Where have all the Cowboys Gone?

On a recent trip to the Kiehl’s counter at Barney’s for their Lycopene facial cream, I had a startling epiphany. As I stood back to take in the perfect fall Saturday shopping expedition with my friend Jenny in tow, gazing out over the hustle and bustle of an Upper East side makeup counter I was presented with a disturbing vision. The counter was filled not with a bevy of bedecked damsels in Louis Vuitton and Prada with perfectly coiffed hair but a horde of men in Prada with perfectly coiffed hair.

Geographically speaking, if we were in Chelsea this wouldn’t be as shocking. Gay men have long been known for their impeccable hygiene and shared feminine dedication to grooming, but something seemed awry. These men who were testing the newest toner and collecting samples of apricot face wash were straight. And it’s not just the makeup counter, these pseudo-straight men are cropping up across the city in numbers of pandemic proportion infecting the already shallow dating pool of eligible bachelors. A hybrid of heterosexual and homosexual, the media and some are billing them as “more evolved”, “more sensitive,” and “more in touch with their feminine side”, coining them metrosexuals. But I for one wonder, where have all the cowboys gone?

Maybe it’s just New York, but with New York being the breeding ground for most trends which eventual spread to the rest of the country like Paris Hilton and real bagels; how long will it be before men in Billings, Montana are getting lunchtime manni/peddies?

I spent the majority of my formative dating years in the Midwest, where men were men, maybe to the extreme. Saturdays equaled college football games, pitchers of beer, ratty flannel shirts and belching noises with an occasional masculine slap on the back when the home team scored a touchdown. I liked the disparity between the sexes. I liked shopping with my girlfriends indulging in petty gossip about mutual acquaintances and feeding our feminine hunger for unnecessary shoes on sale and then coming home to my boyfriend who would be perched on his mismatched sheets watching Sportscenter. It was the way the universe should work. To find M, I extended my dating scope over the river, down the turnpike and to Philly; where there seem to be more “real men” hiding.

“Lately hunting for a masculine Alpha male in New York is as difficult as finding a pair of this season’s D & G sling backs in a half off bin at Loehmann’s,” Jenny said.

“Can you steam that dish?” Jenny’s date asked the waitress in the local greasy Chinese restaurant.

“Do you not like the sauce?” she asked him somewhat perplexed by his request. “No, I am watching my weight. I had a huge lunch today and cookies for a snack in the afternoon, plus we had birthday cake in the office. I am such a beast right now. Look at these love handles,” he said motioning to his waist.

She did a double-take, starring at him from across the table, looking for signs of a bra strap or for tampons to roll out of his back pocket; some proof that he was a woman in a men’s Zenga dress shirt. I spend many a nights talking my size 4 friends off the Jenny Craig ledge, convincing them that eating a pint of Ben and Jerry’s Chubby Hubby once in blue moon will not necessitate two airplane seats next time they fly. “No those jeans don’t make your butt look like big,” I reassure them, but the idea of having to provide the same infusion of confidence to men seems overly taxing. Isn’t it the guy’s responsibility, no his job - to tell girls that they look good, thin, radiant? Not the other way around.

It used to be checking out a guy’s medicine cabinet was a subversive search for Rogaine or Valtrex, a sneak peak into their private world of health and beauty. “I always feel a tinge guilty when I crack open the mirrored cabinet door. I let the water run and I flush the toilet sp that the noise disguises my nosey mission,” Jenny said. Scared as to what she might discover -condoms in a Costco size box in extra small or a buffet of anti-viral pills, she found a plethora of hair gels, alpha hydroxyl facial creams, fruit flavored soaps and powders.

“He had four different kinds of toothpaste and things were shoved in everywhere. He even had an At-Home waxing kit! I mean, really. What was he waxing himself? That he could reach? Not his back!”

If it stopped with good grooming, we wouldn’t complain. But good old rugged machismo has been replaced by this Snuggle soft whimpiness. Somewhere men were wrongly taught it was okay to be a sissy. “Open this,” my ex-boyfriend said handing me a jar of pickles as we cooked dinner in my kitchen. Now, I go to the gym; I have somewhat of a muscular build –not WWF big, but stronger than your average girl. Regardless of my physical prowess I would think it would be down right mortifying for a guy to defer to my strength to open a jar.

Everywhere you look now the trend seems to be widening. Where it used to be uncommon to see men drinking a pink Cosmopolitan for fear of being labeled gay, straight men city wide are delicately sipping “chick cocktails” with reckless disregard of stigmatization. The waiting area at my waxing salon is now a pick-up parlor, with single men reading Vanity Fair and waiting their turn for manicured eyebrows and back waxing. How long will it be before guys are crocheting pot holders and crying at Lifetime TV movies?

I like being a girl or woman or whatever label is now politically correct. Despite menstrual cramps, bad hair days, the glass ceiling and all of the other drawbacks to my sex, I like wearing pink, fussing over banal details such as which Essie nail color to chose this week. I also like being reminded by M that these small details go unnoticed. In the haze of his manliness, between kickboxing and Ultimate Death Match TV programs, the extra three pounds I gained from holiday parties or the inch of uncolored root re-growth goes unnoticed. What would happen to the world if women all of a sudden got in touch with their masculine side; started grabbing their crotches in public, burping the alphabet and getting hot for the latest car magazine?

Men and women are different, inherently different.

Yes, it is these differences that lead to confusion, complications and problems in relationships, but if it were not for these differences what would we complain to our girlfriends about? “I like my men clueless about fashion as long as they can hook up my cable and hang a shelf. Is that too much to hope to find?” Jenny asked our group looking for an empathetic acknowledgement. “Unshaven, smelling of testosterone, sweat and bravado, I want the urban cowboy: a man, who is proud of his calloused hands, limited knowledge of brand name labels and ability to remind me what makes men and women different. Call me old fashioned, but there is nothing sexier than a man, chest hair and all who has no idea what mircrodermabrasion is.”

.

Desperately Seeking Sanity (OPP-Other People’s Problems)

Desperately Seeking Sanity (OPP-Other People’s Problems)

Back when I was single, everyone wanted to set me up. “I have the perfect guy for you. He’s Jewish,” my non-Jewish friends from work or social gatherings would say as if being Jewish was the common factor that linked us perfectly together. Never mind the fact he was short, balding and lived in his parents basement with a collection of cat porn and collectible widgets, he was perfect because he was single and Jewish. Now that these days of miserable set ups are behind me, I look to my friends for their amusing set-up stories.

“I’m not picky, I’m particular,” Corey said as she described her dating outlook. “But this was such a mismatched set up.”

“He’s Jewish and he lives in New York,” Corey’s mother told her of the guy her neighbor’s friend’s daughter-in-law passed her number along to. “That’s all I know, but really I am sure he is very nice. It’s just one date.”

With those words Corey awaited a call from a guy whose name she didn’t even know. After a very brief phone conversation with Avi, Corey thought it better to meet in person. “You never know someone on the phone or by email. What the hell did I have to lose?”

The next night they planned to meet. He chose the restaurant, Highline Thai – a trendy new restaurant in the Meatpacking District and light years away from Corey’s Upper East Side apartment in rush hour. Forty minutes in a cab and twenty dollars later, Corey arrived to meet Avi outside the restaurant. Surprised that he was tall enough to ride on any amusement park ride and that his hairline did not resemble a beach at low tide, she sat down to dinner with high hopes. “So I date a lot,” he said as an icebreaker. “I am always getting set up. I guess people just think I’m a good catch and someone should get me.” He winked coyly at her. She wanted to vomit in her martini. Through one round of drinks and appetizers Corey didn’t speak. She sat and listened as Avi recounted all previous relationships and girlfriends dating back to his first true love in Kindergarten. “I knew she would grow up and be hot,” he said sounding like a JonBenet Ramsey fan. He found time to also tell Corey all of his favorite pastimes: music, live music, radio, concerts, his iPod, Broadway shows and alphabetizing his CD collection.

“I just sat there thinking. Trying to think positive thoughts. Opposites attract? People say that. Just because this guy has no idea what station ESPN is and uses more grooming products than me, doesn’t mean that it won’t work? Right?”

Wrong.

While positive thoughts may help with yoga poses, they weren’t enough to get Corey through this date. So she turned to the next best thing: Vodka martinis. “So the last girl I dated was RIGHTEOUS. I mean hot. She worked in the arts too which I love.” He continued to rattle on about his weekend, about upcoming concerts he wanted to see and about his dates from last week. Corey, a fan of Big Ten football and musically challenged, “I don’t even own an iPod”, feigned interest. “He didn’t even ask me anything about me. Nothing. Not where did I grow up? Do I have any siblings? What I like to do for fun. Where I went to school! He kept asking me about dating scenarios.”

After he paid the tab, she regretfully agreed to join him for one more drink. He suggested ARA which was nearby. Corey, deluded on some alcohol and still hoping that spark of intrigue would appear like Halley’s Comet, agreed. “Do you think you are interested in me?” he asked before their seats were even warm. “You think this is a relationship that you would like to explore?”

Shell shocked, Corey didn’t see this coming. RELATIONSHIP? Buddy, this is A DATE. A BAD DATE. Usually when two people have nothing in common it is apparent to both of them, but seeing that he didn’t know a thing about her because he talked about himself all night, she could understand his error. “I couldn’t believe he was asking me this. I mean this is the kinda question you hold off asking for at least a few dates.”

There was no point in lying so carefully she chose her words. “I think you are a really nice guy, but we obviously don’t have that much in common.” He mulled over her response for a second, trying to locate any hidden meaning. “I think you will rethink that. You obviously like me, you wouldn’t have agreed to another drink.” All of a sudden his eyes looked like spinning hypnotic circles to her as if he was trying some new Manhattan dating technique of hypnotherapy.

Not wanting to fan his fire or seem abruptly rude, she tried logic as conversation. “I like football and Big 10 sports. I know nothing about music other than I hate elevator music. You just told me about all these other girls you are dating and your entire sexual history and let’s just state the obvious these are not first date moves. Just listening to you all night, I really don’t see anything which we have in common.” He ordered another drink and conjured up the lawyer within to argue her points.

“It was like he needed a therapist and not a date. The entire night was him unloading his relationship angst on me and asking for advice.” It sounded as Avi needed a prescription pad more than another drink.

When the cocktails were finished the waitress brought the check over. He picked up the leather folder, looked at it and handed it to Corey. “You can get this,” he said standing up and adjusting his pants. Corey, annoyed, paid the bill. “At least he got the hint. It may have been a costly move to have a drink, but he definitely knows I’m not interested.”

Or so she thought.

On the corner of 14th Street and “The End of the World”, Corey tried to say goodnight and good riddance to her date. “Thanks, it was nice meeting you” she said lifting her arm and slinging her Gucci bag over her shoulder to hail a cab. Avi lunged at her, licking her neck and working his way up to her ear where he nibbled like a mouse on a piece of Swiss cheese before Corey could push him away wiping of the trail of saliva he left on her face.. Jumping backwards into oncoming traffic, she released herself from his grasp. “What the fuck are you doing?” she asked him.

“Come on! Have another drink with me,” he begged. “I promise once you get to see the real me, you won’t be able to get enough.” He reached for her hand. “No,” Corey said desperately trying to locate a cab with its light on. “Are we going to go out again?” he asked pitifully. “What are you doing on Monday?”

Done with the niceties, Corey speed walked uptown as fast as her Jimmy Choos could take her. He followed behind. “How about Thursday? What are you doing Thursday night. I know this great….”

The next morning, Corey called her mother. “The next time you want to set me up, find out a little more about the guy other than he’s Jewish. Ask if he is medicated or should be.”

Turf War

Geographically Undesirable

In a recent heated dating debate at an Upper East Side party, Hayden flipped her long brown hair, batted her mascara covered eyelashes and stated unequivocally her fervent belief: “The guy should ALWAYS come to the girl’s neighborhood on their first date.”

She was having this conversation with a “UES hater”, the kind of kid who grew up on Long Island but shunned the Upper East Side where his hometown friends reside for more trendy albeit grungier digs on the Lower East Side. Just like the gangs of East Coast/West Coast rappers, Manhattanite’s pride themselves in remaining true to their turf. This turf war between the Uppers and the Lowers almost came down to gun fire, but remained as civilized as a Republican vs. Democratic debate.

“I don’t agree with that,” Drew argued. “I don’t go above 14th Street. No one and nothing cool is up there. First off, I don’t usually date UES girls, but if I did, she should come down to me.”

Back when chivalry was an art, when socialite meant class and not Paris Hilton belly bearing ho-ishness, men picked women up at their homes, greeted them with flowers, opened car doors and paid for dates. Now, women are lucky if the guy leaves his Blackberry at home and remembers her first name. Men used to give up seats on subway cars and buses. Now you are grateful if they just don’t hump your leg on a subway.

Fueled by a few martinis, Hayden who is anything but a wallflower when sober wasn’t going to standby and let someone rip to shreds her Upper East Side domain. “You are too cool for school,” Hayden mocked him. “At your height you should go anywhere in the city where you CAN get a date.”

Obviously Hayden and Drew never went on a date, but the question remains – Should men come to the woman’s neighborhood for the first date? What is protocol now in this day and age where dating and gender roles have become so blurred?

In Manhattan where you can comfortably live a full and convenient life within a four block radius of your apartment why travel for love? Have we become so geo-centric that dates which require a Metro card or a cab fare seem as geographically undesirable as someone who lives in Topeka, Kansas?

“I met this great guy once on an airplane,” Kate said. “He lived in Chicago and I lived in New York. We talked on the phone, emailed. I saw him a few times when he was in town for business meetings, but it was impractical to think it was going to go anywhere. With his schedule and my schedule, it just couldn’t happen...even though there was an undeniable spark.” Geographically undesirable has always been saved for those guys who lived outside your area code, now it seems in New York it also applies to those who live outside your zip code.

It’s not just the inconvenience of travel, of subway rides of shame in the morning where one would rush home on the 6 train, shower and again head back downtown for work. People identify themselves with their area the way alumni identify with their school’s team. “I like UWS and UES guys,” Kate said. “They are usually more mature, over the whole trendy thing. Guys who live in the “Villages” (East, West, Greenwich) on a whole, seem to be more into grungy live music venues and subterranean lounges. I am so over that.”

Dating in New York is a crap shoot with a lot of crap out there. Most of the time, a first date lasts as long as the ice in a vodka soda. “It’s either there or it’s not,” Kate said. “The idea of taking three subways or spending $15 on a cab to go to some bar and confirm what I already suspected, is a waste. I would rather split the difference, pay for my drink and be able to walk home.”

While traditions in courting have devolved in this millennium and in this city, some rituals should still apply: men should always come to the woman’s area on the first date and women should always call the next day and say thank you…..even if the guy was as interesting as a stale piece of toast.

In Sickness and In Health

In Sickness and in Health

There are many stages in a relationship where the very fabric of that relationship is truly tested – your first fight, first vacation together and the very first time one of you gets sick.

My stomach was in knots, my head throbbed like Mike Tyson head butted me. Yep, this time I was sick. And not the kind of sick M deals with on a daily basis – minor ailments like strained muscles or a stubbed toe. This time, I was really ill.

“I’m REALLY sick,” I said to M as he dabbed on a bit of Burberry Weekender cologne. But like the boy who cried wolf, M passed my complaints off as ordinary malaise. “Really, I’m not kidding this time. I’m not exaggerating.”

I have a tendency, endearing to some, to add some drama to illness. It dates back far into my youth when I was stricken with chicken pox. At 8 years old, I lay in my bed with a fever of 104 and covered in crusty red bumps with oven mitts taped to my hands so that I wouldn’t scratch them. “Can I have a pencil,” I asked my mother/nursemaid. My voice was faint, my eye lids heavy with chicken pox scabs. “Sure,” my mother answered, happy that I was well enough to do a Mad Libs or draw pictures. “Do you want to color?” she asked. She grabbed my box of Crayola crayons from the desk and brought them over to me. “No,” I said reaching out to grab her hand. “I want to write my will.” I was eight, now at four times that age – my drama has compounded 4 times as much.

M finally understood the legitimacy of my complaints when I ran into the bathroom and promptly threw up. “Ok, feel better,” he said kissing my head, leaving the dog un-walked as I buried myself under the blankets and he went to work. Progressively I got worse throughout the day – my muscles burned, my fever elevated and I couldn’t fathom the idea of looking at food. M called periodically to see if I was still alive. “Do you need me to bring home anything? Want me to pick up dinner?” he asked. The very idea of greasy food sent me running for the bathroom. “Dinner? You have to be kidding me? Just ginger ale and juice.”

Hours passed and I drifted in and out of sleep. I called my mother to complain since I knew M was busy and she could listen to me whine about my debilitating disease. “Are you this annoying to M?” she said to me the 9th time I called her. “You have a 24 hour bug. You’ll live.”

I was waiting patiently for the Grim Reaper to come through the door when I heard the lock click and the door swing open at 6, but it was M. He was carrying a two-liter bottle of ginger ale and a bouquet of flowers. “How’s the patient?”

“I see you brought flowers for my gravestone,” I said jokingly, getting up from my death bed on the sofa as tissues scattered on the floor. “I’ll make a wreath out of these.” I kissed him hello and took the flowers into the kitchen.

“Feel my glands. Take my temperature. Have you seen the thermometer? Can you get me a little more juice?” I kept M running for the next few hours before he could escape his secondary job as nightime nurse to his tennis game. “Just think of this as your pre-game workout.”

The next morning I woke up feeling refreshed and whole again. The South Beach breakfast bar looked appealing and my temperature was back to normal. But later that afternoon I got a text message from M.

“Not feeling good. Sniffly. Think I’m getting sick.”

In this healthy relationship, we share everything – even germs.

Precious Present

The Precious Present

A while ago one Upper East Side girl emailed one Upper West Side boy after noticing his cute photo on his online profile and this weekend, I stood up at their New Jersey wedding.

Like any bride Colby was a mess on Friday. “It’s pouring rain. The hotel changed the room for pictures and now I have to call everyone and tell them about the time change and the room change. I’m losing it.” Leading up to this moment, Colby had been the world’s most composed bride. There were no meltdowns months out, but just like the wicked weather – she unleashed a deluge of built up stress on her sister. “She kicked the wall at Bloomingdale’s. Literally, like a 4 year old she had a temper tantrum,” Meredyth confided in me as she tried to soothe Colby’s frazzled nerves over frizzy hair.

As maid of honor, Meredyth’s responsibilities extended way past giving a reception speech and organizing the table for the gifts. Since the time she arrived from DC, Meredyth played portable shrink, dresser, and event planner to Colby. “Nothing starts until YOU get there,” Mer offered words of comfort and wedding day wisdom to Colby who was running late for the rehearsal dinner.

“My dad almost didn’t get here,” Mer whispered in hushed tones to me – out of earshot from Colby. “He was stuck on Long Beach Island. The bridges were all flooded. If I told her that she would have had a heart attack and dropped dead on the spot.” Fortunately with the help of an SUV and many calls to the LBI police department, Colby’s father made it off the island. “I’m just trying to tell her things on a need to know basis.”

At 5pm the bridesmaids in their shiny brown dresses and the groomsmen in their tuxes gathered in the updated room for pictures. As the elevator door opened and I stepped out to see Colby and Greg posed against the formal staircase. She looked gorgeous. Her off- white strapless dress, cinching her tiny waist was illuminated with antique white lace bands. Her hair was in ringlet curls that dropped right below her shoulders, gracefully outlining her delicate silhouette. “She looks calm?” I whispered to Mer who was drinking a glass of wine. “She is NOW, but I’m not.” As Meredyth went to make sure that the first course of spinach salad was changed to something which would not give the guests E-Coli, I watched them take pictures and reminisce.

I had met Colby in 7th grade when she moved to our town. As the new girl at a school with a bunch of bitchier-than-Thou “Heathers” with their designer Naf Naf shirts and Rebook high-top velcro sneakers, I took Colby under my wing. Now, TWENTY years later – I was watching my childhood best friend get married. For me, I took the moment to pause and reflect as tears of both happiness for her and sadness for the quickening pace of life, welled in my eyes.

“I hope she’s taking a minute to pause,” I said to Mer. “You dream about this day your entire life and then you stress yourself out when it comes and you miss the whole thing.” Though the photographer was there to take snap photos, “Say Whoopee” he commanded us, opting for something less conventional than “cheese.”

“Doesn’t “whoopee” mean sex? Like from the era of our grandparents? ‘Let’s make whoopee!’” I asked one of the bridesmaids beside me still holding my smile in the chorus line of girls. I was worried that the only memories of the night Colby would have, would be those printed on Kodak paper and tucked away in an album.

“Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once and a while, you might miss it.”

Ok, maybe Ferris Bueller isn’t the prophet of the times who I should be quoting, but he was right. Was Colby going to remember the smile on Greg’s face when he saw her for the first time in her dress? Would she be able to recall with clarity the way he touched her hand under the chuppah when they turned to walk down the aisle – man and wife. Would she savor the moment he crushed the glass under his foot in accordance with Jewish tradition?

Be in the moment. Present Tense. It is a night which last but a few hours, but filled with moments which should last a lifetime…like a marriage. The most precious present one can get on their wedding day is not one listed on the registry at Fortonuff's. It is one that cannot be given to you by your bridesmaids, your husband, your family or friends. When things quieted down, with her wedding band firmly on, Colby exhaled. She stopped. She danced. She smiled at her new husband who smiled back in awe and sheer happiness. And she noticed the precious moments of the present time.

An Expensive Day on Park Avenue

It’s never a good day when you wind up at a hospital…even if it is an animal hospital.

“Something is wrong with Chief.” I frantically telephoned M at work. “His leg has a huge gapping hole. I can see the muscle.” I was nauseous as I darted around the apartment trying to locate gauze and a bandage and tried to clean out the wound. I noticed Chief’s fur was darkened and raw looking and upon closer inspection as I pushed the fur up I could see his insides. Seeing my own blood from a paper cut usually makes me woozy enough to need to sit, this sent me into a tailspin.

“Is he acting OK?” M asked.

“He just sucked down a bunch of Scooby Snacks so I guess he seems alright.”

As any new mother, or doggie mom, I tend to be over-cautious and perhaps an alarmist. “It’s probably just a scrape, maybe he stepped on something on the street,” M said trying to keep me calm. “I’ll call and make him an appointment at the Vet.”

Chief wasn’t exhibiting any symptoms of discomfort, but I was as I anxiously gathered up his leash and walked over to Park East Animal Hospital which ironically was adjacent to a Park Avenue plastic surgeon’s office. “Chief, want to get a jowl lift?”

All I could think was that some poodle nipped his leg at an attempt at bravado at doggie day care, and Chief who is as placid as a Buddhist monk did nothing in return. I tried to recall any incident in the last few days that could have resulted in this….I couldn’t.

The sterile waiting room with a tile floor and pleather chairs made me as uncomfortable as the waiting room of my dentist’s office. Chief knew where we were, he had been for a UTI the week before, was greeted by the front office staff with the fame he usually enjoys. The room smelled of dog in distress mixed with urine. The rest of the “patients” in the waiting area were all agitated, barking and yelping their displeasure as their owners offered them reassuring words. “Don’t worry Roxy. Mommy isn’t going to leave you here,” a frail older woman said to her terrier. Chief was complacent, concerned less with the Vet and more with sniffing every chair and every dog butt in the place.

The doctor put Chief on the hydraulic lift which doubled as a scale. With Chief, they needed that could lift a Toyota to check for an oil leak. “172lbs,” the doctor said as if he was weighing a bag of jelly beans at the candy store. Looking at Chief’s wound, the Vet asked me, “Do you have any idea how this happened?”

I felt like Britney Spears, a derelict mother whose child’s mysterious injury came from her lack of conscientiousness – more interested in K-Fed’s philandering ways and shitty rap music. “No, I just noticed it this morning. It’s hard to see it on him with all that fur. I guess just missed it.” I was worried they were going to send in Puppy Welfare Advocates to place Chief in foster care.

“It looks like it’s a few days old. It’s not a bite. It looks like he was cut on something sharp like a piece of metal or glass,” the Vet continued.

“He is going to need stitches. We’ll take him up to the procedure room and shave his leg. It’ll take about 45 minutes.”

I grabbed my bag and started to follow the doctor and Chief. “You’re going to need to stay in the waiting room.”

“I can’t come with him?” Chief looked upset as they led him away and left me standing there in need of Valium.

When I am nervous, I bit my cuticles until they bleed and distract myself with reading the banal tabloid stories of who called Lindsey Lohan fire crotch that week. The reading material at a Vet’s office did not consist of People magazine or In Touch – it was National Geographic and Birds Weekly – which wasn’t working for me.

I heard what sounded like a freight train, heavy and rushed steps pounding towards the door which separated the waiting area and the exam rooms. The door burst open and Chief was dragging a waif-like Veterinarian assistant behind me. He charged into the waiting area and right to me, slamming me against the chairs. A few stitches doesn’t slow down this pooch.

“I take it he did alright,” I asked her as Chief excitedly bounced around breathing loudly and lashing his tail.

“Yea, he is fine. You can stop worrying. We shaved his leg and sowed up the gash. He needed six stitches which will have to come out in two weeks. We are giving him an antibiotic in case of infection. Two pills a day. You can put them in cream cheese.”

Chief’s ear perked up. He knows cream cheese.

“He will also need to wear this,” she said handing me a C-collar. “It’ll prevent him from licking the area.”

I paid the bill: $500. Quite a costly day on the Upper East Side with no packages to show for it. But the looks of people on the street getting whiplash as they turned to see this giant animal prancing down the street with a plastic cone on his head and a shaved leg were priceless.

Putting the "P" in Party

I checked weather.com for days, like a bettor would check the spreads. 30% chance of rain….early. I hedged my bet.

With the housewarming party called for 8pm and 60 guests responding “yes” on the evite there was a ton of work to do. “Do I really need to go with you to Costco,” M whined. In a couple, people take on roles. I was social chair. I scheduled our double dates, planned and booked our trips, made reservations and organized all of our parties. It was a role I liked and one which was comfortable. “You used to plan million dollar parties for Playboy, this should be cake for you.” Sure this would be easy, but someone needed to go and buy the CAKE, and I don’t know how to drive in Manhattan.

Forcing M out of meetings, I dragged him home and over the bridge to Costco on Thursday. “You have a half hour,” M said looking at his watch as I scanned the enormous sky high aisles of Queen’s Costco. With the List in hand I tackled the store, tossing cases of soda water, Red Bull and various platters into the cart. M had has much patience for Costco as I have for the checkers at Duane Reade. The event planner deep within wanted to fully decorate to theme. Fall plants, a garland of fall foliage wrapped around the wrought iron railing, some ruby red fruits, a vegetable tray with cut up squash and pumpkin muffins in the center, this is what I had in mind. M’s vision was more vodka in plastic cups with mixers. Maybe a bag of Chex Mix.

“Chief is a party animal,” M argued with me. “He is the celebrity, the VIP. He can be the bouncer. You know, like toss people out who get too drunk. He’ll put the smackdown on any crashers.”

“He is going to Doggie Day Care.”

“Come on! That’s not fair. Chief loves a good party.” Chief, growing up in a fraternity house, had learned to live on beer and discarded plates of cold pizza and stale chips.

“Okay, envision this. Your smackdown Mongo mutt gets all excited and accidentally bangs into one of my drunk friends in 4 inch stiletto heels and sends her cascading over the railing and plunging 12 stories to her death. What if he pees on someone's coat?” With incontence issues like an 90 year old man who drank a tub of apple juice, this was a very likely possibility.

Logic won and Chief went to sleep-away camp for the night. My tinge of guilt dissipated quickly as they led him off pass the pen with the yapping mop-like dogs and into the outdoor playground for the larger farm like animals when I got home and started to clean before the guests arrived. “I am pulling hair balls the size of a Yorkie out of the corners,” I said to M, the phone pressed against my shoulder as I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the floor.

Our first guest arrived at 7. The first bottle of vodka was cracked open at 7:02 and the rest is a blur.

My friends who have recently married describe their weddings as momentary blips of memory. Freckles of time they notice that bleed into the larger of the evening. Walking down the aisle. The kiss. The smiles. Saying thank you a million times. Kissing long lost friends and family hello. The salad missing the candied pecans. They forget the play list of the night, time dissolves and 5 hours feels like 5 minutes. They awake the next morning with a new last name, a crumpled white wedding dress and no real memories of the night before. This felt like a wedding.

I rushed about trying to play hostess, clearing the empty cups, bringing out the food, making introductions. At first it was like a high school dance, M’s friends on one side of the terrace and my friends on the other. My single girlfriends. His single guy friends. Connections? The groups slowly mixed like cranberry juice and vodka, the red dripping from the top of the cup to the bottom. Groups colliding and becoming one good party.


“We’re going to call it a night,” Melissa said as she headed home. “We are exhausted.”

“But it’s early!” I slurred.

“It’s after 1 AM!!”

I glanced at my watch. She was right. How did the entire night slip by so quickly?

“Carrie, someone just peed off the side of the terrace,” Keri said grabbing my hand and pulling me outside.

“Who? Who is peeing on my party?”

“Um, I think you should reign in M,” she said leading me back outside as people gathered their belongings and headed out the door.

There were a few people left outside. Everyone had disappeared, packing it in and calling it a night. M was holding court outside with the leftover people, his shirt un-tucked holding the remnants of a drink, he slumped on a chair.

There are those moments where you are aware the party is over. This was that moment. I looked at him. Our remaining friends looked at me. The terrace was covered in puddles of spilled drinks, cigarette butts and splatters of spinach dip and carrots. In unison, people rose from their chairs, snuffed out the last of their cigarettes and tossed their cups into an overflowing garbage bag. One by one people headed for the door, very very careful to step over the wet spots on the terrace.

It’s a good thing I own Nature’s Miracle for Chief's bladder control issues. It works for dog pee, I assume it will work for the human kind too.

(additional pictures will be posted. we are having techinically difficulties right now. please check back for tons of party pics.)

Stop and Smell the Roses

September has always been like January to me, an unofficial start of a new year. For most of my life September was the month when school began – new teachers, new classes, new friends – thick textbooks with crisp untouched pages, fresh highlighters in a rainbow of colors and warm cashmere sweaters. September was filled with possibilities, an energizing force palpable in the cooling winds and rancid beer at football games and frat parties in Ann Arbor. Unlike January 1st and the forced festivities of New Year’s Eve with hangovers and promised yet unkept resolutions, September is a quiet shift in seasons and in life.

M lit the grill and tossed on some chicken sausage and some Omaha steaks. Chief lay on the terrace, salivating as the meat cooked, waiting and hoping a piece would come his way. On command, M flipped a burnt end his way. Chief had trained us, not the other way around. I opened a bottle of red wine, it was finally cool enough to drink a Merlot and leave the white wine in the fridge.

“It’s cold,” I said, running inside and grabbing a cable knit zip-up sweater as M flipped a steak. It’s strange how right after Labor Day, almost on cue, fall sneaks up mugging you by removing the muggy weather. The leaves have not changed colors yet, though it’s mere weeks away when the green of Central Park will turn shades of amber and violet, followed by browns and rich oranges. I grew a bit sad realizing our days of grilling and enjoying the skyline vistas after work were numbered. Time passes too quickly.

I had walked up to 86th Street that afternoon. As I was about to board the 6 train, my Metro card in hand and half way down the long flight of stairs, the stench of subway wafted up. Walk, I thought as I made an about-face and started walking up 3rd Avenue.

I walked.

And I walked.

Something I don’t do enough here. Always in a rush to get to my required destination, it’s about the fastest means possible. Cab. Train. Bus.

Stop and smell the roses.

It’s embroidered into pillows, printed on Hallmark cards and tossed around by idiots who like idioms. But we never do that in New York, perhaps because there are no roses, except for the “dozen for $8” variety at any bodega which live for three days.

I walked 30 blocks, looking in store windows. The displays no longer of beachwear and beach reading are replaced by scarves and leather jackets, the fruit vendors’ supply of yellow cherries are gone and the streets are clear of children who have returned to school. There is a sadness when the seasons change. The death of summer is ushered in with Atlantic hurricanes and closet changeovers of chunkier ware. Salads are replaced with comfort food like macaroni and cheese, iced coffee becomes pumpkin spiced lattes and flip flops are replaced by Uggs.

I used my walk to reflect. A year ago my life was in such a different place. There was no M. There was no Chief. There was me, alone. Alone and searching. Searching for something, someone.

A year feels short in retrospect, but long in reflection. So much can happen. So much can change. One season ends, and another begins. I stopped that day. I stopped and bought roses before they were no longer in season. It wasn’t enough just to smell them.

Losing It

Sunday morning the alarm clock was set for 8am. It was a little early for our usual Sunday activities which include a trip to Tal Bagels for two Everything Bagels with a ‘shmear’ of lite cream cheese and a side of smoked salmon followed by a lot of procrastination before we hit the gym. But this Sunday was different. The screech of the alarm clock punched us awake as I jumped out of bed as excited a kid on Christmas Day.

“I’ll walk Chief,” I said to M who wasn’t fully conscious yet. “I’ll get the Times too, and bring back the bagels.” I was too eager and full of energy for such an early hour, but how many times in one’s life (other than the obituaries or the wedding section) do you find your likeness on the pages of the New York Times.

Grabbing Chief’s leash and a poop bag, I dashed out the door in a frenzy still wearing my pajama pants and a T-shirt. “Chief, go pee. Pee for Mommy.” I prodded him into his morning routine of peeing a stream down 58th Street. With Chief’s business completed, I walked to First Avenue dragging a slow Chief behind me. The streets were empty; the rain had stopped for the first time in days and early morning sun danced across the sidewalk.

At the newsstand I bought 5 copies of the Times. “That’s a lot of bathroom reading,” the clerk said handing me back the change. “He’s in the paper,” I said pointing to Chief who had scared the living daylights out of the newsstand’s resident cat. Its back arched into attack mode and then rethinking it, ran for cover behind a case of Diet Coke. The clerk looked down over the counter. “Wow, I hope you don’t live in a studio apartment.” Chief continued to smell the selection of candy bars as I yanked him away just before he stole a Snickers.

I collected all the items I set out to find and raced home to open the paper. The doorman greeted Chief with a biscuit and a pat on the head before I unleashed him in the elevator. “Chief, let’s go show Daddy the paper.” I had become one of those people who talk to their dogs as if they are children. Referring to myself as “Mommy” and M as “Daddy”, I find myself having conversations with Chief on street corners like the Upper East Side mommies do with their infants.

“Do you want to get pizza or go home? Should we bring Daddy pizza? What kinda pizza does Daddy want?”

“If you don’t behave we aren’t going to anywhere. Are you going to stop crying for Mommy?”

“Who is the cutest little girl in the whole world? Who is? Yes, you are. YES YOU ARE.”

I hear these hip moms, bedecked with their Prada diaper bags and pregnancy weight yoga-ed away asking children who are too young to sit up or hold their heads upright these questions. I was even worse. I was now talking to a 160lb dog, cooing and ooh-ing my way up twelve floors.

As the elevator door opened I ran full throttle to the apartment. Unlocking the door, I tossed the leash on its hook and jumped on the bed as M lay there with a pillow over his face, asleep again. “Wake up. It’s here. Come see the article.”

We read the article as the coffee brewed and I pulled the dishes out of the cabinet. M turned on the TV and we watched the news as we ate the bagels and began our morning routine. I started to clear, returning the orange juice to the refrigerator and wiping the errant particles of Sweet and Low from the table. M finished the last of his bagel dropping the un-cream-cheesed portion on the floor. “Chief. Chief, bagel. Come and get it.”

“Where’s Chief?” he asked after a minute had passed and our resident trash compactor and floor-food-sweeper failed to appear.

We looked in the bedroom.
We looked on the terrace.
We looked in the bathroom.

“Chief!!!” We called his name.

Nothing.

M looked worried. I was frantic. How could he just disappear? We searched high and low, checking closets where we knew he couldn’t be.

M opened the door to our apartment and there he was. Lying on his side, Chief was in the hallway of the building patiently waiting. Somehow, in my haste to get inside, I forgot to hold the door for Chief.

“Don’t even say it. I know I am the biggest idiot in the world. All I can say in my defense is that thankfully it wasn’t a child. I talk to a dog and now I lost the dog. I really am losing it.”

M grinned. Chief was fine, in fact he was better than fine. He greeted us with the same exuberance he does after we return from a night out not realizing we were on opposite sides of the door. “You think he’ll need doggie therapy?” I asked M as I hugged Chief apologetically.

“No, I think he’ll be alright, but you may need some therapy and a shower,” he said as he wiped the caked on drool which had crusted on my shoulder.