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.

Frost smitten

I just saw a fantastic play tonight. It's called "Frost/Nixon" and chronicles the series of interviews by British talk show host David Frost of disgraced President Richard Nixon. The playwright is the incomparable Peter Morgan ("The Queen" and "The Last King of Scotland"). Michael Sheen who channeled Tony Blair in "The Queen" stars opposite Frank Langella who morphs into Nixon for an amazing performance.

No, this blog hasn't suddenly turned into a theater critic's column but I'm just so friggin' psyched to be moved by theater! I should disclose that my senior thesis was on Watergate and my all-time favorite movie is "All The President's Men" so I have an uncommon affinity for this subject matter. I thought "The Vertical Hour" was good but it pales in comparison to the writing, pacing, and execution of this moment in history when a reluctant subject bore his soul to an unlikely "reporter." I hope they take this to the big screen because it's really powerful.

Speaking of the big screen, I ran into Glenn Close as we were leaving the theater. I reminded her that we met at a soup kitchen on Christmas Eve and of course she remembered me. I think we're destined to be brunch pals although I can't actually confirm that without appearing as though I'm stalking her. Hmm, conundrum.

It's Raining Men

There has been a slew of gentlemen callers this past week. Correction: male suitors. And I use the latter half of that term loosely. In addition to a steady stream of texts from Dallas, I've had three other boys unexpectedly surface with the intent of dating or at least bedding me.

One of them is actually a friend of Dallas. When he sent me a text message identifying himself, I asked Dallas if he had passed the LP baton to his boy. "No," he said, "you gave him your card, too. Apparently, you gave all of us your card." Classy. I told the friend that Dallas has beat him to the punch. He bowed out. Bachelor Number three is a lawyer I met online months ago who is now motivated to meet and soon but our schedules aren't aligning.

Next on deck was a real estate agent I dated last summer. But business travel had me crisscrossing the country at a frenetic and relentless pace so I let that fizzle out. When I gave him a referral recently, he thanked me and invited me out for a drink. But my shoot for CNN went pretty late last night and we ended up meeting at my place while I packed for my trip to Mexico. We ordered in, familiarity and other factors intervened, yada, yada, yada... But before things got out of hand, I stopped him. This guy hadn't earned that kind of lovin'. His response solidified the wisdom of my decision. "What do I do with THIS?" he asked referring to his package. I had to look away because I knew he would just get more agitated if I laughed in his face.

Today he sent me an email asking if we could just be friends and while I responded in the affirmative I was a bit irked that this hapless Romeo would have the nerve to put ME in the friend zone. In an effort to regain my perception of the upper hand, I relayed the story to two male coworkers/friends and barely glossed over the details including his last comment. They were horrified and amused to no end. "He said WHAT?" one of them asked. "I don't even say shit like that to my girlfriend," said the other. It got me thinking and, due to both a lack of discretion and anything better to do, talking about other equally offensive things crass Casanovas had said to me in the past.

Exhibit A: "Can I feel some fur?" No matter how hard I try, I will never be able to erase this crude comment from my memory. By the way, the answer was no.

Exhibit B: "Kiss it." A command from the man who had shown so much promise, whisking me away in a private plane he chartered and piloted for a romantic dinner in a nearby city. After our third date, I emerged from the bathroom to find him wearing nothing, armed with an erection and the two words every woman longs to hear: "kiss it."

Exhibit C: Once when I fell asleep while watching a movie, another misguided man whore woke me up to inquire, "Would you mind if I jacked off next to you?" Again, the answer was no.

These memories had my coworkers wiping away tears of unbridled joy at my sad love life and the dork magnet I so clearly am. And it got me ruminating about something I'm often accused of lacking: restraint. But what about these losers? Where was their dignity and restraint? Or is it OK to abdicate those qualities when the prospect of lifting cars seems imminent?

Oh my Gad!

That's what my baby cousin said to me several years ago as I descended the long winding staircase at my grandparent's house. I was all dolled up for a wedding we were going to. She was three. It's not uncommon for my relatives to declare, "Oh my GOD!" when someone is all dressed up. It's a tad disingenuous but intended to make the object of their feigned awe-struck expression feel special. It's embarrassing but sweet.

In fact, that sums up my family: embarrassing but sweet. Once my parents recovered from the fact that I wasn't headed straight for an arranged marriage post-college, they consoled themselves with the idea of their eldest daughter being a "TV star." This is perhaps the greatest set-up for failure anyone can imagine. My arrogance proved a dubious asset because while it contributed to my delusions of grandeur it also enabled me to distance myself from the reality of my status. In reality, I was a lowly paid news reporter at a TV station that was the laughing stock of a small town. Our anchor was narcoleptic and would fall asleep while our stories were airing. His co-anchor often had to kick him awake to read the story's tag. I remember treating myself to a chilito at Taco Bell and the employees stared in awe and confusion as they saw me on the restaurant's TV while I was placing my order. I wanted to tell them that we were on the same pay scale, in fact, theirs was possibly higher given the fact that I had no health benefits.

But if you asked my folks, I was a TV star. My dad would introduce me to friends and business associates by saying, "She's an anchorwoman for CBS." This was such a blatant exaggeration/lie that I didn't know how to react. "Actually, I'm a reporter for a CBS affiliate," I would point out only to be silenced by my dad's fire and brimstone glare. Out of earshot, he would exclaim, "Why don't you shut your mouths when I'm speaking? What I said that's wrong?!" I attempted to explain the difference between the network and an affiliate only to be cut off with, "You don't think big. To be big, you must think big." Maybe he was right but even years later when I funded my own foreign assignments, I was still stonewalled by unimaginative network execs who wanted to know why I left local news without the security of full time employment. I wanted to freelance, I said. I was tired of office politics and enjoyed the freedom of picking my own assignments.

And once I did get my mug on CNN, the barrage of accusations from my father about me selling myself short continued. "Why don't you work for CNN?" he would ask, clearly agitated that I was encroaching on his bragging rights. I told him that they didn't have positions available that I wanted. "Tell them I'll adwertize on their channel and then they'll hire you. I'll call my friend the mayor and tell him he should make them hire you." Is it any wonder it took years of therapy for me to come down to planet earth?