Technically Speaking

Technically Speaking

“Please give me a call at 215 555 5219,” M said as he clicked his cell phone shut, leaving a message for work contact. I was sitting in the chair next to the desk, reading the newspaper and sitting Indian style while he worked from home this morning. His office is more portable than his dog. Needing a cell phone, a computer and an Internet connection, M can work on deals anywhere in the world, unchained from the prototypical office setting.

“You know, I don’t even know your cell phone number,” I said looking up from Page 6. “How scary is that? If I didn’t have my cell phone or Blackberry with me, I would have no idea how to get you!”

Here I was, sitting with a person I whom I love, whom I share time and space with, meals and shampoo and I do not even know his cell number. My life is programmed into my Verizon Wireless LG phone. “Do you know my phone number?” I asked him out of curiosity.

“It’s 917 something,” he said as the printer cranked out a spreadsheet of rent rolls and pie charts and graphs. He seemed nonplused by this discovery.

Leaving M alone to his work, I headed out to my office: Starbucks. I ordered an iced-sugar-free vanilla-non-fat-latte, unable to speak the long and complicated order without my morning dose of caffeine already coursing through my veins. I unpacked my laptop and logged into the WiFi system, checking emails and firing off some messages to schedule dinner with friends tomorrow.

Back and forth the emails flew; “how bout Haru”, “how about that new steak place in midtown?” “wanna find something with patio seating?”. A dozen or so emails bounced through cyberspace as we tried to secure a restaurant to try on Friday night. This is ridiculous I thought, as I searched my bag for my cell phone to call Keri and finalize plans. Why all this back and forth when one phone call can suffice.

I mined around inside my purse, taking out the contents and throwing them onto the table. Lipsticks and day planners, wallet and keys, gum and spare change all piled onto the table. At the bottom of my empty purse there was no phone. I was pretty sure I had packed it this morning, but then I recalled I had tucked it into its chargers before I had tucked myself in for the night yesterday.

Feeling lost and unconnected without my address book of 200 phone numbers of my closest family, friends and those numbers stored in my phone that I have no idea who or where they are from, I was reminded of our dependency on these electronic gadgets.

After I surfed the web, finished my latte and made a dent in some research work, I wandered out onto the streets of the Upper East Side. I was getting hungry, hungrier when I wandered passed the Gourmet Garage on East 64th Street. Perhaps M would take a break from his numbers and meet me for lunch….if only I had his number, which fortunately I did, because of our fortuitous conversation this morning and my exemplary short term memory.

I located a pay phone a few blocks north. Who uses payphones anymore I thought. The only people I ever using them are the homeless people who search in high hopes of finding spare change in the coin return slot. I grabbed the receiver from the hook and wiped the ear piece on my tank top. The dial tone buzzed in my ear as I searched for the spare change in my bag. How much is a phone call nowadays? Are payphone calls like stamps prices; they keep rising when the need for the antiquated services have been replaced by the simplicity of online bill pay and Evites?

The phone rang and rang until it went to voice mail.

“Hi Snuff, I just finished up some work and wanted to grab some food. Call me back if you want to come meet me. Oh wait! Shit. I don’t have my cell phone. Well you can um, um,” I searched the payphone for a number.

“Forget it,” I said discouraged knowing I wouldn't be able to connect with him. “I am coming home to get my phone.”

I hung up and disconnected the call, realizing with out all these technogadgets and doohickeys, I am completely disconnected from the world. Maybe some things like the little black book and the little black dress, should never go out of fashion.

Island Life

The Island Life

There is nothing worse than leaving Manhattan…except for leaving Manhattan to go to New Jersey for a boat cruise on a rainy night.

“What happens if we capsize?” I asked M as he was shaving in the bathroom and I was choosing appropriate footwear from my closet my hair wet and in a towel. “What happens if there is a giant wave and the boat turns over in the Hudson? I can’t swim! I am going to drown and my shoes are going to be ruined,” I said as I slipped on a new pair of Gucci 4 inch heal stilettos and shook out the water from my locks.

“I am sure there are life vests on board. Plus I will jump in and save you,” M offered a realistic answer to my stupid question.

“But what if it’s like Gilligan’s Island and this three hour tour turns into you and me making coconut radios and sewing clothing from what washes ashore? Who will take care of Chief? He will shit all over my apartment. I should definitely bring some sort of outerwear, I mean if we get stuck on Ellis Island for a few days I should have some other fashionable options to change into when we are rescued and the news crews are there.”

He stopped responding when my questions reached a level of complete idiocy.

I despise leaving Manhattan. This sliver of rock set against the landscape of the rest of the world has been my home for many years. I have developed NYCD (New York Centric Disease) – outside 212 nothing exists. The idea of spending my Saturday night away from the bustling streets of Upper East Side, away from the sidewalk cafes and Euro chic lounges seemed repugnant. To me, a boat cruise meant cornrow braids, a Bain de Soliel tan and pineapple flavored drink in a Caribbean port of call – not New Jersey.

With an umbrella and a whaling jacket in hand we managed to hail a cab on the Upper East Side outside my apartment. “The seaport in Weehawken,” M said to the driver as we closed the door.

The driver turned to us with a perplexed look. “Weehawken? I don’t go there,” he said. With some cajoling and offers of a handsome tip our driver braved the Lincoln Tunnel traffic on a Saturday night only to get lost outside the confines of Manhattan’s concrete jungle. “See!” I said to M, “Even our cab driver doesn’t want leave Manhattan. Why would anyone want to go to New Jersey?”

Arriving at the Atlantica yacht’s slip just moments before it set sail, M and I stumbled down the wobbly dock towards the boat, the sea rocking the wooden planks and me in my very wrong footwear choice. Having almost plunged into the icy cold drink a few times, with M’s assistance and many stares from fellow sea goers I climbed aboard the ship being airlifted up the slippery stair plank by a few deckhands.

Adam, M’s best friend from boarding school was hosting a boat load of clients for a evening at sea; an adult version of the Club Med booze cruise. It had been raining all day, downpours at time that rivaled the Noah’s Ark tale. I had contemplated bringing Chief and a fellow English mastiff mate along in order to perpetuate his species; given the current meteorological conditions this made sense to me.

But the wind and rain desisted and now the sky was just a blanket of wooly grayness that seemed comforting. We grabbed drinks at the bar and headed to the upper deck of the boat to join Adam and Ben for the vistas as we set sail from Port Imperial in Weehawken.

Our entertainment options were limited. The DJ seemingly had taken lessons from the DJs who worked the Bar and Bat Mitzvahs from the 1980s on Long Island – trying to engage high net worth adults in sophomoric games and the line dance to Electric Slide. What else was there to do but drink?

As we cruised up past the GW bridge and looped back around past the Statue of Liberty and under the Brooklyn Bridge, M, his two friends and I took full advantage of the open bar and made the most of the weather.

Three hours into our evening on the high seas with the help of Captain Morgan and First Mate Jack Daniels we were having an amazing time. I mastered the art of balance in my shoes finding a static harmony in the rocking of the ship and my own swaying motions. Chugging along, the boat anchored for a moment on the East River giving the passengers a chance to snap photos of the magnificent skyline which beckoned our attention off the starboard side.

I sat wrapped in M’s arms, the breeze from the water a bit chilly as the day’s humidity plunged from the changing weather conditions. We sat stoically, in our own quiet way drinking in Manhattan from a vantage point uncommonly had. “There! See that building?” I asked him nuzzling his shirt collar and pointing to the landmark Trump World Tower. “We live right up from that,” I said proudly showing off my New York geography skills.

Usually immersed within the cacophony of horns, sirens and barking orders of New Yorkers there was a serene peace watching New York from a few hundred feet off shore; the mammoth buildings of glass and steel seemed smaller, the people insignificant, the problems indefinable and nonexistent. It was a movie set, designed with a Hollywood artistic vision yet with a New Yorker’s sense of realism, the lights from the city danced on the waves of this polluted river.

Perhaps it was the open bar or perhaps it was merely a new perspective, but New York from a distance looked even more appealing than being locked in the mix. Maybe I don’t love New Jersey – and I am pretty sure I never will, but from this point of neither here nor there, I found a simple love again for this rock I call home…..even if I couldn’t swim home – I was home. I love this island life.

Commander and Chief

Commander in Chief

Day 3: Chief still alive as can be seen with today’s newspaper (pictured)


“Argh!!!!” a woman yelled as she threw her body against a building recoiling in terror as Chief and I walked by.

“He’s friendly,” I yelled to her as we proceeded on to his favorite tree that he has been watering for the last few days. Chief was oblivious to the attention he garners; I on the other hand cannot walk 2 feet without comments. Walking a dog the size of a tiger, I felt like Siegfried and Roy lumbering down Second Avenue with Chief meandering behind me on his leash. Small animals and people careened off the sidewalks and out of our path, as Chief unknowingly helped slice out a space of the Upper East Side for himself.

“Hope you don’t live in a studio apartment,” the workman who was fixing the street said.
“Circus in town?” another one said.

Over the past few days having a dog in New York City an entirely new world has opened to me. I have had to locate pet stores, find nearby parks, wake up early to take him out and make sure I space my outings so that I do not come home to soiled rugs.

Figuring Chief would make a good buddy to run a fun errands with, I put him on his leash and grabbed my to-do list; Dry cleaners, Duane Reade, post office. “Get out! Out! Miss, Miss, Miss,” the security guard at Duane Reade yelled after me as I headed down the shampoo aisle. Chief’s wagging tail had slammed two corner displays, causing an earthquake effect as disposable cameras fell to the floor. “He’s just too big,” the man said.

Tossed from Duane Reade, we headed back to the park. I decided to sit outside with Chief at the outdoor café and do some writing. I knew dogs were allowed in there. It seems the small, white, fluffy dog is the Upper East staple; they are as ubiquitous as Prada bags and Essie Like Linen nail color. With an iced coffee in one hand and the leash in the other, I sat down to enjoy the late afternoon breeze hoping for some quiet time.

“What kind of dog is that?” I was asked by every passerby.
“How old is he?” The second question to follow the first.
“What do you feed him?” The third question in a series of continuous and identical inquiries.

“I feed him small fluffy pets,” I answered in jest as Chief eyed the rodent like creatures most people carried in designer knapsacks under their arms. Annoyed by the questions, I was about to prepare a sign with these factoids for him to wear around his neck so he could do the job of answering for me.

Unable to get work done or have a moment of silence, I accepted the fate of small talk burdened upon as dog owners and dog lovers alike came and sat with me, mesmerized by Chief’s stature and being.

“No one will mess with you when you have him on a leash,” this guy said as we left the park and headed home. Chief was my own security guard, Britney Spears should think about trading in her big fellow for this guy. I could walk around naked with $100 bills taped to me and with Chief by my side, I would be totally safe. Though this is not something I plan on trying any time soon.

Coming back into my apartment later the night with M, a co-op board meeting was going on in the lobby. As owners argued over air-conditioning repairs and lobby renovation, Chief dripping drool from his hanging black jowls lumbered through the crowd. All eyes turn to Chief and away from the board holding court in the front, there is dead silence.

“Say hello to your new neighbor,” M said jokingly as we ignored the obvious looks of distressed tenants. Living up to his name, he really is the “Commander in Chief”. All hail.

The 800lb Gorilla

As the adage goes: Where does an 800 lb gorilla sleep? Answer: Anywhere he wants to.

M and I drove back to New York last night, Chief his 200 lb English Mastiff losing more hair than Donald Trump on a windy day, in the backseat of his once very clean car. M was going out of town on a business trip and it made logical sense for me to host Chief as a houseguest for the next few days.

Let me preface all this by saying, I once was the proud of owner of cat: Chelsey; a 6lb white bundle of fur whose maintenance was no more difficult than a cactus. Suffice to say, Chelsey now is part of my parent’s menagerie of animals. I couldn’t hack kitty motherhood.

This was a big step for me, even if it is just a few days. I feared for the safety of my shoes…Chief’s secondary diet consists of leathergoods. What if I lost him, forgot him, or worse killed him…what if this short stint of doggie mommyhood only confirmed my worse fears of my inabilities to sustain life outside my own. M would break up with me in an Upper East Side minute if I mutilated his prized and cherished, Chief. I was afraid.

Strapped with multiple pieces of luggage and a massive dog, we fell into my somewhat disorganized apartment after midnight and began to dog-proof things while Chief surveyed his new temporary home. All food waist level had to be moved to upper shelves, garbage removed and tossed out immediately, a disposable blanket draped over the sofa to prevent staining drool and all shoes over $300 retail where under lock and key. With a new bone in his mouth, it seemed safe to turn in for the night. Chief plopped down on the floor and mauled away as M and I turned off the lights, exhausted from our drive.

Downstairs, I could hear Chief’s tyrannosaurus like paws click away on the hardwood floors. He was pacing. Back and forth, he walked the stretch of my apartment while I lay awake listening. Then came the sound of running water. “That better be Chief turning on the sink to do my dishes or else he is pissing on my floor,” I said kicking M under the covers in the darkness of my apartment.

Sure enough, Chief had peed a river, luckily missing the rug. After I walked barefoot through the stream of warm urine, M grabbed my Clorox spray bottle and wiped up the mess. Chief looked on proud, marking his territory and putting his personal flag of ownership here – he was now an official New Yorker. Just like the rest of us, he peed on something.

Back in bed, we turned out the lights and tried to retire for the evening. Again, we hear Chief trying to climb the stairs to the upper flight of my apartment. He was too big to make the turn and too big to masterfully get into bed. Instead, he stood there trapped between the staircase walls, staring at M and I. Even in the blackness I could hear his panting, and I could feel his desperation. In his giant oaf dog brain he must have been thinking – where am I? All of this was new to him, these New York Upper East Side surroundings as foreign to him as Tokyo would be to me. He couldn’t get settled.

“Let’s sleep downstairs,” Matt the good doggie-dad said. “If we fall asleep on the sofa, he will be fine sleeping on the floor next to us.” We grabbed blankets and pillows and made a nest on the L shaped sofa; M sleeping one way and me sleeping the other. Chief assessed our sleeping situation and was agreeable to it. He dropped like a two-ton sack of grain, sliding down the side of the sofa and collapsing onto the carpet in doggie bliss.

We awoke in the morning, Chief guarding our cocoon with his massive body. “How’d you sleep?” I asked M. My morning breath putrid, my hair twisted in a rat’s nest of twirls and curls as M adjusted to the early morning light streaming through the windows. Contorted into a ball, M stretched his legs and his arms in one giant rowing motion, moaning as morning came too quickly. “ARGH! We need to walk him,” M said as we looked on at Chief who was as happy as Barney the dinosaur in a kid’s video. He had no understanding of what we do for love…for him or for each other.

With M gone for a day, I have taken on the role of doggie Mom. Though there are no diaper bags or pacifiers….there are many plastic dog shit bags and rawhide bones. If nothing else, I am taking my first paw like steps towards adulthood/motherhood. And if poundage is anything…technically, I am the mommy of 20 newborn babies.

Watch Me Get Mortified

Mortified

My life has been a series of moments humiliating and humorous ...come and watch me MOTIFY myself as I read from my earliest works: my Journal from Camp. I will be performing in Get Mortified on Wednesday, June 21st at the Tank Theater. Click here for information.

What is it?
Mortified: Real Words Real People Real Pathetic is a reading of people's actual childhood writings, ripped from the pages of their lives and shared with total strangers. The result is a uniquely honest collection that is equal parts comedic and cathartic.

What People are Saying:
"See it!" (Jane Magazine)
"Some of the juiciest real life tragedies!" (TimeOut NY)
"A comic cringe fest!" (Backstage West)
"A litany of mortifying moments!" (LA Times Magazine)
"Self-deprecation taken to a whole new level!" (New York Press)
"Heartbreakingly hilarious tales of personal woe & social catastrophe!" (Flavorpill.net)
As featured by... All Things Considered, This American Life & Daily Candy

I will be drinking both before and after the show…come’ on…you have to!

The Best Little Whore House on the UES

Best Little Whore House on the UES

For years, I have walked passed this venue, a nondescript bar with a blue awning and blackened windows, a small planted tree next to the glass door. It was attached to my friend’s apartment building and many times after a night out on the town, we would return to her place attempting to grab one last drink at this spot. Purely out of convenience, I would suggest it as we walked by. On many occasions we walked into the venue, quickly greeted by a surly woman who tried to shoo us out as fast as possible. “No for you,” she said in a Japanese accent pushing us towards the door and trying to limit our line of vision.

Something was off. From my limited vantage point, I noticed 4 very scantily clad Asian girls sitting tightly against a very fat and unattractive older man wearing a 10-gallon cowboy hat. The rest of the bar was empty. Something looked awry.

“I am sure it’s a whore house,” I said to Kate. “There is something going on in there. Something we are not supposed to see.”

And thus it became my mission to one day have a drink there and see what went on inside this place which was off limits to me. Lodged with determination and a journalistic plan of attack, I put my mission into motion over a late dinner and many drinks with M and his friend Bill.

“I think they won’t let me in cause I am a girl. I am not getting the “services” that they offer. But I bet if you two went in without me and assessed the situation it would play out differently,” I said sitting at an outside table on Second Avenue finishing the last of my port. “We need to roll in and act as if we know what the place is about. We can’t look around and act stupid. Are you guys in?” I asked hatching my plot.

M put down his empty martini glass and sighed audibly. “I’m not taking my girlfriend to whore house for a night cap. This is retarded,” he said debunking my scheme. After three months of dating, he has come to understand I need these insane adventures. I needed this story, if there was one to be had.

Bill was in. He was ready to unearth the mystery which lay twenty floors below Kate’s apartment. “Please, please!!” I pleaded with M. With Bill’s encouragement and M’s desire to stop my banshee like whine, he acquiesced.

I stood outside the bar as M and Bill entered. Dressed in preppy business attire, they looked the part of potential customer as they made their way through the labyrinth of doors and inside and out of my view. I smoked a cigarette, concocting the role I would play that night: dumb Texan blonde. I will blame this on the martinis.

M came outside and grabbed me, pulling me along and not looking at me as I stumbled in my four inch platform shoes. “This is fucking retarded,” he said yet again as we found Bill at the bar negotiating our “cover” with the “Madame”.

“It sixty dollars for each just to sit,” she said, eyeing us and trying to determine our purpose. At first I sat quietly, demurely – as if the men I was with were taking care of the details for the night. Perhaps, I was a paid escort…maybe that is what she thought, but then again who brings a bottle of Mad Dog to an open bar party? Bill and M agree to the details of our stay and we order drinks. More drinks, which I did not need.

The “Madame” brought over bowls of Hershey kisses, animal crackers, Frito's and Skittles, seemingly a strange aphrodisiac combination of bad vending machine food. My eyes darted around the room as Bill engaged the “Madame” in conversation and M sat gruffly next to me, his hand tightly gripping my knee as if at any moment I would be sold into white slavery.

The bar again was rather empty. A woman played Barbara Streisand “Memories” on a piano in the back. It was decorated with an 80s sense of airport lounge chic, industrial carpet and black lacquer chairs were the only ambiance complimenting this space. One man sat at the bar with two Asian women next to him, chain smoking. Besides the few other token nearly naked women, there was no one else there.

“Would you like to sing?” the woman asked us as she poured another round of drinks.

“Sure,” I said dragging M and Bill towards the microphone stand. I had been faking a Texan accent all night, this was part of my disguise for my undercover sting operation. I was going for Jessica Simpson, but I sounded more like someone with gumballs in their mouth.

We did a miserable rendition of “New York State of Mind”, my accent fading with each note. The small crowd erupted in applause when we finished….because we had finished and they could take the animal crackers out of their ears.

“I don’t think this is a whore house. I think it’s a worse piano bar than where we went for your birthday,” M said as we nursed our drinks. No one had offered us any “extras,” we had been there for over an hour.

An attractive blonde waitress fresh from Poland had come over to talk to us and complimented us on our off key serenade. This was it, I thought. Now, she is making her move. Maybe there was something in the back which would be the key, some room with beds or secret passageway, I thought.

“Where’s the bathroom, y’all?” I asked in my gumball Texan twang.

Blondie walked me back to the bathroom and waited with me while it was occupied. I thought this was a little odd. “So how do you like working here?” I asked her, hoping her answer would shed some light on my suspicions. “It’s ok. It’s empty tonight, it will be better tomorrow when the Japanese business men will be here. We talk to them all night. It is empty tonight.”

From what I saw, it seemed that conversation was the currency here and not sex. This was not a normal bar, but I wasn’t convinced I stumbled into Heidi Fleiss’s lair either. When I returned from the bathroom, M was well past ready to leave. Bill finished his Scotch as M darted for the door. We paid our enormous tab, feeling a bit foolish.

The “Madame” showed us out. “Come back again,” she said. “Come sing on Monday night.”

This bar, I am pretty sure, has some sketchy stuff occurring – but I am very sure that it must be a deaf bar if they want us to come and sing again!

OPP (Other People's Problems: Single Life and Blood Shed

OPP (Other People’s Problems – Single Life and Blood Shed)


There are advantages to being single; you have a giant bed all to yourself, you own your remote control and you can leave dirty dishes in the sink for as long as you please. But there are many disadvantages to single life, as Ali learned recently.

Staggering home drunk from yet another wedding, Ali fell out of the cab and into the arms of her Upper East Side doorman. Truly the man you want to see at 3 am after many champagne toast and vodka cocktails. For single women in New York, doormen are the protective and caring surrogate boyfriend. They assess your dates when they wait patiently in the lobby for you to appear from the elevator bank and they make sure you get home safely. Doormen are the omnipresent omniscient force of single life in New York.

Fumbling for her keys from inside a tiny rhinestone evening bag, Ali stumbled into her apartment and began the mammoth task of getting ready for bed. In her drunken condition, these preparations would be difficult. She kicked off her Choos and tossed her handbag onto a pile of growing laundry and clothing which had not made its way back into the closet. Reaching for the zipper of this bridesmaid’s dress, Ali wrestled to unlatch the top hook and unzip this pink atrocity she had been stuck in for eight hours.

At first, the zipper appeared to be stuck. She pulled and she tugged gently, hoping the zipper would release and she would be freed from the pink and ruffle prison she had been hostage to all night. Nothing seemed to be working. Thinking her angle may be the problem, Ali positioned herself on her stomach on the cold hardwood floor of her apartment and tried some contortionist’s moves: from the side, from the top – her arms like Gumby trying to maneuver the zipper down. Still, it didn’t budge. Growing more and more impatient, she crawled over to her closet and located a dry cleaner’s wire hanger. Channeling MacGyver she fashioned a tool from the bent metal, skewering herself and the zipper as the tried to latch the rudimentary tool onto the small zipper. She could feel the cold metal pierce her skin, but she refused to stop. At this point, it was a challenge she felt obligated to conquer.

Realistically, she could have said “fuck it” and crawled into bed with a full face of bridal party make-up and have gotten one more wear out of the bridesmaid dress as a nightgown. With more determination and drunken strength, she rammed the hanger into her back and let out a blood curdling scream as she felt the red blood soak her pink party dress. For another 25 minutes, Ali battled the zipper making no headway. “A scissors,” she said aloud to her empty and dark apartment. Locating a pair of sharpened sheers, she tried to cut the dress off from the back, but again she missed slicing off a chunk of her back so large even a dermatologist would take a lesser amount for a biopsy. Had Ali been dating someone at that point, it would have been his job to rip the dress off – but being alone and single at this moment was painful figuratively and literally.

Bruised and battered, she acquiesced. She was out of options. Sure, she could call one of her girlfriends and explain the urgency of the situation. Surely, any single girl could relate. Without men, light bulbs go unchanged, hinges go unfixed and home repairs get waitlisted. None of our father’s taught us how to use power tools….we have shoe boxes not tool boxes in our closets. As Ali ran through the list of her friends in the neighborhood who would trek over at 4am to undress her, she realized only 23 floors down was her answer, her surrogate boyfriend; Juan.

In flip flops, mascara stained cheeks and her blood drenched puffy pink dress, Ali rode the elevator down to the lobby passing a handful of people who probably wondered if she was coming back from a costume party where she went as the fallen Prom Queen from the movie “Carrie”.
“What happened to that girl?” she heard one person say as she did the real walk of shame.

Juan was drinking a cup of coffee and reading the sports page from the Post, the steam from the coffee rising up above the doorman stand when he noticed Ali coming towards him. She looked as if she had been mauled by a banshee or Edward Scissorhands.

“Miss Ali, what happened?” he said visibly worried. “Shall I call 911? Did someone hurt you?” As Juan reached for the phone to telephone the police and report a suspected attack, Ali spoke in hushed tones.

“No, I’m OK. I wasn’t assaulted. Well, I was but more like self mutilation. I used a hanger cause the zipper wouldn’t come down. Can you help get me out of this dress?”

Juan placed the receiver back on the hook and looked at her for a long moment. She wasn’t sure if it was pity she saw in his eyes or the beginnings of a smile. “Miss Ali, come here. Of course I will help you,” he said. Juan always had her dry cleaning bundled with her ten monthly magazine subscriptions ready when she came in from a long day at work. That was his job. But even this pushed the boundaries past doorman/surrogate boyfriend.

Ali lifted her long shiny black hair, holding it on top of her head as Juan effortlessly unhooked the delicate top hook-and-eye and easily pulled down the zipper to the small of her back. Ali exhaled a deep sigh of relief; letting her hair cascade over her mutilated back she hugged the dress into her chest with her arms. “Juan, you are a lifesaver!” she said. “I thought I would have to wear that thing to work on Monday.”

Just another bloody battle tale from the Single Woman’s dating battlefield. It is a good thing we have doormen as the last line of defense.

(If you have a story about dating, relationships, or humorous anecdote from the world of singlehood which you would like to share in this column, please contact me at carriegross@uppereast.com. We are currently looking to run new and interesting stories in the OPP columns once a week)

Drink Sing and Be Gay

Drink Sing and Be Gay

It is insane that after two months of this whirlwind relationship, my friends had not yet met M.

“I swear Keri, he does exist!” I told her. She did have reason to doubt me. In college, I had an imaginary boyfriend, Doug. He was a figment of my imagination and a large part of my humor. I have a slew of pictures, my arms suspended in mid-air as if Doug was next to me posing.

“I can’t wait to meet him,” she said over IM as we made plans to meet for my birthday drinks later that night.

I was turning “thirty-fucking-two”. That was how I referred to this age, a slide towards my mid-thirties and away from my twenties entirely. At “Thirty-fucking-two” my birthday parties are much tamer than the nights out that ended in the early AM hours as I dragged my drunken carcass home. I had selected Brandy’s Piano Bar as the venue to commemorate thirty-fucking-two with my closest friends and M. A Google search for “Upper East Side Piano Bars” led me to their website.

Mere hours before everyone was making the trek uptown in the rain for drinks and song, I did another Google search, landing me on a different page with much different information.

“Keri, it’s a GAY BAR,” I typed into the IM window, cutting and pasting the link to this website. “I am having my birthday party at a GAY BAR.”

I was fine with this, but since M has to close his eyes and makes noises akin to a cat being skinned alive when the Vito sex scenes are on the Sopranos, I was pretty sure he wasn’t going to be too pleased. “I’m not going to tell M,” I said. Let’s just hope he didn’t Google it too. He hadn’t Googled me when we started dating, so there was a good shot, he wouldn’t discover this information.

In the wind and rain, I attempted to remain dry in my new birthday dress and open toed shoes on my way to my gay day party. Opening the door to Brandy’s on East 84th Street between 2nd and 3rd Avenue, I half expected to see the Village People in full garb sipping wine spritzers in feather boas. I was pleasantly surprised to discover a charming and understated small pub with linoleum floors, old French posters, rickety cabaret chairs and tables and the same kind of piano we had in my chorus class at Welsh Valley Middle School. No rainbow flags. No Village People. No condom machines.

One drink later, M arrived. His hair tousled from the rain carrying a Bendell’s bag. Only Keri2 and Ron were there already, the weather making traveling around the city more difficult than getting to New Jersey. “Hi Bird,” M said kissing me (I am Big Bird, if he is Snuff). “A present! For me! You shouldn’t have,” I said unabashedly ripping apart the bag and un-wrapping a gorgeous scarf.

“Do you like? Really?” he said a bit unsure if his taste and the sales woman’s taste would be mine.

“I LOVE IT,” I gushed as I put it on. M, who is very much like my father didn’t realize the irony here. When my parents had started dating, my father bought my mother a scarf for her birthday. The similarities are uncanny and unending.

M sat down and we ordered drinks from the bar. It was only 7:30pm and there was no waitress service yet. “Don’t put your bag on the floor,” M said picking up my pink purse and placing it on the chair next to me, and far away from him. He was adamant about it. “You know this is a gay bar, right?” he asked me as he inspected the clientele and the floors looking for tell-tale signs. He was being a great sport. Not only was he meeting all of my friends in one night, but he was at a gay bar and ok with it.

One by one, everyone arrived – drenched and with tales of travel nightmares getting there. M’s two friends got there well versed on the background of Brandy’s pub – they had emailed each other the description from Shecky’s earlier in the day, something I had overlooked entirely. But there is power in numbers and together the three straight men in business suits and alpha male bravado sat calmly and securely at this gay bar.

At 9:30 the atmosphere came alive. The waitress/singer took our drink orders and then grabbed the microphone and belted out a rendition of “Midnight Train to Georgia”. It seemed at Brandy’s talent also slung cocktails. Perched on a stool, this woman with large “lungs” (her language as she pointed to very ample size bosom) sang the crowd favorites. A mix of Billy Joel, Marc Cohn – she took requests, including a serenade of “Happy Birthday” to me.

Our group filled one side of the bar, we were many drinks into the evening and everyone seemed gay (gay=happy). I even caught the boys singing along to the songs, in between conversations on more masculine topics such as Ultimate Fighting and stock market tips.

The rain had finally stopped when we called it a night. My birthday officially over, the clock struck midnight and we all headed home. My friends finally got to meet M and M finally got to meet my friends he knows by stories and the photo array in my apartment.

Thirty-fucking-two started off pretty damn good. Snuff was out of the closet....to my friends, proven to be a real life boyfriend. And even if Brandy's was a gay bar….I was gay with happiness, because the people who I love were all there.

Wrestling Match of the Sexes

Lying head to toe on M’s couch we wrestled over the remote control. “Sex and the City” is on,” I said excitedly as he flipped through channels. He had control of the remote at that moment, holding it tightly in his right hand and my foot in his left hand. Thus M had all the power. He paused on Sex and the City for a moment while Big and Carrie battled it out in one of the earlier episodes. Owning the box set, I can watch and re-watch this series. TBS, WB, HBO – I will take it in whatever format I can. “Let’s see what else is on,” M protested continuing the descent into stations whose numbers are 4 digits stopping on Spike TV.

He dropped the remote on the side of the couch and placed his right hand behind his head propping himself up, he intently stared at the television as thugs in boxing shorts did a combination of ju-jitsu, wrestling and boxing in an octagon ring. Blood splattered onto the mat, as M verbalized their moves to me, “He is such a better athlete. That one there, look how he moves, how he keeps his head down and jabs quickly,” he said pointing to the guy whose knee was now crammed into the other guy’s neck. “See that, that’s called a submission move, it basically means the other guy cries for mercy,” M continued to explain the brutality of this sport as I made faces of horror and disgust all the while cringing and pinching his toes.

It’s called Ultimate Fighting Championship, a reality TV program much like Big Brother or Survivor, where ultimate fighters lived together in a house and then pummeled the shit out of each other in a ring; one person emerging victorious and the other being voted off the show. “Put Sex and the City back on, I don’t want to watch this,” I pleaded.

“Just let’s watch for a little. You’ll like it, give it a chance,” M said hoping that somehow in the last few minutes between station breaks, I had become a fervent lover of excessive violence and blood shed. M was a champion wrestler throughout college and high school, winning matches and crushing his opponents, he loved the sport for the skill required to win and appreciated the talent he saw on TV.

There are many things challenging about relationships, compromising on food selection and TV selection being two of the most prominent and universal. I am willing to eat sushi every night, but I wasn’t sure I could watch this on a regular basis.

The match lasted three rounds, a relatively short span of gruesome brawling, the victor walking away bruised and the loser slinking away with a bruised ego and facial lacerations. M put Sex and the City back on for me while I smiled and cooed like an excited toddler.

It was the episode where Carrie and Big go to the jazz club and Carrie gives her phone number to the ADD jazz musician as the three of them share an awkward cab ride home. “This is one of my favorites,” I said to M who feigned interest in the show. “It’s so complex,” I said explaining the paradigm of Big and Carrie’s romance. “They wrestle with these intense emotions; it’s a push pull battle. She pulls away and he moves forward and vice versa.” It was a battle that lasted for six seasons and kept millions of women across the country riveted each week. I attempted to give him a blow by blow of Carrie and Big, a summation of their romance.

It was late, M fading in and out of consciousness, over stuffed from a huge Italian feast we devoured for dinner. And then it hit me like a right hook, there are many difference between the sexes. Women enjoy wrestling, they enjoy heavy weight prize fights and battles; but they enjoy them in the context of relationships. Our boxing ring is the dating scene. We pick fights to make things interesting; we take off the gloves and come out swinging. We don’t always fight fair and we usually go below the belt, something which isn’t allowed in the Ultimate Fighting Championship.

Men like life simple and direct, no hidden messages woven like muted silk through the fabric of a shirt. They like their fights confrontational in silk shorts and in boxing rings.

The Ultimate Fighting Champion who won that night was deaf. In the ring he was focused on his own movements unable to hear the external chatter of fans and foes, he directed his anger, his aggression and his attention at his opponent, ultimately making minced meat of his face. As women in the dating field we should take from his style of battle and incorporate it as our own. We beat up ourselves because we lose focus.

We must learn to pick our battles wisely. And for what it’s worth, I would gladly watch some macho man wrestling, kicking, head bashing show, than wrestle the remote from M’s hands. Let’s face it, he knows submission moves and I like my nose in its original place. In realtionships and in the Ultimate Fighting ring, it is best to know how and when to fight. And for M and I, luckily, our biggest fight is over the remote control.

Life Assurance

Last night, pulling up my strapless bra and adjusting my bridesmaid’s dress I said to Jen and Ken, “I am going outside for a cigarette.” I needed one. I was about to give my wedding toast and the champagne wasn’t cutting it.

Jen and Ken are two of my friends from Michigan. Married four years ago, they just had twins thus elevating them to full adult status in my mind. No longer can they enjoy the bounty of irresponsible youth, the carcinogens of cigarette smoke or the morning after hangovers from excessive drinking. They have bottles to heat and babies to feed.

“Are you sure you don’t want a cigarette,” I said trying to entice Ken to come stand outside the Essex House with me.

“Haven’t touched one since I was 27,” he said. Back in the days of bong hits and frat parties, Ken enjoyed a Marlboro Light.

“Makes sense. You can’t kick it now and drop dead and leave Jen alone with two kids,” I said trying to add some levity.

“Well, I have life insurance. She’ll be fine.”

“Wow, life insurance. I’m not even sure if I have a 401 K and I am damn sure I don’t have life insurance. Maybe I should look into that,” I said trying to carry on an adult conversation. I had just played “I SPY” with Keri who was now completely drunk and dancing to Abba’s Dancing Queen with reckless abandon, inches from popping a boob and flashing the tuxedoed crowd.

“Nah,” Ken said as the waiter filled our emptied red and white wine glasses. “If you died, it wouldn’t matter. You’re not married and no one depends on you.”

I was already sitting ALONE, at a wedding, M off scuba diving in a foreign country and Keri, my date for the evening, breaking it down on the dance floor. And now, I am being told that the value of my life is purely dependent upon my marital status. No one needs me? No one depends on me?

As the evening progressed and Keri and I stood up with microphones and champagne glasses and toasted Alissa and Justin in front of 200 of their closest friends and family, I realized Ken was wrong. It was the cracking in our voices, the emotion and true heartfelt love behind our speeches that I knew. Even without a husband, or babies….we are needed by our friends – for support, for love, for friendship. It is a value that cannot be insured, but one which comes with a policy of lifetime assurance. A premium which cannot be devalued.

OPP (Other People's Problems)

OPP (Other People’s Problems): Money Can’t Buy Everything

“He is very successful,” Keri’s colleague said of her blind date she was about to meet. “I mean a real New York City tycoon. I don’t know him all that well. He is a friend of a friend through business, but I know he is a billionaire.” Keri agreed to be set up, a choice many single women make in New York and later regret.

Though Billionaire sounds appealing, it doesn’t mean anything but a free meal.

As with any blind date, she was leery. Emailing me that morning she asked, “Do you think I should cancel if I’ve never seen a picture?”

“How bad could he be? He has a Centurion Black American Express Card, worse comes to worse you drink Cristal and go home alone. Besides, I am sure he is normal if he is that successful,” I said.

Famous last words.

Keri met “Bill” at Caviar Russe for an early dinner and some cocktails. Not one for small talk, Bill dives in immediately. “I currently am seeing 10 or so women. I haven’t had sex in a year, but I like to lick and please,” he said as Keri just about exhaled her martini through her nose. Lick and Please? Lick and please, she thought. Who says that? Who says that before the first course? Who says that ever?

Bill continues to regale Keri with stories of his stable of women while she sits silently mentally making notes to share with her friends later. At 45, Bill fancied himself a “lady pleaser”, an average looking fellow he was magnate in the Venture Capital sphere and thus a magnet to New York gold digging women. “We’ll have a bottle of your finest wine and two ounces of the Beluga,” Bill said to the waitress. “I just love food that is an aphrodisiac. I love having the best of everything,” he said to Keri smiling large and licking his lips.

“So we only have an hour here,” he said, “After you I have two other dates tonight. I usually stack them. First one is a new girl, that’s you,” he said winking at her, “Then the second is someone I have seen a few times. And then I usually end the night licking and pleasing.”

Keri had spoken all of five words, “Hello nice to meet you” since they sat down. Taking in Bill’s freakishness, she was at a loss for language. There are strange blind dates, and then there is Bill. “You know, Bill. I think you are a very, um um unique individual, but I don’t think I’m the girl for you,” she said finally drawing words from her traumatized brain. Keri is a strong and decisive woman, not one to be drawn in by bling bling or sizzle, she is not for sale.

Bill paused. He was not used to hearing no, or for that matter taking no as an answer. He worked harder. “I like you,” he said leaning back and swirling the red wine in his glass. He was strategizing as he would on a business deal. “I would like to take you to see Cirque de Soliel, but I have one condition,” he added.

By this point, Keri decided playing along would be far more entertaining than getting up from the table and leaving. She had already invested an hour and two drinks into the night.

“I will take you to Cirque de Soliel, but you can’t wear any underwear and you need to buy a new pair of Manolo Blahniks. I think they make women’s legs sexier. I’m a leg man.” Bill said

Bill continued to order food, champagne and anything with a large price tag attached to it. It remained untouched. She wasn’t eating and Bill just enjoyed staring at her and the quantities of excess on the table, all of which he believed were for sale. Fueled by the martinis and the sheer audacity of Bill, Keri semi-agreed to this plan, knowing she would back out later. “Buy the ones with the highest heel, honey” he said as he paid for the hordes of uneaten fare whisking Keri out the door to his chauffer driven car.

On the way home, Bill continued to hard sell. Private jets, Ferraris, trips to countries only Angelina Jolie and the Peace Corps have discovered, Bill prattled on to Keri as if he was trying to sell her a timeshare in the swamp lands of Florida. She continued to count traffic lights until they reached her apartment, more excited to get home for the American Idol finale and to try her new face soap. “Stop here, Henry,” Bill said to his driver as Keri opened the door to get out.

He took out a wad of cash and removed ten crisp one hundred dollar bills, licking his fingers as he counted the money off a roll the size of Charmin 2 ply. He shoved the crinkled bills into Keri’s handbag as she had one foot out the door. “What the hell are you doing?” she asked him. “Those are for the shoes. I am looking forward to seeing those legs in something which will show them off,” he said pulling the door closed before Keri could hand him back the money.

As Bill sped off for date number two, Keri stood outside her apartment building on the Upper East Side, searching for her cell phone underneath the overflowing cash which fell out of her bag like receipts. She wanted to call us, to tell us this urban dating legend is in fact true.

The next morning after Taylor won the Idol crown and Keri slept off her date with Bill, she messengered him back his cash in a manila envelope. He called her immediately. “That was a gift. I want you to have new shoes,” he said. Keri pictured him in his office, a secretarial pool of Manolo clad typist clicking away outside his office complete with a full bar and nudie magazines buried under Excel spreadsheets. “I’m not someone who can be bought. And I am not looking to be number 11 in your lick and please pool,” she said with gumption.

“Then donate it to a charity,” Bill said trying to play it cool.

“No, you donate it if you want. I don’t want any parts of it.”

“My offer for Cirque de Soliel still stands. And so does my offer for new shoes. I am sure when you give it some serious thought, you won’t want to miss out on that or me,” Bill said before Keri hung up the phone.

Keri shared this story with the five of us over dinner the next night. “No!” we all screamed. “NO F’ing WAY,” five chatty somewhat drunk girls bellowed in unison startling the other diners at this sleepy Upper East restaurant.

“What was his name?” Jodi asked casually.

“Bill Richfuck,” Keri answered.

“That was the same guy who tried to give me $500 at the Borgata last year. He was with his girlfriend in the poker room where I was playing. He just forced the money one me.” Jodi had suffered the same fate a year earlier.

In New York City, most everything is for sale....Fifth Avenue penthouses, rare art, fine cars and expensive jewels. But there are things without price tags, even billionaires cannot afford. My friends being some of them.