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.
