August 16, 2011
Per Beau’s comment on my $200,000-aire suitor, I would like to share the following failed fairy tale…
Once upon a time, there was a young peasant girl who lived in the shiny city of New York. She went on a date with a seemingly nice lad who took her to a beautiful restaurant and treated her like a princess.
On this lovely night out, the two shared their hopes and dreams and realized that they were very well matched in many ways. He lavished her with drinks, gourmet food and compliments. He even told her that she was the classiest girl he had ever met. She imagined walks in the rain with this man, the children they’d have, the trips to Paris…
There was a major hiccup when the young lad asked the peasant girl what she thought his kingdom was worth. Unable to comprehend the reason for such a question, the peasant girl laughed it off and made funny comments, and her suitor did not take this lightly.
Despite this moment, the couple continued to have a good time and they even closed the restaurant, talking and kissing and flirting. On their way out, the hostess handed the young girl a little bag that contained a loaf of Grand Marnier soaked pineapple bread. She said, “This is for breakfast” and then winked at the darling couple. The peasant girl blushed understanding the innuendo.
The lad leaned in to kiss the peasant girl good night. All of sudden, she remembered the courses of cheese, fois gras three ways, bottle of wine, glasses of prosecco and shots of grappa. She felt it all coming up and pushed the lad away. She swiftly said good night and threw herself at the first taxi she saw coming down the street.
While in the cab, she could not hold it down much longer. She looked around and realized she still had the bag with the pineapple bread. She tossed the loaf across the seat and hurled right into the bag–a puke that rang through Central Park all the way to the East River. The cab driver tried to throw her out, but she started crying and pleaded with him to let her stay.
When he finally reached her cross streets, she tipped him $20, stepped out of the cab, threw the bag of barf away and entered her apartment.
After the best toothbrushing of her life, she poured herself into bed wondering when she would meet her real prince charming…and if her boss would notice her hang over the next day. (He did notice and made fun of her.)
August 12, 2011
I think it’s pretty clear that I’m not very comfortable about sex. Thankfully, there are people out there who know what they’re doing and know how to talk about it. IT! One of my favorite people in the world has a blog dedicated to educating you, the general public, on all the peculiarities of sex and making you feel oh-so-good about it. A while back, she told me the funniest awkward story that nearly made me pee my pants. Oh yes, self-urination.
So I present to you Julia of www.itsnotthatweird.com and her awkward moment, THE BANG:
If I’m kidding myself, I refer to the stretch of time between first grade and fifth grade as my “avant-garde” period. I was a confident, peppy little freckle-faced kid who was just taking a risk to distinguish myself. Maybe I was trying to stand out so the cute Japanese math whiz (it might be a stereotype, but it’s true) would take notice of me. Maybe I was saying “eff you” to the popular kids with their glossy ponytails and perfect freckle-free skin by establishing my own definition of style. Whatever the reason, I was breaking out of the perpetually confining middle school culture.
But if I’m being honest, I was suffering from a self-esteem issue so bizarre I now have a self-esteem issue about having had this self-esteem issue. (Don’t follow that? Neither do I.)
When I was younger, I had long, unruly hair that I would only brush if my mother threatened to take away my library books (I am sounding nerdier by the second here. Yikes). I typically kept it in a low ponytail or, if I was feeling particularly festive, in Princess Leia-inspired buns that my mother would have to painstakingly create before going to her slightly-less demanding job as a patent attorney (am I the only person you know who ran an eight-minute mile in gym class in Princess Leia buns? I hope so). This would have been relatively run-of-the-mill “young girl hair weirdness” except for one idiosyncratic fact: I for some reason believed that when my hair was pulled back off my face I looked exactly like our nation’s first president, Mr. George Washington. And it wasn’t like I thought I resembled him – I thought I was a dead ringer. I thought people would be pulling dollar bills out of their wallets to compare as I walked down the street. It was pretty fucking serious to me.
This left me in a bit of a mess hair wise. I didn’t want bangs like the other girls had because I thought they looked girly. I also couldn’t have a bare forehead because I’d never be able to let my hair loose (it was so snarled I probably would have snagged on a door and starved to death) and when it was pulled back, I thought I looked like a founding father. So I invented a solution that I now call “The Bang.”
The premise was simple. I didn’t want “bangs.” I only wanted one. So I forced my mother to cut a jagged, single chunk of hair that fell right in the middle of my forehead. I sincerely believed that this small hunk of hair would disguise my eerie resemblance to Washington, and no one would confuse me for a miniature version of him and ask me for my opinion on matters of states’ rights.To this day I am simultaneously proud and incredibly embarrassed by the whole thing. I kind of can’t believe that I wore my hair that way for FIVE of my most formative years. I’m also proud of myself that I never realized that I looked like a total idiot. I just did my thing, and I was able to grow up to be the bizarre person that I am today. I no longer have the bang (although I do have bangs plural) but to this day I still try to avoid being scrutinized in the presence of a dollar bill. You just never know.
August 11, 2011
I recently reconnected with a Scottish friend I met while studying abroad at the University of Edinburgh. He just moved to New York and we talked about my year of boozing and making out with men with cute accents. Man, can I just say how much I loved living abroad as an American; I felt like I was in a sitcom the entire time.
He asked if New York dating is really like it is on tv and the movies. I told him what I tell every person who asks that question: Imagine Sex and the City, make everyone less unattractive and much poorer, take away the happy endings and retain all the weirdness. There, you have New York dating. Patti Stanger of Millionaire Matchmaker described the perils of city dating perfectly–New York City makes Sex and the City look like a cake walk.
Scotsman: How is this so?
Me: Well young cricket, let me tell you a story.
Several years ago, I went on a few dates with a man I met at Brass Monkey. This was before the bar was considered cool and required a wait time. Really? Is that what the young kids are doing these days? Waiting in line to get into a smelly bar?
Our first date was amazing and I thought I had met my husband for the following reasons:
- We talked about books. HE READ BOOKS.
- We talked about art. HE LIKED ART.
- We talked about the opera. HE LIKED THE OPERA.
- We both liked Manhattans. HE LIKED BOURBON.
- His goal was to live half time in New York and half time in London. HE WANTed TO LIVE IN A SITCOM TOO!!!!
It was a while before our next date because he kept canceling. But man did he try to make up for lost ground. He got a private table at the Modern. And he mentioned the following things over a lavish five course meal and a $500 bottle of wine (yes, you read that right–$500):
- He thought he could introduce me to his parents.
- He said I was the classiest girl he’d ever met.
- He invited me to fly to England to watch a Manchester vs. Chelsea game.
But it all came crashing down when he asked me the following fatal question: How much do you think I’m worth in cash?
Me: Um, what?
Future husband: You know, how much do you think I’m liquid?
Me: I’m sorry, I’m not understanding the question.
Future husband: Well, I’ve done really well for myself . I mean, what do you think a guy like me, a young mergers & acquisitions investment banker who can buy a vintage bottle of Stagshead Leap Cabernet, is worth?
I still really didn’t get it. I felt like he and I were getting along because we had similar personalities. And I’d like to think that my personality would never tolerate such peacocking. If a friend of mine ever asked me that question, I would immediately assume that he/she was fucking with me. The answer would either be zero or ONE BILLION DOLLARS. And this billion dollars would have been obtained because of something amazing, like investing in Google stock early or winning a law suit that involved a severed pinky finger.
So I answered.
Me: FIVE BILLION DOLLARS! (with a shit eating grin)
Future husband: Um, no. (with a pissed off look)
Me: One billion dollars? (less enthusiastically)
Future husband: Less.
Me: One million dollars?
Future husband: Less.
Me: A half a million dollars?
Future husband: Less.
Okay, now it’s stupid. I’m never going to have a half a million dollars, but in New York, anything less is nothing to brag about. I bet you my building super has more than that (I’m serious).
Future husband: I actually have $200,000. (totally exasperated)
Me: That’s stupid. Why don’t you put down on an apartment?
Shockingly, he was not my future husband, nor was he even a future bang buddy. He was the future dunce who just spent over a thousand dollars on a date with girl who didn’t sleep with him and at the end of the night was worth less than $199,000.