that's the only thing about other people that IS my business! Tsk, tsk, he clicked his tongue in dismay at how far I needed to go before reaching the nirvana he had embraced. Whatever. This from the man who should have his picture next to the word selfish in the dictionary. Still, I had high hopes for this reunion despite every signal that history would repeat itself.

But a series of emails preceding my visit had convinced me that maybe this time would be different. I realize that repeating the same behavior in the hopes of a different outcome is the definition of insanity but I've never pretended to strive for sanity, just love or something resembling a comfort zone that lulls you into thinking it's OK to settle. Anyhoo, he kept insisting that I have brunch with him on Sunday. Every email: I'll pick you up from the airport on Saturday morning and we'll have a lovely lunch on Sunday. Every single one. So I was locked in to these plans. But when he insisted I give him the shoes I had bought from New York because everything is cheaper here than the UK, I was skeptical. He was a bit evasive but I didn't think anything of it. Maybe he's just playing it cool and really wants his shoes. When Sunday rolled around, I got a text message saying he had a bunch of errands including a meeting with his sponsor for another "moral inventory" that he had been putting off and didn't appear to have time. I was too sleepy to care at first until my roommate pointed out how shitty this was. She had a family engagement she couldn't miss and both of us thought I'd be hanging with him. So I spent the day in Harrod's by myself. Just like I had the last trip to London when he was in the throes of a terrible and sudden bout of depression. When my roommate met me in the Louis Vuitton section of the store that afternoon, my eyes brimmed with tears.

There's nothing worse than the moment you realize that you've allowed yourself to hope in vain for something as ill-fated as my romance with fun Bobby. And nobody who's been privy to this roller coaster of a relationship gets it. But now I've seen him in every climate: drunk, recovering, depressed, sober, and what I thought was at last sober/normal. But what I finally get is normal is selfish for some people. Or maybe he's the king of self-sabotage. Who knows? What I know for sure is that nothing good can come from this union, our countless second chances have proven that once and for all.

Emotional Rollercoaster

I'm on it. It's brutal and relentless. Relentless in its brutality to be more precise. This has got to be the longest bout of PMS I've ever had. My ex-boyfriend who I'll see in London this weekend has been privy to the emotional outbursts and both of us have been praying for its end. Not since a pregnancy scare in college have I been more obsessed with starting. For the boy readers, I'm sorry for the TMI but keep reading and soon you'll be reveling in my misery. Or not. SEE IF I FUCKING CARE YOU INSENSITIVE PRICKS! OK, see what I mean? My ex does. In an email yesterday he likened the wait to "watching for smoke at the Vatican." Seriously.

For those of you blessed with the disposition or chemical make-up that insulates you from this nightmare, let me spell it out for you. IT SUCKS. I am nothing short of a complete basket case. Last week, I broke down in tears to Vani when she called before drinks in the West Village. "I shouldn't be getting ready to go out," I wailed, "I should be tucking my kids in!" The sweater that represents my emotional equilibrium has been slowly unravelling since then.

More than ever, perception is reality, and I have no perspective right now. Before my roommate left for London I yelled at her for fast forwarding the DVR too much. "It's a commercial," she reasoned. "I LIKE that fucking commercial!" Needless to say, she couldn't wait to get on the plane. Last night, I wept, WEPT as I watched one reality show after another. First as Jordin sang "This is my Now" which I rewound so I could cry again- all aboard the crazy train! Then, I bawled when I watched the Dancing With Stars finale as they replayed the waltz Laila Ali dedicated to her father. OK, those are arguably sentimental examples but here's one that's not: The Lot. It's the new reality show were budding filmmakers get their shot at a job at DreamWorks. This was the pilot episode. When a young Muslim filmmaker choked during his first pitch to Hollywood elite and cried, so did yours truly.

Are you bored? Tough shit, there's more. Tonight at dinner, I got choked up again as I told my friend who is NOT a fan of American Idol about Jordin's song. To make matters worse, I've got a looming deadline to judge I don't know how many fucking entries for the New York Press Club awards. And one of the categories I'm judging are the News Specials. I wailed, no I'm not exaggerating, as I watched a story about Christmas in Iraq and another entry on The Spirit of New York. The former is self-explanatory- soldiers away from families. The latter was a series of reports about the five year anniversary of 9/11. Children who lost fathers and parents who lost children triggered a deluge of tears. I'm exhausted. I'm an emotionally drained histrionic woman who needs a straight jacket or that new pill the FDA just approved. Or maybe I'll just let the Methodists kill me (reference to pic Sanky sent).I'm going to cry myself to sleep now for no particular reason.

Speechless

I don't have time. No time to pee, no time for lunch. Plus, I have the tell tale signs of a horrid sinus infection because I've allowed my allergies to wreak havoc. But I have to make a record of this.

Have you ever gotten so mad that the ability to articulate obscenities eludes you? My friend Kelley once called someone a "shit ball" which amused me to no end. But I think that was just topped by my boss who was so consumed with hatred for a PR manager, that her face contorted in hate as she attempted to express herself. After sending a giant attachment of pointless "message points" and having us embark on a script outline, she sent us everything we needed in one succinct document. She called me into her office. "This, this FUCK BITCH just sent what you needed!" I'm still laughing.

Pretty Feet

I used to think this was an oxymoron. Feet to me are usually unattractive. The expression, "My dogs are barking" in reference to aching feet makes complete sense to me. But what prompted this post was my friend's comment on the last one that I had nice legs but my feet were a different story.

Growing up, my older brother was so repulsed by the site of my feet that he would throw something over them if I dared prop them on the coffee table. Or worse, he would pretend to gag if he sat down next to me with a bowl of cereal and happened to glance down. Yep, my older brother was a gem. He could have effortlessly authored a book on cruelty to sisters. I find it fitting that his wife grows her toenails as long as her fingernails and files them to a point. And they bear a striking resemblance to mine. Poetic justice.

All of this had the same effect on me as the chicken leg comments. I didn't wear flip-flops or open toe shoes until after college. My toes didn't see the light of day until they made their debut on New Year's Eve, got stepped on and eventually became part of a bimonthly ritual of being buffed and polished by small Asian women. Ever since I've recovered from the cruel judgments about my peds, I've gotten nothing but random compliments about them. "You have pretty feet," friends will note while shoe-shopping. Who'da thunk it? But in the interest of fairness, I'll put those harbingers of pedestrian confidence on display for you to judge. I'm gonna ask you to refrain from telling me what you think.

It was a good lunch day

My friend Nicole sent me this Ecard on the left. The entire collection of cards they have are hilarious in a Pulp Fictionesque/disturbing kind of way. I was going to withhold the site name but you guys are smart cookies so I'll save you the trouble. See them here. Guess who I want to send the one below to?
And BINGO was his name-o! I'm happy to report that I had a very satisfying lunch today. And from the most unlikeliest of places- McDonald's. I got their new southwest chicken salad. It's actually some of the best tex-mex food I've had in New York, a sad testament to Mexican cuisine in a city known for its culinary feats of grandeur.

I'm wearing a dress today. While that may not sound like a big deal, it is. I haven't worn a dress to work since 1999, at least. I've mentioned before that my skinny legs are the reason why. I remember one of my male coworkers asking me what I did with the rest of the chicken back in 1998. Just after college, as I was graduating from a voice-training class, our sadistic teacher had the bright idea to have us admit our first impressions of other classmates. I know, recipe for disaster. I'll never forget the big-boned black chic who looked at me with disdain and said, "You were wearing shorts and I couldn't figure out why someone with such skinny legs would choose to show them off." Because it was hot, bitch! Anyway, this was enough to give me significant pause (uh, almost a decade's worth) before I donned a dress to work again.

But last week, I couldn't resist a Diane Von Furstenberg silk shirt dress I scored for half price at Barney's. It fit me perfectly. This morning my trainer, a former minor league baseball player who looks and sounds like Michael Rappaport, told me I was crazy when I told him I don't wear dresses and why. "I would never think that if I saw your legs. Now if you had cankles, my heart would go out to you." He's a nice guy unlike many of his cohorts from Bensonhurst. It makes me feel feminine and men are noticing me more than they usually do. But that may be because I forgot to wear a slip.

Whatewer

I wonder what compels someone to lash out at a rejection on a dating website. It's happened to me on occasion. It happened today. This guy from Eugene, Oregon contacted me but his email was full of syntax and spelling errors. And the fact that most of his nouns were devoid of articles preceding them, led me to suspect that he spoke with the same thick accent I make fun of my dad for having. I usually don't do this in my dad's presence. If only out of respect...for my life.

So this guy wanted to talk on the phone right off the bat which is a bit presumptuous to say the least. Whenever I'm contacted by someone who either repulses me or simply doesn't pique my interest, I just don't respond. I think this is more humane than saying you're not interested but apparently not. He sent me another email saying, "I hope you'll write something back." Take a hint, dude. He sent that message twice so I finally hit reply and said: "I'm not interested. Thanks." Maybe I could have given a lengthier explanation but I didn't know this guy from Adam. What I did know was that I wasn't interested, why write more?

In record time, I got a reply that's forwarded to my personal email through a dummy address. In an effort to convince me of the error of my ways, here's what Casanova wrote back: "Go to Hell then." I mean really. What did I do to deserve that? According to my editor Joe, the equivalent of kicking a guy in the nuts. Interesting. Now that I know this, I wish I could resend my message. Again and again... and once more for good measure.

Vagabond Parents

My parents moved. Again. This may sound like a relatively normal occurrence until you consider it's their fourth or fifth move in as many years. Perhaps you're thinking they're diplomats. Nope. Members of the military? Not. Let's cut to the chase. My dad is a builder. He builds homes and whenever a new house goes up that he likes better, he decides it's time to move. I can't tell you how maddening this is.

Did I mention the houses are usually on the same street? There's a row of them that overlook a golf course. They have literally lived on every house on the row. All the moves have been haphazard with my dad recruiting the help of migrant workers to throw their things into garbage bags and move them to the next abode. And this is just bizarre given the caliber of their belongings and that their moving into McMansions.

A couple of months ago my little sister called me in tears. "They're like teenagers!" she said. I put the TV on mute. Who? "They moved again and this time into a condo downtown!" she wailed. I was just home and no one had mentioned a move but since when did that matter? "Why do you care? You don't live there," I said. My sister explained that all of her things were in the house while she was on the West Coast studying for the bar. The irony here was that you'd be hard-pressed to find a bigger slob than my little sister who kept most of her clothes on the floor and used her sense of smell to detect if they were clean. But in this case she was rightfully concerned about whether and in what condition she would find her belongings. I called my mom.

"What's going on?" I asked my mom. "Oh your father, he's crazy," she said. This was neither news to me nor helpful in assessing this latest uprooting. She said that he got an offer he couldn't refuse on the house and the buyers wanted to move in asap. I asked her if it was true that things were being moved in garbage bags to an as yet undisclosed location. She confirmed this with an exasperated sigh. I asked if I should come home and help. "You'll just get mad," she accurately prophesied. Then I asked where they were going and her mood brightened.

"We're moving into a condo like yours," she said. OK, this is a gross exageration. I live in a full-service Trump building overlooking the river. My dad had purchased two condos in a building with wood panelling that overlooked a mall. Big difference. But because both buildings had elevators and restricted access, my parents equated them. This, however, is more endearing than egregious in my book.

Fast forward to this week when I call my mom and she tells me they're moving again. Where to this time? Back to the same street they lived on before. "One of the tenants of the houses moved out so we're going back to the old neighborhood." If I haven't mentioned this before, I'll say it now. My mother is the epitome of eternal optimism. The Bush Administration should hire her as a spin doctor. No matter how bleak the situation, she'll spin it so the person is momentarily blinded by the silver lining on the big, ugly, dark cloud. When she was visiting during the blackout of 2003 and the sweltering heat threatened to suffocate us in our sleep then continued into the next afternoon, she excitedly suggested we board the bus. "We can see the city and it's air conditioned!" she exclaimed. After going up and down the stretch of Manhattan I cursed the mayor for taking so long to get power to the lower east side and my mom met my frustration with, "We're a part of history." I mean really.

So it came as no surprise when she regarded this latest transition not as one of life's big stressors but as a return to "normalcy." Thrust back into the boonies, a rural suburb of Houston, she expressed gratitude. "At least now I'll get my satellite TV back." Somethings go without saying but at the risk of stating the obvious, I didn't inherit my mother's positive outlook.

Eternal Optimism of the Skeptic Mind

I've done something. How should I characterize this? OK, I've either confirmed that I'm a glutton for punishment or an eternal optimist. I prefer to call it the latter but I'm burying the lead, aren't I?

The Sunday after I got stood up, I joined another dating website. I know. As if the heavens haven't rained down a monsoon of misery already! With each drop comes another reminder of why keeping hope alive is an exercise in futility. But enough pep talk, here's the deal. It's not one of those niche websites that cater to a specific religion or ethnicity. No, this is a web-based free for all where you simply fill out your stats and roll the dice... or comb the plethora of sad, ahem, eligible singles who claim to be in the same boat.

This particular website is good and bad because it is so ubiquitous. It has a feature where you can wink at someone. I was so bored yesterday at work that I winked enough times to make these prospects wonder if I had something in my eye. And then I started sending random messages just to fuck with people. To the beefcake from Long Island who chose "Diesel" as his name and said Bond Street was his favorite eatery: I have good news and bad news.
The good news is you have GREAT abs. But you already knew that.
Here's what you don't know.
Bond Street burned down.
I hate to be the bearer of bad news but as a reporter, it's my job.
To the "heart surgeon" who was "looking for a babe" and listed sarcasm as a turn-off: lol. really? You're looking for a babe. Interesting. I'm being sarcastic because it's one of your turn-offs and I think you're really looking for a challenge.
Seriously, tho, I just got on this site and am really bored at work. Oh, I'm busy, I just love procrastinating and if that includes sending messages to random guys, then so be it.
If you don't write back it means that you don't have a sense of humor... or a heart. But perhaps the latter could be rectified with your professional savvy and access, no?
And this is one of my personal favorites: Your profile was funny. You should know that. Some guys say they want wit but aren't very clever themselves so I appreciated that.
Don't feel compelled to respond, I'm really in random mode right now. Anyway, have a great day!
I may have missed the boat with that guy because his profile really was funny. Here's part of it:

I think I cringe every time I hear or read the phrase "work hard, play hard." I think, with regards to dating, that people in NYC treat each other like five dollar bodega umbrellas. I think a man must at least try to kiss a woman by the second date, or she likely won't respect him. I think people who hug the center pole on the subway are selfish idiots.

Another guy said he knew he was a New Yorker when he stopped trying to be nice to the people who work at Duane Reade. Hallelujah! I swear those fuckers had to fail a personality test to secure their jobs. My attempts to kill them with kindness are met with glares. I always thought it was just me.

Today is day three on that website and I've had one date, one more to go. The first one was last night and lasted 27 minutes. He was a lawyer, originally from India but raised in New Jersey, who suggested we meet at the rooftop bar of the Dream hotel. This was two blocks from my office so I agreed. I had been awake since 6:30 because I worked out with my personal trainer in the morning. Now I'm walking like I'm 80 years old because my thighs haven't seen that kind of workout in years.

Anyway, he suggests we meet at a rooftop bar. I go where? To the roof..where there's a bar that he suggested. 20 minutes later, I'm seriously wondering if I've been stood up twice in one week and considering throwing myself off aforementioned roof. Then I see him. I approach, he turns, he smiles. Not as cute as his picture but he really was 6'tall. "I was waiting for you in the lobby," he says. Why, dumbass? Of course I didn't say that. We get our drinks and head upstairs where he reveals his amazingly dull personality. I was a bit lethargic myself but my attempts at levity were thwarted by his inability to understand sarcasm. A rail-thin girl with long blonde hair was standing with her back to us and I deadpanned, "Paris Hilton" nodding in her direction. He stared at her for a long time then back at me with a puzzled look. "I'm kidding," I said and to my horror he let out a high pitched laugh that could only be replicated by a hyena. Time to call it a night. "It's late and I'm fading fast," I suggested. It was 7:47.

Next at bat is a television producer but there's a deadline to our drinks. I have to meet up some girlfriends for dinner so I'm meeting him beforehand. Stay tuned for tales from the dark side of dating. I mean, spotlight on swinging single in the city!*

*that last sentence was meant to appease the followers of manifest destiny type theories.

Waiting in Vain

Even though the title of this blog may beg to differ, I haven't actually had as bad a track record when it comes to love as perhaps other, actual "love pariahs." The reason why I say that is because something unprecedented happened last night. And the fact alone that I've never been stood up before gives me a new found sympathy for those who have.

The culprit was the Korean-American real estate mogul I met on the flight to Vegas. John of the evil empire had actually bet me that this guy was married because he was so elusive when it came to meeting up and didn't see the humor when he flaked on drinks and I told him to tell his wife hello. In what was billed as an effort to make it up to me, he sent me a text on Thursday asking me if I had any weekend plans. Here's the thing. I always have weekend plans. It's just a matter of how flexible they are. I said it depends on what he had in mind. Then he sent an email giving me three options: A long, leisurely lunch outdoors on Saturday but then said he may have to go "check on his summer share" and if so, we'd have to do dinner OR drinks.

As I'm prone to do, I took the initiative and responded: "Let's do dinner. You promise to show up and I promise to be lovely company. Deal?" His response: Deal. So I felt like the ball was in his court and left it there.

Friday rolls around, nothing. I'm OK with this. I had a fundraiser for Darfur at a swanky hotel then a few of my girlfriends and I crashed a socialite's birthday party. It wasn't something we're prone to do but the invitation my executive producer showed me, made it difficult to pass up:
Party People,
All indications say that we're going to have one hell of a gathering
tomorrow evening. Naturally, none of you doubted this.

We will be serving up all sorts of yummy morsels, and my guess is that there will be plenty to eat. We'll be drinking well,too, and I've put a house Italian Sangria on the menu... on me. So in a nutshell, the food and the Sangria is on my tab. Other exotic requests/drinks/sundries are encouraged, but bring unmarked bills to fund these fits of fancy. We have a DJ, and a relative who's who on the guestlist, including various members of the media, the Literati, Manhattan glam-types, money managers, food managers, reputation managers, singers,dancers and everyone in between. Oh, and those of you who are single, scrub up - you've hit the motherload.

The girl throwing the party was turning 30 and her boyfriend is the author of "Thank You For Smoking," a brilliant movie and I'm told the book is even better. He was there but that was the only literati we spotted. She was very gracious when I introduced our crew and told her how we were connected. Ohhh.. and while I'm on the subject of Friday night, I'd be remiss not to share the antics of one very inebriated Git.

Sorry, girl, you knew it was coming. I should have seen it coming when, at the Darfur fundraiser, I overheard two of my otherwise intelligent girlfriends having a very Jessica Simpson-esque conversation. Granted, when you're subjected to the self-indulgent speeches at a benefit, there are many tangential conversations that can transpire. But this was priceless. As a New Jersey high school student was talking about the different fundraisers held for Darfur, he mentioned a bake sale.

Git: Ooh, I want to have a bake sale!
Lilli: Yeah? Where?
Git: We could have one in Central Park.
Lilli: Or we could have a lemonade stand!
Git: How much should we charge?
I attempted to silence them with the maternal evil eye I used to get growing up but they were unfazed and just giggled.
Me: They're discussing mothers being raped and fathers murdered in Darfur and you're discussing a bake sale?! It's going in the blog.
Git: I know.

Fast forward to 1 am. We've been out since happy hour and Git decides I should take a bus home. But the bus has pulled away from the curb. Any New Yorker will tell you that pleading with the bus driver is pointless but try telling that to a petite hottie who can pack a punch and thinks she'll charm him into it. She yells at him to open the doors. The bus driver shakes his head and stares at the red light. Then she presses her face against the door and does something reminiscent of the Mervyn's commercial ("Open, open"). "Ay, mi dios," says the Hispanic delivery boy at the curb. "You're scaring the immigrant," I tell her attempting to pull her away. "Amnesty NOW!" she yells as she literally flirts with oncoming traffic. Can we say reckless? I get her to cross the street and duck into a cab despite her pleas to come over for an impromptu slumber party. All I can say is I know who's holding my hair back the next time I overindulge in alcohol and revert to my college days.

The next morning, I meet a hungover and clueless Git who's both mortified and amused when I recount all of this for her. Since I haven't heard from my date we strategize an appropriate message and I text: "Hey u, what's the plan?" It's one o'clock. I proceed to check my watch every 15 minutes for the next FIVE HOURS. He never calls, he never texts, and the first date I've had in some time is kaput. Vani suggested I make another date and stand him up. But I don't think I'll have the opportunity to exact any revenge because he's got some nerve if he contacts me again. He was Korean. I used to only begrudge this ethnicity because they overcharged me for everything from gum to bagels at their innumerable delis across Manhattan. "You take flavor cream cheese?" the Korean lady yells.
"No, it's not flavored," I protest.
"One more dollar. You take flavor," she insists.
"It's low FAT, not flavored," I say.
"Yeah, low fat is flavor," she says and doubles the price of my bagel.
Oh, I'm sorry. Do I sound racist? Well excuse the hell out of me, I just got stood up for the first time in my friggin' life. But, I'm OK with it. Really. As my friend Marla says, "Rejection is God's protection." I just wish the guy upstairs would stop being such a diligent bodyguard.

Ugly Betty

So I met the star of "Ugly Betty" today- America Ferrara. Well, I spoke to her on the phone. She was the spokesperson of an audio news release I was producing so I had to walk her through a voice-over. She was really nice which is more than I can say for the heifers from the PR agency. These girls make my jappy friends seem almost granola. My day was so busy that I complained to my boss. "I've had no time to myself. I haven't shopped online or blogged all day!" She smiled knowing full well that the hectic days were when I truly earned my keep. The rest of the time, I'm simply office eye candy.

Speaking of eye candy, I met a local anchorman last night who is so much hotter in person than he's ever been on TV. I'm a recent fan of his. The other day when I was getting ready for work, I heard him give the forecast. It's New York 1, so the anchors just give a synopsis of the forecast instead of lengthy descriptions that are often inaccurate anyway. So he says, "Here's your weather on the 1's for this week. The sun will come out tomorrow, and the next day, and the next day- bet your bottom dollar, the sun will come out.." It prompted me to walk into the living room to see his smirk. When I met him last night, his hair wasn't slicked back, tousled rather so you could see the blond and he was wearing a brown blazer and jeans. "PSST!" I yelled at Larry. "Who is THAT?!" He looked over and rolled his eyes. "That's Pat* Kiernan, the main anchor on NY1." Ohhh.

Halfway into my martini, Larry's friend John, a producer at Fox News, offered to introduce me. I was skeptical. John worked for the evil empire. He had left CNNfn after its demise. But unlike someone else I know who works there, he was good humored when I called it that. I looked him firmly in the eye and said, "Do NOT embarrass me." He reassured me and made the introduction. And what did I do upon meeting this very B list celebrity? Broke into a sweat (I don't sweat) and blurted out, "I'm a big fan." Who says that? Who?! He smiled and we chatted for a little while then John abruptly told him it was nice meeting him so he walked away.

"What'd you do that for?!" I wanted to ask but I was being introduced to a former breaking news producer turned recent freelancer (read: competition). This guy was way out of my league. He had been at CNN for like 20 years and I would have loved to have learned more about his tour of duty but he was spitting like crazy which was gross and annoying. Throughout it all, I was exchanging text messages with the guy from the plane.

"Is this business or pleasure?" John asked indicating my blackberry. Never one to hold back even if it meant preserving a certain level of sophistication, I dished. He was reeled in. As my suitor kept delaying our rendezvous, John grew more suspicious. He hypothesized that this prospect was probably married and buying time until he could sneak away from his wife. Then when I got the text telling me the pending deal was taking longer than expected and requesting a "rain check," John suggested I write back: "Say hello to your wife." So I did and he was not amused. "So that's how you want to play it." Merde! No, that's not how I want to play it all. I told him I was kidding and he cooled off. But having chastised the plane guy before for his folo up skills, I'm beginning to wonder if he'll ever attempt to close this deal.

Hidden gems and other observations

I have two dates tonight. Well, sort of. I'm going with Larry to meet some current and former CNNers for drinks after work. Larry's looking dapper in a blazer and slacks today. If he were my boss, I'd try to have an affair. As it stands, he's just a coworker who likes to sexually harass me for fun. Foiled again.

The second date is with a guy I met on a flight to Vegas a few weeks ago. It's taken this long for our schedules to align and he's fine with being second on my dance card. But as is often the case when I have more than one social engagement, I may have to fore go both. This time it's my head. I know it's always messed up but right now I'm having one of those weird headaches that typically precede a sinus infection. Just when I scoffed at allergy season it sneaks up on me all stealth like, throwing off my equilibrium and social calendar.

At least lunch was good. Larry, Steve-O and I went to the burger joint inside Le Parker Meridien. Talk about a paradox. The swank lobby is home to Norma's, a Bergdorf blond favorite for lunch. But tucked behind a heavy floor-to ceiling curtain is a hole in the wall grease pit that serves up sumptuous burgers with a side of attitude. A sign above the counter says: "We don't spit on your food, don't write on our walls." They also make it clear that if you don't have your order ready to spout off, it's back to the long line that snakes into the hotel lobby, betraying the burger bar's otherwise clandestine location. Whether it's Sunday brunch or Tuesday lunch, the line is always long and seating in the handful of booths and stools scarce. I scoped out a booth, snagged it and then texted my order to Larry.

"Cheeseburger and strawberry shake, plz." He and Steve O gave me the thumbs up. Several minutes later, Larry returned with a fountain drink for himself and something almost as out of place on the menu as the burger joint was in this hotel: a bottle of Evian. "They didn't have strawberry milkshakes," he said in response to my expression. "So you got me Evian?" I said. "Yeah, I figured, it's healthier than a coke," he shrugged. "You thought I wanted healthy when I ordered a milkshake? From milkshake to water?" Larry has less patience for my petulance than Alec Baldwin for his daughter. "I brought you fries to make up for it, now shut up and eat them."

OK, inappropriate comments abound at my workplace. As a female coworker rushed out to run an errand, another asked where she was going. "She's getting a bikini wax," announced Steve O. Appalled I glanced up from my laptop, she laughed and nodded affirmatively as she walked out. Then, two guys rushed to the west window that overlooks Broadway and the Letterman studios. "Three bimbos 12 o'clock!" After picking one each they said, "the one in the yellow is yours," to me. Incorrigible, these people. That's why I fit right in.

Daily Dilemma

Every single day there's a crisis of indecision that paralyzes me. Around midday, when everyone starts heading to the office kitchen or out to lunch, I'm consumed with angst and confusion about what to eat.

Don't laugh and don't roll your eyes. No deep sighing either! It's true. It's become an ongoing issue that Larry feigns deep interest in. My missteps at the salad bar are legendary. I'm known for being the dumbass who told the guy at the deli to put blue cheese on my salad then top it with raspberry vinaigrette. And for some reason, it doesn't matter how much I spend. Even when I splurge which in midtown means $10 for a burger or club sandwich and fries, I'm still disappointed. I'm not a picky eater either. It's just bad luck. Panini or pasta, salad or soup, chances are I'll be dissatisfied leading me to pathetically shrug when Larry asks, "Did we enjoy our lunch today?"

Today I opted to be a sandwich engineer at the deli and specifically asked for the bread and condiments for my grilled chicken sandwich. After I ate most of it, I threw away the rest announcing to no one in particular, "That was OK. Not great. Not awful." Steve-O, that's really my coworker/friend's name because his last initial is "O", looked at me and deadpanned, "I get that all the time."

Steve O takes self denigration to new lows. Often, he'll pretend to sexually harass me only to end with his favorite line, purring, "I can disappoint you in so many ways."

Summer Sidling

I love words. LOVE them! In fact, when I was at student council camp in high school (shut it), we had to do this esteem-building exercise where everyone sat in a circle and we each took turns stating a talent or skill we possessed. Everyone talked about their athletic prowess or artistic talent. When they came to me, I proudly shared that I had the ability to absorb new vocabulary quickly and put it to use almost immediately (read: NERD). And then people wonder why I didn't have my first kiss until freshman year in college.

But in the course of authoring this blog, there have been moments where I have basked in the warm sunshine of my sprachgefuhl. No that's not a typo- it was the word of the day. Behold: \SHPRAHKH-guh-fuel\ noun: an intuitive sense of what is linguistically appropriate.

The love pariah is feeling very sprightly on this Monday. One reason is the weather. It's not exactly warm in New York City but it's sunny and that sure beats the crap weather we had through most of April. Secondly, this weekend I made some new friends. All boys and all fun (see doctored photo). When I was in college, I had my close girlfriends but also a posse of boys that I hung out with platonically. I miss those days. There's something about playing wing woman to a man that's both empowering and endlessly entertaining. Especially if the guy who's back you've got is hot. In this case, there's potential for more but I'm not inclined to ruin what could be the ingredients of a perfect summer for the instant gratification of hooking up with an accessible hottie.

Isn't that always the case? We want what we can't have and when what we thought we wanted is right under our nose, we're ambivalent. In fact, I'm not even ambivalent. More like blase about all of it. But guys are so much cooler when you're not playing the dating game. For instance, two of them followed up with both phone calls and text messages after we hung out on Thursday. Then we went to dinner and out dancing until 3am on Saturday. On Sunday, again more texts thanking me for a great time and asking that I email all the pics. Interesting. There's something to this. Let me ruminate about it all and I'll return with some interesting and/or simply amusing observations. Prediction: it's all going to go to hell in a hand basket when one of the guys sleeps with one of the girls in our newly formed social partnership.

It All Started

Because I had an ax to grind. This blog started because I was frustrated and had something to say. I thought someone might care to listen to my rant. I was surprised to learn that there were a lot of people who did.

So it doesn't make sense for me to self-censor which is what I've been doing in the wake of my falling out with a certain person who isn't worthy of any more attention here. Or anywhere else in my life for that matter.

Some of the things I write are devoid of any real analysis. But when you're blowing off steam, which is what a lot of these entries are, there's no time or room for self-reflection. And yet, there's plenty of that here, too.

Last night at the end of the Spiderman 3 (yes I'm going to refer to it like the poetry it's not- get over it) Peter Parker notes that we all have a choice and when faced with a crisis of character, we should choose good over evil. I love Sam Raimi who directed this film. This was a random post typed in bed before I started my week. Now I'm getting up and going to work.

V Squared

Let's see if I can pull this off. This entry, that is. It's just past 2:30 in the morning and I just got home from night two of Manhattan mayhem with my girl who's visiting from Phoenix. She's the little sister of the Bond girl mentioned in the post about my trip to L.A. But I actually met Bond girl through Velika who saw me as a mentor when she was coming up the ranks of broadcast journalism. She's since come to her senses and pursued a more lucrative profession but that's how we met. With me as her professional role model. I know. Scary.

Anyway, she's in town visiting her best friend- a hottie who works for www.shopbop.com. Actually, they're both hotties- Velika and Vani a.k.a Vsquared. Tonight Vani suggested we meet for dinner at Spotlight in Times Square. Other than the fact that this place was a stone's throw from where I work, I didn't know what it was. When I arrived, I was appalled to see throngs of tourists cheering various singers on a huge Vegas meets Disneyland karaoke stage. It was like every American Idol reject had found their way to a new watering hole. I was the first one there and watched with shock and awe as one Midwesterner after another took the stage to sing tired old renditions of "Respect" and "I will survive." Will I? As the minutes ticked by and "I love big butts and I cannot lie" blared over the speakers, I honestly wondered.

Finally V squared arrived and we sat down to dinner. Velika showed me the texts I sent her last night in my drunken haze. I couldn't look after "I'm a hooker." Then we went to a club in the Flatiron called Gstaad. We were meeting one of Vani's friends. As soon as I met him I knew I had seen him before but couldn't place where. Then it dawned on me that I had seen his profile online and I said as much. He reluctantly admitted that he was on the website. Because we were both Muslim and he was good friends with my good friend, I attempted to establish a rapport. But I couldn't shake the feeling that he was being aloof and dismissive. Velika told me after I walked away that his demeanor towards her was completely different. Then I tried again. This time, asking him where he lived in the city. When he said 36th and Park, I acknowledged the area by its New York pseudonym: the date rape district. Commonly known as Murray Hill, this area is ripe with former frat boys come investment bankers.

"I've never heard it called that," he said. I asked him how long he had been in the city. "Three months," he said. "But I used to come here every week for business." Well, you might as well be Rudy Giuliani in that case! I mean why didn't you tell me you were next in line to have an avenue named after you? He was really defensive which I thought was bizarre so I just shrugged and said, "I'm sorry." He responded with more protestations about both his well versed knowledge of Manhattan and denial of any of the characteristics I attribute to his new hood. Tired of the acrimony my comment may have ignited, I excused myself heading to the bar where my Palestinian friend was having a conversation with a Persian girl from his law firm.

Velika subsequently told me that he said Muslim girls were "pretentious." This only added to my annoyance. When I walked back over a little while later Vani insisted we kiss and make up. Awkward. I give everyone a chance until they piss me off. Sometimes they get a chance after that, too. But here I saw no reason to perpetuate the irksome dialogue. Unfortunately, Vani was hell bent on making sure the two Muslims she had introduced play nice. So we did but there's zero chemistry and now both of us have a chip on our shoulders against the other.

The whole exchange got me thinking about men who behave badly and then have the nerve to shrug it off when they see the error of their ways. Women are held to a much higher standard and wiping the slate clean in the case of our social transgressions is almost unheard of. Growing up, my dad was full of pearls of wisdom. Random sayings that he would convey in an effort to instill his brand of integrity. When I was languishing in the trenches of local news in one small market after another, his frustration trumped mine. He hated that I felt I needed to "pay my dues." He wanted me to "think big to be big." When I told him I couldn't just waltz into CNN and expect to be fast-tracked to stardom, he said, "You are like a wood in the water- you'll always float to the top." Sweet but not necessarily true. I mean what if I were a branch that got tangled in some deep sea algae?

Not all of his analogies were flawed. I'll never forget the time he tried to delineate the double standard between the two sexes. "A man's reputation is like silver. If it becomes tarnished, you can always polish it up with money and success. But a woman's character is like glass. Once there's a crack or a chip, you'll always be able to see the flaw." I argued that if heat were applied directly to the crack, perhaps you could conceal the damage and my mom told me to shut up and not to argue with my father.

Slow Learner

They're called whore-tini's for a fucking reason. Christ. When will I learn that I can't have two martinis and still be coherent? Evan just put four bottles of water and two Gatorades on my desk demanding that I drink all of them by the end of the day if I am to be in top form and beat this bloody hangover. Last night was yet another brutal reminder of why I shouldn't drink.

My roommate (yes, she is hot) dragged me to a benefit at Union Square ballroom. A friend who arrived before us sent us a text describing it as a high school dance in full swing. We told her we were stuck in traffic to which she quipped, "No worries, just hanging at the prom." We found this both amusing and discouraging. On the upside, it was an open bar. I made a beeline for it upon arrival. Now I just had to wait for the bartender to notice me. A monumental endeavor for anyone but one that I can typically conquer by simply placing my boobs on the bar, this time, however, I was dealing with the same sex making me less persuasive. Languishing for her attention and a drink, I opted to make conversation.

I asked the guy next to me if he was enjoying the prom. He said he had been watching me from the bleachers all night trying to work up the nerve to ask me to dance. "And it's just serendipity that I would start talking to you first?" I asked. We engaged in playful banter until I had all of our drinks- all four of them-as I was designated Isaac of Love Boat fame for the drink runs. I don't know why. Maybe because I'm brown like Isaac. Or maybe it was because I decided to save money and go to my roommate's cheap hair salon where the Russian woman gave me a mullet like Pat Benatar had. Love is a battlefield, and hair styling- war when you're dealing with the number of short layers that had been cut into my mane. Rushed out the door before our evening soiree, I had attempted to straighten my hair but the humidity coupled with choppy locks just made me look like an aging rocker. Maybe it was that Afro that contributed to the Isaac status. I don't know. But based on my hangover today, I had no business being the person charged with getting the drinks. There was no one to keep tabs on my own consumption. Pretty soon, I was cutting a rug with a tall real estate broker/trust fund baby. He was hot but high maintenance. When I was texting my girlfriends, he started pouting, "I'm going home cause I'm bored and you're busy," he said. I'm bored, too, I decided and moved across the room. "You dumped me for the quarterback." It was the guy who I had met at the bar. His name was Rob.

Rob and I resumed our rapport and when my other girlfriends showed up we moved on to another bar, then another. By the time I got home, I was three sheets to the wind and had given out all my business cards. This morning my boss who's out sick called and was initially concerned when she heard my voice. When I confessed I was hungover, she was proud. "When I get drunk I make out with guys and my friends have to remind me that I'm gay," she said. "I think I'm a closet heterosexual." I laughed as I finished inhaling my McGriddle sandwich and greasy hashbrown. Some food fell out of my mouth prompting another coworker to note how I resembled David Hasselhoff in a recent home video performance. What? I'm pretty.

No More Vitriol

Not from me. At least not about men who hate me. Because I fuel their hatred when I make my disdain for their behavior public. OK, don't hold me to that because if this were Pollyanna's blog, no one would read it.

And speaking of readers, the Love Pariah has emerged for public view yet again. You can't keep her down for long. Slightly scathed but unrepentant and ready for whatever's in store. Bring it.

What?! I'm in Hiding...

Not like Salman Rushdie once was but I'm hoping by taking it underground for a bit, DSG will stop trolling the internet for my blog. I just made it public on Friday and then almost two weeks after our last encounter, I get this acerbic email. I told him that I was going to refrain from posting his venom but he sent me another email. So since he can't see the value of my generous discretion, I'm posting his response to that email.
This was my response to his abusive diatribe:

I'm tired of all this unwarranted abuse.
You're right about everything you wrote and I will be true to my word and not contact you again. Again, let's just stop the madness. I'm sorry I thought we could be friends and I sincerely wish you the best of luck although with your talent, you won't need it.

And he responded with yet another salvo:

i don't want to abuse you, but a word of advice. If you're going to have a blog and write cruel things about people that you are mad at for your readers to revel in and devour like a carcass, knowing full well that the person you are writing about may read it, (perhaps even secretly hoping they will) then you better get ready for what comes back at you.

I suggest you keep your blog underground if you can't handle the consequences.

i stopped the madness by not talking to you, and I am sorry that i engaged with you again, we can't be friends, but since you were only really interested in Daily Show tickets to begin with and not a "friendship" it shouldn't be too much of a sacrifice anyway.

The part that actually made me feel the worst was his assumption that I used him for tickets. That's not my style but I think it's just further evidence of how little we understood each other. Sad, really, I have front row tickets to see Ricky Gervais and I can't think of anyone who would appreciate them more. Ricky Gervais is the creator of the original version of "The Office." He's brilliant. I had an inkling but no real idea until I was tipped off to his stand-up routine. Look for it on YouTube. But only if you want to laugh. Otherwise, you'll be disappointed.

Tribeca Trifecta

The Tribeca Film Festival is underway which means both budding and veteran artists are milling about lower Manhattan on any given evening. Last night, a group of us attempted to capitalize on this, hoping it might make for an interesting evening.

We started early, hitting an art party in SoHo. The host of this shindig was named Moron. I shit you not. Our friend Amir introduced him and when I asked my roommate for clarification she said, "Mor-an," as if there was a difference especially since the a was pronounced like "ah." The art party was just that. A gathering for yuppies who were interested in investing in expensive art and others trolling for singletons. Our contingent was the latter part of the group. We had just gotten our drinks when Moran called everyone to the center of room and directed our attention to a 30 something art curator. My roommate and I found it difficult to assign any value to her sense of aesthetic taste based on how she was dressed. She was wearing tall, purple, patent leather boots with a black and white polka-dotted frock and a wide silver belt. As I surveyed the room, I noticed that the space was filled with fashion victims. It was as if Marcia and Jan Brady's clothes had been auctioned off and the winning bidders came here to show off their new duds.

We stayed long enough for my friend Git to show up and then ducked out for some nearby sushi. After dinner, we hit our second watering hole- the Thompson Hotel. This lobby bar was a sure bet for people watching and the possibility of hooking up which I can safely say was on everyone's agenda. Upon arrival we were dismayed to learn that our destination was cordoned off for a private event. We still had another hour to kill before the Tribeca film festival party Amir had scored us an invitation to. So I suggested we go to the Tribeca Grand Hotel. This ended up being a miscalculation.

As we got out of the cab, we saw the hub of activity and quickly deduced that this was another spot likely restricted for a private party. It's the Tribeca Grand for God's sake and we're smack in the middle of the Tribeca Film Festival. As I approached the entrance, a bouncer asked me whose guest list I was on. "I'm with them," I stammered and made a beeline for the opposite door my friends were entering. We walked past a red carpet area and someone told us we had to enter through the front where I was initially stopped. Amir suggested another bar but I couldn't leave without at least trying my bullshit skills.

"We're with Matt Modine," I told the girl with the clipboard. The name sounded familiar. I deliberately chose a B-list celeb with name recognition but not enough star power to raise suspicion. She asked for my name and I gave it to her and when she asked if I knew anyone else inside I surreptitiously glanced at the names on the list and threw out a few I could see. "Your name's not on here but go ahead," she said waving my friends in.

Our jubilation was short-lived. "Thanks for getting us in," Amir said,"but this isn't that great of a party." He wasn't just turned off by the boy to girl ratio(4:1), there appeared to be a big bridge and tunnel quotient. We were in fact at an ESPN party. But there weren't many hotties- male or female. However, there were some pretty men and my heart leaped as I saw one deliberately head in our direction. He smiled broadly and said, "We're closing off this side of the lobby, would you mind moving?" Judging from my girlfriends' crestfallen expressions, we were on the same page mistaking his approach for potential. After a drink we decided to go to Leonard Street for our third attempt at successful revelry.

This apartment was straight out of an episode of Nip/Tuck. Unique artwork and modern furniture was the backdrop for a largely Jewish crowd. Great. Git proved her party prowess by quickly whipping up drinks with the only alcohol available- Bacardi and Coke. But I was done and said as much. The time: 11:15 pm. My roommate and I took a cab home dropping Git off in the West Village. Amir stayed among his peeps at the Tribeca loft. There was no trifecta in Tribeca for this team of teeming singles. We brought our A game but were bested by B listers.

She's Baaack!

The exclusivity of invitation-only access to this blog was no consolation for those of you who enjoyed regaling in the public disclosure of my misadventures. That's nothing compared to the demoralized readers who are just as anonymous to me as I am to them.

I had drinks with a group of girlfriends who are producers at various networks tonight. One of them asked for an invitation to read this blog drawing the exasperated sigh of another who called my decision to take the Love Pariah underground "self-censorship." I pleaded my case in vain. "You know that half the fun is putting yourself out there or why not just write it all in a journal?," she said. In fact, journal is just half of what I am. The "ist" comes from the combination of "exhibitionist" or, if you're prone to armchair therapy, "masochist." So here we are. Miss me?

The last entry alluded to an encounter with a despicable man worthy of a permanent anointment as Keith Olberman's "Worst Person In the World." Last Saturday, my friend Bourge, her cousin Denise and I were at a club in Vegas when a man approached us and chimed into the tail end of our conversation. "We should just have a good time," Bourge was advising me as she wrapped up a story about our stupid friend- a producer from Cleveland- who had taken leave of both her senses and manners during our "girl's weekend."

"Yeah," he slurred, "We should just have fun." We stopped and stared. He was a white guy in his late 30s. "The bartender gave me an extra shot. Do you want it?" he asked us. I was about to avail myself to the free alcohol when the street smart friend of mine demurred. "I don't do shots," she offered. He told us he had a table and within seconds, an executive decision to maneuver ourselves in the direction of complimentary liquor was made. He introduced us to his friends who all appeared to be corn-fed Midwesterners. There was another couple. The woman had big hair and a bigger body and her husband didn't even feign friendliness when introduced. There was a slender woman with blond hair sitting across the table. As Mr.Despicable made the introductions, I was the only one who heard him refer to the blond as his wife. Instantly repelled, I opted to stay on the perimeter of the table, looking like a snob and apathetic to what kind of an impression that might make. Meanwhile my friends chatted up our host if for no other reason than to kill time while downing one vodka cranberry and its impending refill.

"He's married," I said to Denise when she noticed my distant behavior and raised her eyebrows as if to say, "What's up?" I nodded in the direction of the blond. She gave a knowing look. "Yeah. She likes it," Denise said. I was perplexed and repulsed. Then he leaned over my friend and said to me, "You're stunning." Bourge laughed. "And she doesn't even know it." That's when I filled her in on our host. Moments later, he decided to come clean.

"I'm in the middle of a divorce and that's my soon-to-be ex-wife," he admitted. "This is our one last hurrah before we call it quits." We were stunned. What did that make us? At first I felt a tug of sympathy. Having been divorced, I know it's not easy. "Why Vegas?" I asked. "It's her 40th birthday and it's not mutual," he said. "But we planned it a while ago." Suddenly Bourge announced that she needed to go to the ladies room and since women do this in groups when out and about, Denise and I trailed behind her. "Now I've seen it ALL!" she yelled. Denise told us that she saw the blond wipe away a tear as her wayward husband was confessing their marital woes to three women he had just met in a Vegas nightclub.

So that's my first post back after a short hiatus. See? You weren't missing much.

Red Eyes and Surviving the Knight

I took the red eye flight back to New York from Las Vegas. I love that in an industry with rampant euphemisms (EconomyPlus, oversold), this one term for that brutal cross-country, overnight flight is on point.

Work hard, play hard. It's what so many unimaginative guys put on their online profiles be it myspace or the dating site du jour. But it perfectly describes the last 24 hours of my life. I was in Las Vegas for one last hurrah with a good friend who I met when we worked together at a local TV station. It was my last full-time on-air gig before moving to New York City. Now she's moving here, too, where she's rightfully earned her network stripes.

Friday night, I sat next to a strapping, young, real estate mogul on the flight from JFK to McCarran. When I realized that the seat between us was empty, I said, "I'm going to be stretching out and I hope you don't mind-" and as he said "no problem" he heard the last of my sentence,"if I put my feet in your lap." He laughed and we had a nice conversation before I fell asleep. He was en route to a buddy's bachelor party and I was planning my own weekend debauchery.

Saturday, my girlfriend whose nickname is "Bourge" short for bourgeois for reasons too obvious to delineate, had to go in to work. Her cousin, Denise, and I were invited by one of her boy toys to hang out at the Bare Pool at the Mirage Casino and Hotel. This pool has exclusive access and the female patrons are first screened then encouraged to go topless. Unlike some of my Mardi Gras appearances, this time I abstained from following suit. But the guys we met at the pool were HOT. At one point, Denise and I agreed that we were on the real life version of Entourage and needless to say, I felt fat. After our afternoon frolic, we took power naps. Denise was visiting from Atlanta and both of us were a tad bit jet lagged.

That night, we met Bourge at The Palms. The owner is her friend so we bypassed the proletariat line and were fast tracked upstairs and told by the "host" to go to Tommie Lee's table. But we never made it over there (that's another blog entry me thinks). However, Gwen Stefani was there as was Paris Hilton, a permanent fixture in the Vegas nightlife, along with Nicolette Sheridan, Luke Wilson and some guys from No Doubt. First the DJ asked us to give it up for Gwen Stefani in "da how-us" and played one of her singles. Then he did the same for Paris Hilton. Not to be out shined by her superior, Paris got up on a table and gave an impromptu, um, performance. I took pictures that were later offered to Life and Style Magazine. My friend, one of the editors, thought I was kidding. "We get Paris sightings every week." Apparently, the celebrity sex kitten's antics are often caught on film and even the tabloids are tired of them.

We had a few drinks at what we thought was the owner's table. But a few minutes later, I was asked to down my drink because we had inadvertantly ended up at the table reserved by Bruce Willis. After a peculiar encounter with a man vying for Keith Olberman's "Worst Person in the World" anointment (see next blog entry) we were ready to move on to another club. But in order to do this, we had to wait for the elevator and that was a formidable hurdle in itself. At one point, I was being pushed and I turned to look at this huge, bodyguard-type black guy behind me. "You can keep pushing me but I've got nowhere to go," I said indicating the mob ahead of me. "I ain't pushing you, baby," he said moving past me to another room. Denise looked at me with shock and awe, "You're one brave girl to talk to Tupac's killer that way," she said. "That was Suge Knight!" she pointed out. Gulp.

The highlight of the evening was Denise. Besides mortifying her cousin with inappropriate disclosures of how domestic bliss in Georgia is contingent on swinging with other couples, she provided her own shock and awe with her post-marital flirtation techniques. As we dined at The Wynn at 5am, she casually mentioned how the guy she was dancing with was "really turned on." She said she told him as much when she grabbed his package and confirmed his state of arousal. Bourge and I choked on our fries. "What?" she protested. "It's no different from you slapping someone's ass," she said referring to Bourge's tendency to accost men in that manner and then point at me. Also, my friend has the charming quality of not disclosing this fact until after they've chatted me up. Then as my low self-esteem wonders aloud what ignited their interest, she fills me in. Nice. Anyway, back to Denise. "It is different!" Bourge and I exclaimed in unison. She simply shrugged and plowed into her hash browns.

I wrapped up my short visit with a charming dinner at Bouchon, a French restaurant in The Venetian. Afterwards the girls dropped me off at the airport where I boarded my uneventful overnight flight home. If you've been following some of my travel nightmares, you'll understand why uneventful is a blessing. At 7 am ET, I disembarked and boarded another flight from DC to New York. Two rows ahead of me was Senator Ted Kennedy. I was too tired to get really starstruck. I'm impressed for no other reason than his relation to JFK. And I was surprised that he was flying coach. But it's an election year and he's a Democrat. Plus, it was the shuttle from DC to New York, an hour in coach doesn't really count.

Now it's 3am ET and I'm awake because after a really hectic Monday at work, I came home at 6pm and slept until 10:30pm. I know. As usual, I opted for instant gratification over more strategic self-restraint.

Morbid Obesity Pays

Me! Below is the response I got from JetBlue. Below that is the letter I sent them. And underneath it all is a very happy LP :)

We deeply regret the uncomfortable situation you and were faced with on your flight from New York to Chicago.

We can not force a customer to purchase two seats. When morbidly obese people choose to travel with JetBlue they usually do choose to purchase an extra seat for their own comfort, and this is not an issue. If we denied customers passage due to their size the discrimination issues would be endless.

We make every attempt to seat our larger customers in a row that might allow them to have two seats. However, when a flight like yours is full, we do not always have that option.

As a gesture of goodwill, and an invitation for you to give us another try , we have issued you electronic vouchers which is equivalent to the fare you paid.

Although we know that travel vouchers can never compensate for your discomfort, and inconvenience you experienced, we hope you will accept it as a token of our appreciation for your understanding.

Original Message Follows:
------------------------
Comments submitted from Speak Up Forms
Departure City: JFK
Destination City: ORD
Flight Date: 3/29/07
Flight Number: 919

Last week I was on the 8pm JetBlue flight from JFK to Chicago O'Hare. I paid $250 for a oneway ticket due to a last minute business trip. Upon boarding, I saw that the woman sitting next to me was morbidly obese, taking up both her and my seat. I discreetly informed the flight attendant that I couldn't fit but due to the sold out flight, I was asked to await a gate agent's arrival to handle the situation.

When he arrived, he told the woman that she should move to the aisle seat from the window seat. She did so but even with that and much maneuvering on my part, she was still overflowing into my seat.

We managed and amicably because it's not my nature to humiliate people for the physical abnoramalities. However, upon disembarking, another flight attendant stopped the third passenger in my row, who was sitting on the other side of me. I saw this happen as I was getting off the plane and he found me in baggage claim and informed me that he was given a voucher for HIS inconvenience.
What about my discomfort and inconvenience?!

The Fallout From the Frugal Fight

The response from readers about the Cheap Skate has been mixed. Some said I should have split it three ways because an innocent was involved. Others simply told me to steer clear of dumbasses like DSG.

I felt bad for it, if only because I still clung to the hope of meeting Bono. So I sent an email apologizing.
Hey,
I know you're pissed at me but I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry for last night.
I should have been gracious and split it three ways.
You were right to be angry. Sorry for being a jerk.

He didn't respond. The reverie of rubbing elbows with my benevolent Bono appears to be a pipe dream and I will pursue my boss's contacts for Daily Show tickets. But the best response to that entry would have to be Janice's. Behold:

Oh, Stop your WHINING!

So the Love Pariah finally made good on her threat to go underground. And it's those of you who have exclusive access to the blog who are up in arms about this recent development. I'm not sure I understand all this whining. Please tell me why a secret window isn't as much fun as an open door.

The reason I chose to limit access to less than a dozen readers was quite simply motivated by fear. Fear of reprisal from those anonymously mentioned, fear of being outed by one of the dozens of indiscreet readers who couldn't keep a secret if their life depended on it. And then there were my fellow journos who questioned my quest for "anonymity." More than once an eye roll was accompanied by a comment such as, "Your blog is the worst kept secret since Clay Aiken's sexual preference." And, finally, fear that my outing would take a significant toll on something as intangible and invaluable as my credibility.

I suspect more than a few friendships have been damaged by this blog. HPG was mad at me for a while. Then I severed ties with a girlfriend I had known since my first reporting gig because she couldn't get it through her thick skull that I was serious about my secret identity, choosing to mock me for it and telling mutual friends and REFERENCES about it. I think the friend poacher read it before it went underground because I haven't heard a peep from her since. So if writing really is equivalent to blood-letting, I've spilled plenty. But again, if there's a compromise I've neglected, feel free to awaken me to new possibilities. If not, pipe down and read!

Friend Poacher

What is it with these people? Am I the only one who has encountered this problem? I have a lot of friends. Part of it is my engaging personality, part of it my ability to adapt to new environments quickly and make friends easily. And I think it's great that my friends, who meet through me, get along. I mean everyone wants their friends to get along, right?

But what I don't want are people who surreptitiously forge friendships through me. How can I explain this? It keeps happening and there's more than one poacher but one who's especially determined to make all my friends hers. Poaching may be the wrong word because it's not illegal but it is socially repugnant.. to me. Allow me to elaborate.

We'll call her Clare like the fake poster who annoyed me to no end. Clare has reached out to every single girl that she has met through me and invited them to socialize in my absence. And most of the friends she's done this with have been gracious even flattered by her extending her hand on the heels of a chance meeting through moi. However, a few of them have thought it a bit odd that she would exclude me. At first, I didn't think much of it. But it happens a lot and she never mentions it to me. I find out because the girls she's contacting tell me. She even emailed my roommate. Then she texts my friends when they're out with me inviting them to hang out. Is this weird or is it just me? It's made me suspicious and, well, annoyed.

I know I may sound petty but there's something to this. Were she upfront about her activities, I'd be less likely to be irked but under the circumstances, I am. I think there's a line between being social and being sneaky and I feel it's being repeatedly crossed here.