Love is in the air...

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Hm... a counter-argument to a previous posting... or is it? I suppose searching for "amore" is quite different than searching for a "relationship." But I'll let you draw your own conclusions... I'm heading to Central Park to look at arms...

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As City Begins Spring Stir, Romance Is in the Air
New York Times
April 22, 2007
By Anthony Ramirez

It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single person in New York in possession of a sunlit day must be in want of a companion.

Just ask Eric Jacobov, 24, a commercial building developer, who strolled with two friends in Central Park yesterday.

“I like spring,” he said, lighting a cigarette and peering at sunbathers in the Sheep Meadow.

“I like that the girls come out,” he continued. “Much more skin. Much more to work with.” He put on his sunglasses. “Nice.”

Elsewhere in the park, a bachelorette party of New York, Chicago and Florida friends was convened on a bench near the Plaza Hotel.

“Love is in the air, and the guys wear less clothes!” exclaimed Amy Witherspoon, 23, a pharmaceutical sales representative from Orlando.

Suddenly, a war whoop of “Woo hoo!” erupted from all nine women, as a shirtless man glided by on inline skates.

“That’s what I like about spring!” shouted Lauren Schneider, 23, the bride-to-be.

Yesterday, after a stretch of chilly days following a drenching northeaster, the temperature in Central Park reached a high of 79 degrees at 3:54 p.m. under blue skies. The forecast for today is for a high of 80.

The city began to stir yesterday, as if at some unheard signal, or perhaps at the many signals of ubiquitous birdsong, giggling children and flowering trees.

New Yorkers shed their winter garb — the Ugg boots, the turtlenecks, the long skirts, the overcoats, the parkas, the gloves, the hoodies and the fedoras — and exchanged them for flip-flops and dishabille.

During a random and unscientific survey in several parts of the city yesterday, not everyone immediately volunteered that the preening, peering and mating season was upon them. But it didn’t take much prompting, either, once the gambit was opened.

New Yorkers were savoring the day, said Donna Ratner, 47, a health counselor from Weston, Conn., because “It was such an odd winter.”

Ms. Ratner, sitting in Columbus Circle, said, “We never really got a true winter. It was a tease of winter, with some nice days in the middle. Our bodies got confused. On the East Coast our bodies are ready to hunker down and they never really did.”

And how did Ms. Ratner feel at the moment? She smiled and said, “I’m feeling a little amore.”

Megan McWade, 30, of Bronxville, N.Y., and the director of a child-care center, said, “In the spring, you get to see a little more of the arms on the men.” She described herself as newly single and then laughed. “The arms get me.”

As befits New York, spring is theater. In other places where troupes of the fit and the comely can also be found, like Miami, Los Angeles and Hawaii, the curtain rarely rises because it hardly ever falls. There, it is always butterfly weather. But in New York, the curtain has drama because the cocoon is never far away.

In a cafe in the West Village, Scott Pelkey, 44, of Astoria, Queens, said that spring in New York was “about checking people out,” and that it arrived just in time because he happened to be looking for a new boyfriend.

“We’re out of hibernation!” said Mr. Pelkey, a Long Island University pharmacy student. “You can see that everyone’s out in their new outfits, it’s a fashion show.”

In Washington Square Park, Greg Rodriguez, 24, a concierge from Bushwick, Brooklyn, said he had just bought a pair of mirrored aviator sunglasses. “It definitely makes it easier to check people out with sunglasses on,” he said. Sunglasses “mean you don’t have to look like a creep.”

On the beach and the boardwalk in Coney Island, however, the way of all flesh may be so commonplace that ogling may have died out or perhaps evolved into something less detectable.

“It’s been very tame today,” said Kate Queram, 25, from Kensington, Brooklyn. “We really haven’t been ogled at all.”

Michael Schorr, 55, who was shirtless, explained the local tendency toward restraint. “Russian people, they know each other around here,” he said. “If I met someone, in five minutes my wife would know.”

Kate Hammer and Daryl Khan contributed reporting.
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And the award goes to...

Finally, my New York Oscar Awards Go To...

Best Penne Carbonara:
Caffe Linda

Best Mojito:
Stefan Trummer's creations, currently at Nicole Farhi 202

Best Fizzy Pink Drink:
Strawbellini, at Hudson Bar

Best Beer Atmosphere:
McSorley's Ale House (where else?)

Best Sunday Brunch You Never Knew About:
Prix fix at the Sacks Fifth Avenue cafe (8th floor)

Best Pizza:
Patsy's at 34th and 3rd Ave.

Best Salad:
Patsy's at 34th and 3rd Ave. (it's a sweep!)

Best Polenta Ever Made:
L'Impero (I *heart* Scott Conant)

Best Banana Pudding: (I'm southern, so this gets its own category)
Virgil's BBQ

Best Food That's Not On The Menu:
Grand Marnier Shrimp at Chin Chin

Best Ice Cream Over-Indulgence:
Serendipity 3

Best Over-Priced-But-Still-Worth-It Dessert:
Olive Oil Gelato at Babbo (grazie, Mario!)

Best Place to Meet on an Expensive Date:
Top of the Tower, Beekman Tower

Best Place to Meet on a Medium Date:
Savoy

Best Place to Meet on an Cheap Date:
Central Park Carousel

Best Place In New York overall:
holding hands with someone while walking around downtown


(and in case anyone asks, I'm wearing J.Crew)


On a completely and utterly random note...
Tomorrow, my eyebrows get an official made-for-TV makeover. Apparently my eyebrows needed an intervention. God help me in the hands of elite salon eyebrow artists... and who knows what my until-now-untamed brows will become after tomorrow. But I'll be sure to tell you when the "after" photos are airing. (For sure it'll be better than the monstrosity of a wedding dress that aired circa 1996... I still have photos of that day. It lives on in my nightmares. Note to self: Has it really taken you 12 years to realize that you're Not. Supposed. To. Be. In. Front. Of. The. Camera.? Dang, you ARE a stubborn one aren't you?)

On Being a Gentleman...

Do you want to know why women swoon over James Bond? Guess what... it's not just the car and the accent... read on...

GENTLEMEN OF THE WORLD, UNITE!
Come on, men of America. Shut off your cell phone, yank up your pants, and let the ladies go first.

By Jeff Gordinier
(exerpted from Details magazine)

You’re on a business trip. Your plane lands in Dallas. While you stand hunched beneath the overhead compartment, waiting for your fellow excursionists to putter down the aisle, you’re forced to eavesdrop on a guy who has flipped open his Razr. His “Candy Shop” ringtone began bleating two seconds after the tires of the plane scuffed the tarmac, and now he is describing with graphic, snorting zeal the woman he “banged” in Boston last night. He is loud, he is oblivious, and he is dressed with all the élan of an extra on Entourage. That evening, upon checking in to your hotel room, you discover that the dudes in the next suite are throwing a Super Bowl party. You have a breakfast meeting the next morning, and as you search the minibar in vain for a decent bottle of beer, you get the following ping from your colleague on your handheld: “yo dud wassup? OMFG yr n Tex! did U heare bout the Hailey Jol Ozmant sex tape?”

Look, you don’t want to be a crank. You are determined, even as what’s left of your youth begins to evaporate, not to slide into a permanent state of aggrieved, appalled, angst-ridden Andy Rooneyism. And yet somewhere over the course of a normal working day, a man might be forgiven for brooding like a graying viscount who’s just watched a Sigma Chi pledge chug the contents of a finger bowl.

Years ago, a man who had matured beyond a certain age automatically knew how to do things. He knew how to behave on a plane, in a hotel, in a box at La Scala. He knew how to mix a perfect Rob Roy, how to shine his brogues, how to woo a woman with no other weapon than his own wit, how to dress for a power breakfast with his boss; he knew, furthermore, how to spell, how to keep his pants from sagging, how to shut the fuck up in a public space, and how to recover from a career setback without feeling compelled to videotape his swollen member.

Maybe we should start learning those things again. Maybe, if we all try just a little bit harder, the modern American man can be more than the chucklehead we see on countless sitcoms and commercials, crop-dusted with Doritos crumbs and stupefied in front of the flat-screen. Have the last remnants of civilized society crumbled like the Colosseum? Have MTV, Kevin Federline, Casual Fridays, permissive Boomer parenting, and the consumer-electronics industry obliterated all the old standards of cultivation and courtesy? If so, maybe it’s time to bring on the backlash.

Yes, America in these infant years of the 21st century may be awash in money, but it’s also awash in the most loutish, thuggish, clownish, and pantyless hordes since the fall of Rome. The traditional connection between wealth and what used to be known as savoir faire has vanished. Which is why a corrective is in order: a return not to upper-crust priggishness but to a state of personal refinement. It’s time to acknowledge the simple pleasure and power of knowing things. It’s time to admit that a reasonable man should, at a reasonable point in his life, undergo a psychic shift, after which he no longer yearns merely to flip society the bird. It’s time for the dudes of America to grow up and start acting like gentlemen.

If we have a new gentleman in our midst, he doesn’t need to impress people by spending $500 on a bottle of vodka at a tabloid-trash nightclub, though he is perfectly happy to spend $15 on a meticulously shaken crushed-ginger concoction at one of the private and subdued speakeasies that have been cropping up in London and Manhattan and San Francisco over the past five years. Look around and you’ll see a handful of actors and musicians who have somehow not devoted their lives to becoming drooling Us Weekly ass-clowns: Don Cheadle and Edward Norton, George Clooney and John Legend, guys anachronistically committed to upholding high standards in their work and in their personal conduct. If designer Tom Ford’s cultural instincts are correct—and experience suggests that they often are—then it’s worth noting that while much of the commercial world is feasting on big and crass, the Gucci veteran is adjusting his zeitgeist meter for compact and custom-made. This spring, Ford, who could probably sell out to Target and spend the rest of his days studying the sunsets off Fiji, will instead open a boutique on Madison Avenue that will specialize in custom-tailored menswear. “In some ways, Elizabeth Street in Nolita is the antidote to the Targets and the H&Ms and the Gaps—it’s small, niched, and special-feeling,” says Project Runway’s own perfect gentleman, Tim Gunn, the chair of the Department of Fashion Design at Parsons The New School for Design. “So many things in fashion are reactions, and this is a reaction to the behemoths, and it’s an understandable one.”

All of which makes sense, because the Gen X gentleman looks for things that hover just under the radar. Indeed, just under the radar is a fitting description of where he prefers to hang out. He’s comfortable enough in his own skin to understand the rightness of traveling with both a well-pecked BlackBerry and a well-thumbed book of John Berryman’s acid-tinged verse. He gets fired up by words like small-batch and indie, by microbrewed and bespoke and smuggled Époisses. For him there is such a thing as cultural literacy, after all, and it involves more than knowing where Lindsay Lohan checked in to rehab.

Jason Tesauro and Phineas Mollod, both 35, co-wrote the amusing and encyclopedic The Modern Gentleman: A Guide to Essential Manners, Savvy & Vice, and since its publication in 2002, they’ve detected a revival of interest in letter writing (as opposed to IM’ing), old-fashioned courtship rituals (as opposed to troglodytic MySpace-trolling), and even dressing up for work. “You carry yourself a little differently when you’re wearing pinstripes as opposed to sweatpants,” says Tesauro, who’s begun leading Modern Gentleman seminars at a Ritz-Carlton outside Washington, D.C. “We are seeing signs of it, and it’s on a small scale, and that’s okay with me. While a gentleman may be an endangered species, he’s not going extinct.”

Even so, the herd’s been awfully thinned out lately. Maybe it’s partly because gentleman is such a tricky word. If we’re speaking historically, it calls to mind idle and inbred European aristocrats who were too listless to light their own Dunhills. If we’re using the word the way your grandmother did, we might imagine a dutiful, well-mannered doormat. But the new gentleman is neither a toff nor a milquetoast. “It has nothing to do with money or social standing,” says etiquette scion Peter Post, a director of the Emily Post Institute and the author of Essential Manners for Men. “A person who thinks of other people first and does things to make the world a more comfortable place for everybody—that’s what I think a gentleman really is.” Setting aside the musty associations with privileged birth, what noblesse oblige is really about is being man enough to switch off your selfish impulses in service of the greater good.

Not all selfish impulses, of course. The resurgent gentleman knows that discreet and considerate conduct might very well wind up being the ultimate career advantage. “Telepathy, that’s the perfect word for it,” says Gunn. “When I have people coming for meetings in my office, I try to find out beforehand, do they like coffee or tea? How do they take their coffee? Are they bagel people? Are they pastry people? I want them to feel comfortable when they’re here. That helps breed some trust, and in their own way they’re kind of seduced.” Restraint, too, serves as an ally of the gentleman’s own ambition, not as a sign of weakness. “I have found that the boor, the person who tries to barge through everything and get his way, is someone people don’t like,” says Nashville writer and columnist John Bridges, the author of a series of pensée-sprinkled guidebooks on chivalric habits and principles. “If you try to be civil, it puts you in a negotiating stance with people, and you get places a lot more easily. Being a gentleman gives you the tools to know how to get your way without everybody hating you.” Forcing everyone in the corporate cafeteria to listen to you crow about your ride on a private jet might make you feel like a master of the universe, but in fact it could be the very thing that convinces your boss that you’re not ready for a promotion. “The new gentleman has manners,” says Richard Torregrossa, who, as the author of Cary Grant: A Celebration of Style, can be presumed to know what he’s talking about. “His conversations are discreet, so he controls his cell phone. His cell phone does not control him.”

And whether the topic is the Redskins or Der Rosenkavalier, he knows well enough not to inflict his stream-of-consciousness commentary on other people. He doesn’t need to be the center of attention. In fact, if there’s ultimately a core trait that distinguishes the new American gentleman from the rest of the pack, it’s this: A gentleman is confident enough not to broadcast his every passing whim. “I always say that a gentleman is somebody who knows how to be there when he’s wanted,” says Bridges, “and the rest of the time gets out of the way.”

The Last Moments of 33

Today is, officially, the end of the last day of my 33rd year on Earth.

I have rather mixed emotions... At the same time, it's nice to know that the last year is something that I've survived, and have indeed gained wisdom, strength of character, and a jarring dose of lessons from a painful reality. Since I have started my 33rd year, I have lost my job of 11 years, lost my marriage of 5 years, and lost what I considered at one time to be my soul mate. There has been a lot of betrayal, a lot of pain, and a lot of tears.

But I have also found who my true friends are (and I mean TRUE friends), have gained an extraordinary amount of perspective on what's important in my life, and have learned to value myself as a person more than at any time before. I've also learned to go for what I love, to grab life by the balls, and do things that I've only ever dreamed... because in the end, it's all about the experiences.

They say that you can only know happiness after knowing sorrow. Dearest readers, I have known some small amounts of sorrow this last year... and I am now just beginning to understand the incredible potential for happiness and exhilaration that is possible after experiencing such things. The only thing missing is my mother, but she's with me in spirit always, so I just have to listen and I hear her giving me advice.

So yea, 33 is a good year to leave behind... so why the mixed emotions? Because 34 just feels really damn old!!! (Just kidding...)

On a more mundane and immediate note, I have to admit, the last day of "33" also started out a little rough... I had a jarring awakening by my phone, which I accidentally left on 'vibrate' mode and scared the crap out of me when the alarm went off. And for some reason, I must have been wearing a sign that said "run into me" because about 12 people bumped me on the way to the subway. I felt rather invisible. (I call these unpleasant days "invisible days", and usually they're annoying, but not grating.... today, for some reason, was different.) One lady almost sat on my lap in the subway because I was apparently transparent.

When I got to work, I received a call from my bank telling me that there had been an error that they were "attempting to rectify", and that several thousands of dollars in my account had been "misplaced." (How you 'misplace' electronic money is strange to me, but hey, I guess if people can lose something as nebulous as their mind, then I guess a few decimal points really isn't that surprising.)

I figured that this day was pretty much a summation of my last year of my life - a reminder that I didn't matter much to some people as I would like, and that you get screwed sometimes even when you're not paying attention.

On a much happier and more fun note... On Saturday, my four nephews decided to throw me a surprise birthday party, which was - without a doubt - the cutest thing EVER. I think it was the first time they've ever tried to throw a surprise party... When they came to pick me up at the train station after my one hour and seven minute ride on Metro North, I get in the car to a resounding chorus of children yelling "AUNT BETH! AUNT BETH! AUNT BETH!" at the top of their lungs. And their excitement and painful effort to contain the surprise was evident when the four year old excitedly said "Aunt Beth! Guess what! We.. um... we DON'T have a cake!" (This is how four-year-olds keep secrets.) Then, it was even more evident when the 5 year old told me: "You can't go into the basement! Well, you can go in the basement, but you can't go into papa's workshop! But if you want to play darts [the dart board is in the basement] then you can't look at papa's work bench! Because... [at this point the whole car breaks into a rousing chorus of "SSSSSHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!"]... uh... because it's clean and we don't want you to see how clean it is!" (It's immediately apparent to me that the basement - and more specifically, papa's workbench, is where the surprise gifts are... the ones that I'm not supposed to know about. Of course, I play along nicely with others...)

Then we had pizza, and my nephews blindfolded me while they brought out the cake (my sister made a TO DIE FOR chocolate cake (*YUM*) complete with the numbers "34" on it (I don't know why she did that... since I told her that I'm only 23.)) and the gifts...which included an edge-only brownie pan, a Costco-sized box of Ghirardelli brownie mix and - and here's the best part - several hand-picked gifts from my nephews. My sister apparently let the boys loose in Wal-Mart and told them that they could pick out gifts for me. How amazingly fabulous is that? I love it!

My eldest nephew (after being deterred from his first choice in the Housewares section) chose a gorgeous blue necklace that matches a sweater that I have perfectly. (Is he destined to be a fashion designer? Who knows... perhaps he's destined to be a psychic, because my bathroom faucet broke the day after my birthday party, and *he* was the one who wanted to go to housewares... hmmm.... Oops, digressing...) Nephew number two chose a beaded barrette, and nephews 3 and 4 chose "sparkly hair bands" that got me some rave reviews in karate last night (by cute boys, by the way... oops, digressing again).

Now if THAT is not a perfect surprise birthday party, I don't know what is! These guys rock my world, I have to say.

The day after this fabulous trip to the country, I finally decided on a gift to give to myself. I know it's a splurge, but after the last 12 years of promises and looking forward to going on this very trip, I am treating myself to an African safari. Yep, that's right! Africa... because it's one place I've wanted to go, and it was supposed to be my 5th anniversary trip. So guess what, life... I'm going to live it! Look out, Big 5... There's a 6-foot blond chic from the Big Apple heading your way for a month-long tour of South Africa, Zimbabwe, Botswana, Namibia, and Zimbabwe. I leave in June... and I'm counting down the days! (and for my NBC friends - how is THAT for burying the lead?)

Now THAT balances out a slew of "invisible days" in every possible way.... Yes, 33 has taught me a lot of lessons that I hoped I'd never have to learn about betrayal, lies and deception. But it's also taught me about some other things that I feel I've taken for granted in my life.

I have a new and overwhelming sense of gratitude for my wonderful family (who throw the best surprise parties ever), me incredible friends who will tell me that they love me any time and show me the perfect examples of compassion whenever I have doubts about the integrity of this world, and my newly found sense of spiritual peace and adrenaline that will propel me past my fears and into my next adventure, whether it be in the throws of the African outback, or the far more dangerous world of New York City dating.

So that's the lesson here, I guess. 33 was rough. But because of the love that I have suddenly had to rely upon to make it through the last year of my life, I'm planning on 34 being an incredible ride... and my friends, you are welcome to take the journey with me. I couldn't have done it without you.

Online dating translations, part 1

While anticipating dipping my little toe into the adventures of dating after 12 years, it's interesting to me what has become of the world of internet dating. In the early days, the internet was basically a place to send and receive emails, look at porn, and the only people who posted online were skeevy perverts with few social skills and presumably an arrest record. It was reminiscent of the times when pagers and cell phones only really belonged in the world of doctors and drug dealers... no one could be trusted if you picked them up online.

Now it's a bit different. Actually, it's a lot different. When you look for potential mates online, the outline of the guy is right there in front of you: Relationship history (single, married, separated, divorced, "complicated"), sexual orientation (m4w, t4m, m4m), baggage check (have children, want children, do they live with you), education /literacy level (grammar, spelling, writing skills), music / movie / book preferences, hobbies... and you can even gawk at his photos without worrying about making too much eye contact, as you would at a bar. Of course everything is up for negotiation, and factors like age, income and just about everything else can be misinterpreted or an outright lie. But assuming at - barring some serious psychological problem - they are apt to tell mostly the truth, the only thing missing, of course, is the interpersonal interaction. So all you have to do is read, and you know everything you need to know, right?

Well, not exactly. I'm learning slowly but surely that what you see is not exactly what you get when it comes to online representations... and I'm not just talking about the "interpretive" ages, "estimated" heights, "approximate" weights, or the "oops, I checked the wrong box" marital status. No, no... ladies... there are some much more subtle clues on this than you might think. I liken it to the real estate listings, where everything is "prettied up" in order to sell at the highest price. For example, when searching for an apartment, cozy means don't sit on the toilet before you close the bathroom door or you'll bruise your knees, and pre-war charm means running water may work 30% of the time, and on a good day you might get a lukewarm shower.

It is the same with online dating, my friends. There are statements that say one thing... but mean something entirely different. And so here, ladies and gentlemen, is the first installment of my "Online Dating Translation Dictionary" for your perusal, amusal, and rebuttal...

No Baggage Please
What men think they mean: Please, I'm a nice guy, don't be a whack job.

What men really mean: Once you start complaining about anything, I'll blame it on PMS, your past relationships, or your need for anti-psychotic medications. I've been in a relationship where the woman complained, and I hated it, so all I really want is a life-like sex toy that talks, but has nothing to say. Once you start having emotional needs indicating that you're human, I'm outta here. And you shouldn't have kids. Period. And you should never mention children. Ever. (Except perhaps when you tell me that I'm so perfect that your life is fulfilled and you can't imagine messing up the stunning sex we're having by doing something so annoying like procreating.)


I'm A Sports Fan
(There are several variations to this statement, including "I'm a huge [insert random sports team here] fan" or having the username that resembles anything like sportnut, giantsfan, or touchdown74.)

What men think they mean: I'd love to meet a woman who enjoys watching the game with me and would appreciate season tickets as a gift for their birthday.

What men really mean: I might like you. But only if you cease to exist entirely when my favorite team / sport is on TV, or when I'm at the game. You cannot ever, under any circumstances whatsoever, accompany me to any games, sports-watching parties, or sports bars unless you are: a) a professional cheerleader and can demonstrate your skills on a bar in stilettos during a halftime wet T-shirt contest... and win, b) can chug cheap beer from a funnel as fast and with as much tolerance as my ex-football-player friend, Scott who weighs 290 pounds, or c) have all the names of the teams, players, positions, coaches, and have the sport's history and rules memorized, but will always defer to my expertise when we disagree on a point.
You are not allowed to complain at any point about my absence during said events, even if you are in the process of giving birth to our child during a game. If you do complain, then I will break up with you because you are a bitchy nag who doesn't understand my needs.


Looking for someone to have fun with!
What men think they mean: I'm looking for someone to have fun with!

What they really mean: I'm looking for someone to have fun with... until I get bored with you. At that point, I will leave you because: 1) You have failed at meeting my entertainment needs, because I have the mental capacity and attention span that almost rivals that of a 4 year old with a severe case of A.D.D. who is high on candy and Coca Cola. 2) Once the sex is no longer mind-blowingly amazing, and you stop jumping my bones and trying to give me blow jobs every time we're together, I will go find something else to play with because you're boring in bed. 3) I can't commit. To anything. Ever. Even doing this online posting is already boring to me and I won't log in to check my account for weeks, at which point I'll try to log in again to see who has "winked" at me but won't remember my password, so fuck it... the site was lame anyway and only had dorky, loser women on it who didn't know how to have fun.

Ready to Settle Down
(This also has several variations, including the ever-popular "looking for mrs. right" line.... my personal favorite.)

What he thinks he means: I'm ready to settle down and get serious.

What he really means: I went out drinking last weekend, and three days later, I still have a killer hangover. I can't do this any more, man! Plus, I can't remember the names of the last six girls I slept with, and that's beginning to be embarrassing because I'm reaching my mid-thirties, and I'm verging on the "old guy who picks up chicks at the bar" now instead of the "cool, fun guy at the bar" that I used to be. All my friends are in long-term relationships, engaged, or married, so I think I should settle down, but deep down, I really don't want to. Unless, of course, you're good enough for me so that I won't ever be attracted to anyone ever again. This means, of course, that you have to stay young, hot, sexy, happy, fun, energetic, chatty, flirty and have a kick-ass body every day... for the rest of your life... even when you're 65... and worship my body even when I turn into a 65 year-old overweight couch potato who still thinks he can drink like a 22 year old. Otherwise, I'll leave you when the hangover quits and I've decided that I'm "looking for someone to have fun with!" (cross-reference previous entry.)


Looks great in a formal dress, but also comfortable in jeans

What he thinks he means: I'd love to have a woman who can carry herself well in any situation.

What he really means: You should look great, no matter what time it is, how early the alarm clock went off, or how much sleep I didn't let you get last night. You should be able to keep up with my breakneck walking speed while wearing 6" heels, and not complain about it when we arrive. You should wake up and need approximately 36.3 seconds to go from dead asleep to walking out the door in perfectly coiffed hair, clothes, and style. (Noticed that I left off makeup - you shouldn't need any ever. Unless it's maybe some red lipstick that won't smudge or wear off during the 6 hour party.) You should be able to switch seamlessly between a formal gown and horseback riding on the beach in Negril without ever having raccoon-eye mascara smudges or sweating unattractively. If you ever DO have raccoon-eyes or bad breath, I'll break up with you because you're getting to be too high-maintenance. (After all, the Bond girls do this all the time... so why can't you?)


(to be continued...... )

'Tis the season... for a boyfriend.

One of the most interesting places to catch some insight into the world of 20- and 30-something single women in New York is in the locker room of my karate studio. It's dirty, smelly, and only one of the two toilets works about half the time, but they do keep free hair dryers on-hand and - if you're lucky - it might work for about 3 minutes before it shorts itself out.

Discussions range, of course, depending on the crowd and the time of day... and so far, I have I heard conversations about funky dieting techniques ("detox" is the word du jour, apparently), makeup techniques ("the bruises cover better with a yellow-tinted cover-up"), bras ("you only have to wear one sports bra?"), and last but certainly not even close to being least, BOYS. The conversations on boys run the gamut, from comparisons of those in class with you ("did you see that high green belt today? Wow, I'd love to untie HIS drawstring pants") to the various boys in the "outside" world, ranging from husbands, boyfriends, crushes, friends-with-benefits, and the seemingly endless gamut of relationship possibilities. (To be fair, there are plenty of lesbians there, too, but the talk rarely runs to girlfriends, unless they're referring to jealousy of a girlfriend who also has a male friend-with-benefits.) But I digress....

One of the most interesting discussions I've overheard and butted into lately was about the seasonal need for a boyfriend. This is what I've affectionately started referring to as "Seasonal Dating" (not to be confused with "serial dating" which is a whole 'nother beast entirely.) Last November, there were two very attractive, young 20-somethings in my class who were discussing the need to find boyfriends, because "It was the right season." At first, I didn't quite follow what they were talking about, but as the conversation progressed it became clear that the ideal dating scenario is to pick up a boyfriend when the weather starts getting chilly (they told me that October was ideal) and then dump the guy when the weather starts getting nicer (usually April or early May.) Why? Well, there are several complex and yet surprisingly understandable factors in that:

Indoor vs. Outdoor activities:
In the winter, you do the "indoor activity" thing... go to cozy restaurants, see movies, and tour museums or dance clubs, depending on your morning- or night-time preferences. For these activities, it's ideal to have a mate. Preferably one that is good in bed, can cook for you, has a swanky apartment with a big-screen TV, and pays for the takeout dinners.

In the summer, and warmer months, it's time to break out of that shell and go OUT. This means outdoor seating in cafes and bars, late-night partying at bars with single cute boys, jogging in Central Park (or, who am I kidding, it's mainly short-shorts and bikini-top Frisbee tossing in Central Park), trips to beaches, pool parties, and all sorts of fun outdoor festivities. These activities are not conducive to having a boy attached to you, so it's best not to have one during these times of the year.

Clothing Required:
As alluded to above, the necessary parka and snow boots of the cold months are not very revealing, and the much-preferred clothing to attract young boys is easier to wear in the summer months. (I guess you could arguably wear said revealing items in winter, but let's face it - frostbite isn't sexy, no matter what color concealer you use.) Plus, often times, if you're dating a boy, he may have something to say about you wearing your brand-new string bikini top and playing Frisbee in Central Park without him being around to cast threatening looks at other boys who happen to pay too much attention to the... uh... Frisbees.

In the winter, even if you do have to wear long undies, unflattering Ugg boots, bad-hair-causing hats (with the accompanying bad static-electric-hair), up-to-your-chin sweaters that leave you feeling about as alluring as a nun in a habit.... you still get to make out with someone at the end of the day, because your boyfriend is waiting for you and will help you with the removal of said layering options. You have to admit, it's very hard to give a "come hither" look (or booty shake) to the guy who catches your eye on the street while you're wearing long johns, wool pants, fuzzy boots, a parka the size of a Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade balloon, earmuffs, a scarf, hat and mittens.

In warmer months - not so much layering, and much easier to show off the fabulously toned Karate legs and new push-up bras. Hence, easier to flirt with potential boy toys.

Gifting Season:
Lest you think it's all about emotions and sex, let's face it, the winter season is a fabulous time to have someone who likes you well enough that gifts are required. In the winter, there's Christmas, New Year's Eve (it's always better to get kissed than not), and Valentine's Day... all of which pretty much revolve around the guy getting the girl something romantic, or pretty. In the summer, there is a distinct lack of opportunity to get gifts from a boy, so ... why bother sticking with one? Yea, I know... it's a materialistic way to think about things, but honestly, it makes sense a little, doesn't it?

So the lessons we've learned from our little locker-room banter was that the time to pick up a boyfriend is in the chilling-off months of October or early November... and then you can play with him until the first trip to spring break beaches requires that you suddenly be single again...

Interesting. And also interesting to note that I screwed it up this year... but now I know. And in October, I'll start hunting for my seasonal boyfriend for 2007-2008.

Life as a guy

Dating, from the men's perspective.... (yikes)


A friend of mine sent me a video this morning (Thanks Chris)

(click picture or click here.

Men, are women really this psychotic?


And meanwhile, you might want to wipe that cheesy-ass grin off your face while you're walking down the street.

(just kidding)

(sort of)

Adventures in Speed Dating

A few weeks ago, I met a friend of mine and his girlfriend at a fabulous little bar called Savoy. After a few drinks, we were inevitably lamenting over the plight of being – as the ever-optimistic web likes to put it – “suddenly single” in the vast and bizarre world of New York City. The conversation turned into online dating, upon which I’ve briefly touched in this blog, and alternatives to the crap-shoot that is online dating, and the alternatives offered.

This is when the topic of New York on “Speed” came up. Apparently, there is a vast world of “Speeding” in this town, of which I’ve been previously blissfully unaware. I’m not talking about the drug (or, I should clarify that if there *is* a rash of stimulant use in NYC, I continue to be blissfully unaware), but the idea of Speed Dating, and the other new-to-me concepts of “Speed Friending” (the same as speed dating, but without the sexual aspect and gender requirements) and “Speed Networking” (sort of a speed friending for professional reasons.)

Ready to dabble in anything new that would give me a basis for a good blog (and readily propped in my adventuresome spirit by several very good Cosmopolitans thanks to Michael, the Savoy bar tender), I went immediately home and signed up for a speed dating adventure. (Thanks a lot, Paul.)

I should add a disclaimer here... While I admit that I signed up for the speed dating that late evening when I got home, I didn’t recall doing this until I checked my email the next morning when the subject line: “Congratulations! You are confirmed!” greeted me. I had to take a few moments to remember, exactly, what I was confirmed FOR. Not wanting to lose my momentum of adventure (and not wanting to lose my deposit for the evening) I bravely went forward and last night, made my first foray into the bizarre world of Speed Dating.

Prelude:
Arriving at the location was a bit of an adventure itself. Apparently, local R&B performer Myame was performing at the upstairs dance club as well, so there was a line of about 15 men waiting outside the front door, all decked out in baggy jeans, sideways baseball caps, hoodie sweatshirts, and lots of heavy gold bling. I hate to stereotype, and didn’t want to judge anyone for anything before I give them a chance, but it just didn’t strike me as the typical crowd lining up for a speed dating. Resolving to suck it up and make the best of it, I traipsed up to one of the several 250+ pound bouncers at the door and said – as bravely as my karate training would let me – “Is there a speed dating thingie here tonight, or am I in the wrong place?” Yea, it sounded just as weak and pathetic as it reads.

Thankfully, the reply I received was: “Yep, in the basement.” Whew!! At this point, I was let through the velvet rope in front of the other crowd, and escorted rather unceremoniously through a blank door and a set of dark stairs leading precipitously downwards into … yep … the basement. I have to give the organizers props for this automatic screening of potential applicants. After all, if you weren’t scared off by the crowd at the door, the four bouncers, or the descent from an unmarked door into a dark stairwell, then you have to have some set of nerves.

Upon entering, our two hosts beckoned me over and gave me my brochure: A photocopied paper with an ice-skating hedgehog on the cover, wearing a tie, carrying a martini, and wearing a scarf emblazoned with the logo of the speed dating company. (I swear I’m not making this up. I don’t think I could if I tried.) On the corner of the front page: “F4”, which stands for “female” and “table 4” which was to be my assigned seat for the first part of the evening. On the inside cover: The rules, and then the “Selection Form”… a series of blanks labeled “Name of Date”, “Notes”, and the ever-so-personal choice of Y or N. That’s basically what the whole thing comes down to, right? Y or N.

I got a drink – screwdriver #1 – and found a stool near two other women: JA and IL. They were friends who came together on their first speed dating experience, and we bonded pretty quickly over the first few moments. The need to preserve a bit of anonymity was apparent from the beginning, though, and the psychology professor was hesitant about telling me where she taught until she reconsidered and said “Well, since you’re a woman, I can tell you. But I am not going to tell any of the guys!!” Fair enough. Apparently it was also a bit strange – as a woman – to come alone. Once again we see the social differences between men and women here. All of the men came alone, but most of the women came in groups of 2 or 3 for moral support. I am not sure if that’s a good thing or not, since women (as you’ll see later) can be quite nasty when they talk about men. (I know, I know… not telling you anything groundbreaking here.)

I don’t quite know what I expected of the men, but there was a good variety there – short, tall, suits, casual, artistic, businesslike, ‘big boned’, thin, and every skin tone was represented. Overall, however, I have to say that the selection of women was far more attractive than the men… but who am I to judge?

So the rules as they were explained to us was that we would have 6 minutes to chat with each dude, and then they would ring a ‘gong’ and the gents would move to the next table for the next six minutes. We’d do this in two acts… with each person talking to 6 people in each act. I was perched on a very hard to describe box that was lit from within and was very uncomfortable. It also put me a good 8 inches above my date, which was exceedingly unhelpful since I was taller than – oh – everyone in the room. As I sat perched on the edge of my lava-lamp-seat, I met my first date… Here, gentle readers, is the play. I will include the notes that I wrote as I met the men, and recall what I can from our conversations…

Act 1: The first six
I.C.: My notes: “Asian. Scarf.” IC is a very artistically dressed gentleman with intricately shaved facial hair that would fit seamlessly into the Parisian beatnik café scene of Audrey Hepburn’s Funny Face. Very nice to talk to. Asian, his family is from Korea, but he’d lived in the US for most of his life and was in some creative line of work. But honestly I don’t recall much of this first interview, except for his very dramatic black and white scarf, and that when he stood to shake my hand after the gong rang, he barely came up to my waist. Sorry, IC, that would be an “N”.

P.G: I have no recollection whatsoever of this one. And no notes. Oops. I think I was still getting the hang of talking to them while not feeling awkward about taking notes... No recollection equals an “N”. Sorry, PG, my bad.

C.L.: My notes: “Greek, Glasses”. I do recall a checkered jacket, too, and that once the conversation warmed up, he did seem like a nice guy. He screamed “geek” in the traditional sense, with the thick-rimmed black glasses (is that chic, or geek? I can’t keep up), and we chatted a while about my visit to Athens in 2004 and how the Greeks do yogurt like no one else in the world. Not a great chatter, though, and I found myself starting up the majority of the conversation. Probably a "N"….

B.G.: My notes: “Car Salesman. Feet.” I couldn’t follow the conversation with BG most of the time, because it was like talking to three or four different people at the same time. He couldn’t sit still, and was so intent on telling me tales of his previous bad dates, that I barely got a word in edgewise. At one point, he actually said “Enough about me Let’s talk about you But don’t tell me the boring stuff like what you do for a living You’re hot so I’m already interested What do you do for fun I hope you like surfing Have you ever been to Colorado to ski” That was an actual sentence. I’m not kidding. I don't think he actually took a breath for the entire 6 minutes. He also kept taking off his shoes and scratching his toes during our conversation. I never knew that 6 minutes could be so long, or so exhausting. That would be a definite “N”.

F.Z.: My notes: “Tech guy.” Poor FZ – I couldn’t hear a word he was saying. Not only was Myame cranking up some serious bass above our heads, but the conversations in the room reached a peak at this point, and it suddenly seemed as if everyone was yelling. I’m not a loud talker either, so most of the 6 minutes was spent saying “Could you repeat that?” Sorry, FZ, that’s a “N”.

B.R. My notes: “Real estate. 50.” This was, honestly, the first one with real potential. Dressed casually, with a “few extra pounds”, BR had a great sense of humor and we chatted very easily. We had a really nice chat until about 4 minutes in, when I found out that he lied about his age to get into the speed dating group. He was significantly older than the age groups delineated by the event (women: ages 29-37, men: ages 32-42) and made me wonder how much else of his “I ran three companies and did really well and I’m now retired and I just put Real Estate on my business card so that it has something on there to fill my time” schpeil was less BR and more BS. It’s too bad, really, because we really hit it off otherwise. Call me crazy and maybe I’m a little hypersensitive about things right now, but in the last year of my life, I’ve had enough of men lying to me that I don’t feel like starting anything out with another lie…. Sorry, BR… that would be a regrettable “N.”

Entr’acte:
At this point we took a break for some “snacks,” which basically consisted of cheap sugar cookies, and some nachos with salsa. The hosts of the event must have shelled out a whole $2.50 for the highly-promoted “snacks provided”. Honestly, though, most people weren’t interested in heading to the bar for the stale tortilla chips, but for another drink. BR followed me to the bar, and we chatted during the 15 minute intermission, and really had a nice chat, which was – I’ll admit – happily lubricated by screwdriver #2.

During the second round, the guys were stationary, and the women rotated around This was actually a bit preferable since most of the men stood up when I approached and could see how tall I was. I’m not sure how that will affect my feedback ratings, but I hope not too poorly.

Act 2: The Second Six
S.D.: My notes: “Italian. Bald.” Here’s where I have discovered the best pickup line ever: “What’s your favorite vegetable?” I’m not sure how we got onto the topic of food (probably coming off the tortilla chips, and the fact that he is Italian), but we started bonding over the fact that both of us dislike the slimy texture of fresh tomatoes. SD was – as my notes indicate – Italian and bald, but also very fit and very fun to talk to. He was energetic, funny, and great at chatting, which is a severely underrated skill in my honest opinion! Shorter than me, yes, but not so much that it was awkward, and later on I heard that he is a cartoonist, which is uber-cool. Hm… definitely has surprising potential to be a “Y”.

W.A.: My notes: “Tie, France.” This was the one guy in the room wearing a suit, and who was almost as tall as I am. Definitely the best looking, objectively. But he was definitely a quiet one, which was a little bit of an adjustment from SD, who was quite chatty and energetic. I don’t think he there was anything negative about WA, but I could definitely see why he says he has trouble getting dates. He’s very quiet, and I’m sure the bar scene in New York doesn’t fit with his personality. We had a nice conversation about France, though his favorite city being Paris (and not Lyon) might be a serious problem for me. The girls later said he was boring, but I’m speaking from experience when I say that maybe boring is not as bad as it sounds (and it’s a lot better than the alternative, which is someone who is TOO exciting for a relationship’s own good. Ooops, my baggage is showing again! Sorry…) Hmmm… have to think about this one a little more…

A.S.: My notes: “Brown M&M’s, Ears.” Okay, yea, I know that by this time you can tell by my comments when that second drink really started kicking in. But honestly, the M&M thing was not as far a stretch as you might think! Here, the new ‘favorite vegetable’ question took a turn into ‘what’s your most favorite (and least favorite) M&M color?” (For the record, my most favorite is green, my least favorite is brown... as was his - hence the "brown M&M's note.") He also had very sticky-out ears – hence the ears comment. A great chatter, and a psychology major as well, we had a nice conversation, but no sparks for me. He dressed well, which makes sense, since he works for a major high-end fashion retailer. If I cared more about shoes and couture clothing, he’d be a “Y”, but sadly, I like being stuck in an unfashionable rut, so I'm afraid the desire for handbags and haute couture straight pants won't turn it from a "N".

D.Y.: My notes: “Short. Jaded.” Oooh, that’s kind of harsh, isn’t it? Sadly, it was also true. He was very short, but in the interest of making the best of things, I kept the conversation lively. I asked him the “vegetable” question (it really sparked some interesting conversation with AS, so I tried it again), and he seemed to appreciate the change of pace. He told me that he was a frequent speed dater, and that he was a little tired of the scene… or it seemed to me that he was just tired in general. He admitted that this was the first time he’d been asked about vegetables, and couldn’t decide his favorite. I broadened the field: “Okay, what’s your favorite vegetable MEDLEY?” and he froze again… apparently the man doesn’t like vegetables. But his lack of health food decision-making abilities aside, there were no sparks, so DY is a “N.”

J.P.G.: My notes: “Tall! 4th Grade teacher.” Note the most important thing here to me – height. It was the first comment in my last two guys, and while I proudly managed to stay away from asking everyone about their profession (a common and oft-repeated conversation), we had a nice long chat about teaching 4th grade, and how the kids at that age aren’t old enough to put on more than a façade of attitude that’s quickly removed by a good teacher. A nice guy, really, but really didn’t react when I asked if he liked to travel… and in my life, travel is a priority, so I think I’m going to move on… sorry, JPG, the kids will have to do without me for now… “N”.

R.G.: My notes: “Beard. Short.” I should have added “no conversational skills at all” but it didn’t fit in the box. I’m not a big fan of facial hair either, so all in all, three strikes. Sorry, RG, but it didn’t’ take long to reach an “N”…

Finale: Post-party Catty Session
Whew!!! After 12 guys and nearly 2 hours of constant talking, the end of the evening was welcome. At this point, I noticed, the girls suddenly started huddling in groups of 3-4, and I was sucked back into a conversation with the women I met at the beginning of the night, JA and IL. The first, pressing question: “Did you have any Yesses?” I kind of hedged a bit, and said something non-committal like “It was rather overwhelming, I’m going to have to think about it a little more,” at which point they told me that they thought the group was a bunch of losers and they didn’t think they had found anyone the least bit interesting. Then, they started picking apart each one… I won’t get into details, but if you’re a woman, imagine your worst session of nitpicking the selection at a bar, and you get the gist. (Men – trust me, you just don’t want to know.)

They did manage to say that the Italian guy was the best of the bunch, and when I told them that I had busted BR’s age faux pas, they started scribbling madly in their pamphlets and seemed horrified. Oops, sorry BR. Overall, though, they seemed generally put off by the whole thing, and I’m not sure if they were too harsh, or if I’m just too nice. Probably a little bit of both.

The hosts told us that the next steps were to go home, log on to our accounts, and there we would find the list of gentlemen (or ladies) that we’d met, and that we should check off the ones we were interested in meeting. If there were mutual “checks”, then we would receive each other’s email addresses, and - here’s a great quote for you – “The rest is up to you consenting adults.”

Overall it was a fascinating study of men and women interacting, and – as the host stated at one point – this pretty much instantaneously removes the ‘hardest’ part of dating, which is that first face-to-face meeting, and that first conversational hurdle. True, but it’s also hysterically fun to do! I’ll definitely do it again – if not to pick up men, then to just meet new people. In the end, the women were just as interesting to meet as the men, and I suggested the idea of combining the “speed dating” and “speed friending” into one event. After all, even if you don’t want to speak with the men in the room again, who knows if you’ll meet a really cool person to be a hang-out buddy for your next speed-dating adventure… Now that wouldn’t be such a bad idea…

The end result and review would be that I had a shockingly fabulous time! I was literally smiling the entire way home from the experience, and told my office mate today that she should try it out, even though she's seriously dating someone already. It's such a weird experience, but so much fun to socialize in such a bizarre, forced-yet-comfortable way. It was an amazing confidence booster, after some duds in the last few weeks, and I'll definitely do it again, when I've recovered from the screwdrivers!

The after party:
A sort of sad end note… BG – the car salesman with the itchy feet – was hanging out and did manage to try to pick us up with a lame “So, where’s a good bar nearby to party?” line. I told him to head to 9th avenue, and no, I wasn’t going to join him. I think, when I left, he was the last one in the bar, eating the leftover stale chips and trying to talk the waitress into joining him to party that night… and that he would buy the drinks. I can only hope that he washed his hands first.

Long live the Roxy

I went rollerskating Wednesday night - yes, rollerskating, which I haven't done since I was approximately 8 years old - at a rink in the city that's regularly shut down for underage drinking violations. I wasn't quite sure what to expect with a weekly roller rink in NYC, but assumed it was appropriately skeevy, and that afterwards I would need to soak in a multi-gallon bath of Purell in order to de-grossify myself.

The rink is called the "Roxy," and touts itself as a pseudo-disco club. On Fridays, it's a gay dance club, and when it manages to avoid being closed by authorities, Saturday is a regular dance club. The discreet entrance (which is a nice way of saying "hidden" and "scary") is on West 18th Street, a deserted alley with nothing on it other than old warehouse-like buildings, chain link fences, a parking lot and some construction equipment. The faded blue neon sign looked kind of ghostly in the rainy evening, and you could hear it buzzing. It was like a movie set, complete with post-rain spatter and rats rummaging around the construction sites garbage cans. The bouncer at the door checking ID's was the complete package of club-bouncer stereotypes: Monosyllabic, tall, muscular, and dressed head-to-toe black puffy jacket and black baseball cap. It seemed almost a parody to be signing a release that he handed me that said "I accept responsibility for any injuries maintained while rollerskating." Slightly incongruous, yes.

My friend who accompanied me wasn't in the mood. But I had convinced her to go for 1/2 hour at most... knowing that it would be gross and we'd probably just head to a nearby Thai place for dinner and vow never to speak of this silly outing again. When we arrived at 8:30, we didn't expect anyone to be there... and we were pretty close. It was fairly quiet. After entering through a stairway lit with 6 blue light bulbs, we went to the "admission" booth and duly paid our $24 for skating and rentals.

For some reason, these people think that drunk people can hang on to minute slips of paper, because you got a paper when you paid, a paper when you rented your skates, and a paper when you checked your bags. When we entered, it was like a 1980's dance club... colored spotlights, black lights, neon green palm trees hanging from the ceiling, and lots... and lots... of roller skaters. Early in the evening, there were a fair number of us newbies represented and my friend and I took to the dance floor strapped into our four-wheelers. We looked ridiculous. I felt like I was 90 pretending to be 9. Every time I tried to push off, I'd pinwheel like a log roller, and simply grab anyone around me in order to stay off the floor. Remarkably, I didn't fall once! In the first hours, at least. I remembered the lessons I was taught in my first rollerblading class (bend your knees, stay low, and when you're losing your balance, don't stand up) and while I didn't look very cool, I at least stayed off the floor and the flying dancers around me.

The crowd was fascinating. I rarely see such a variety of people in one place in New York city. While the city is diverse, populations of like-people tend to flock together. Not so at the Roxy. There were African Americans, Latin Americans, people in their early 20's, and plenty who were in their 60's or 70's too. The fashions ran the gamut as well. From polka-dotted hot pants, to 1950's poodle-skirts (in camouflage print), from sequin socks to velvet bell-bottoms... it ran the proverbial gamut. You'll notice, however, that my entire sense of the fashion world of rollerskating is below the waistline. That's because - as my friend so eloquently put it at one point in the evening - "This is all about butts." When you're going around-and-around the floor, trying to stay upright, the place you stare is - you got it - at the butt in front of you. As a result, you start to identify people by their various leg wear and footwear... and when a new person joined the circling, I recognized that they were new not by their faces, but by their butt. "Oh, haven't seen those ripped jeans before"... "Look, the polka-dotted hot pants are back"... "The one in the white capris is really terrible!"... Only when there was something completely out of character (flashing light-up wheels, ridiculously ugly terrycloth headbands, or someone skating backwards), was the butt-staring alleviated.

The other thing about roller rinks is that people are constantly touching you. Whether your going to slow and someone feels the need to propel you along, or you're going to fast, and you have to grab the person in front of you to slow down, or if someone in front of you is falling and you reach out to offer them support... you're constantly bumping, supporting, leaning, touching, or otherwise maneuvering other people on the floor. (Note to all you single girls out there - this would be a great place to pick up guys... just run into one and fall down... he will inevitably help you to your feet and offer you a smile! Also, note to all those daters - they do play slow tunes, which turned into "couple" dances... so come to cuddle too...)

After a beer or two, the number of newbies falling suddenly increased. We'd been there over an hour, and the alcohol intake was increasing, and I think that either the confidence was overstated, or the balance was undermined. But it seemed that we suddenly were dodging flying people (or piles of people) at an increasing number. When people did fall, it was like a community effort to get them back on their feet. The security personnel (subtly wearing white shirts that said "ROXY SECURITY" in block letters) would rush over, and stand in front of the fallen person, directing oncoming skater traffic around the downed individual. Other skaters would stop to help, and within seconds, everyone was back in the groove.

Not wanting to break the groove, I managed to go down once myself. Not hard - and in my own defence, someone clipped my wheels - but enough to take another newbie down with me. Security was there in a blink, helping us both up and asking if we were OK. After a bevy of giggles and apologies, we were back up and running. No worse for wear, but definitely in need of some Purell.

By the end of our three hours of skating, I'd decided that one fall and countless bumps, grabs, pokes, pushes, and elbows were enough, so I called it quits. To tired to figure out the rainbows of slips of paper I had shoved in my pocket, I simply placed all my slips in front of the various coat check, ID check, and skate rental people to let them choose which color they liked best. Eventually I did end up with my own footwear, clothing, purse and ID back.

I'll go back, because it was super-fun and I promised my sister some photos. Next time I'll bring more friends with me to reserve one of the booths along the side. I'm also bringing my extra large bottle of Purell.

Craig's List social experiments...

At 2pm yesterday - it was a slow Saturday afternoon - I had an idea. At heart, I think I am a sociologist, because the culture of people and human behavior fascinates me. Faced with the prospect of soon having to start dating (and probably "internet dating" at that), I decided to run a little social experiment of my own. My plan: Put a posting up on Saturday afternoon for a dinner date on Craig's List's "personals" site, and see who responds. Here is my post... and please note that to protect the innocent, insulting, insane, and just plain idiotic, I've edited responders' names in the ensuing commentary:

Tall blond, looking for a Saturday evening dinner date - 33

Reply to: pers-(edited)@craigslist.org
Date: 2006-12-02, 1:57PM EST

Hello all... Who knows if this Craig's List thing actually works, but hey, life's an adventure, so I'm just going to take a leap and give it a shot. Me: Tall (5'11"), athletic blond-ish, intelligent, and a great conversationalist who happens to have left a long-term relationship a few months ago and has no plans for this evening in New York City.

What I'd like: It's a Saturday night, and things are sort of slow in my dating life. Lots of offers, but not a lot of interesting guys. So tonight, I'd love to have a nice dinner, a great chat, and some fabulous wine... just a relaxing, no pressure kind of situation.

You: Smart, tall, intelligent and can carry on a good conversation over a great meal and wine. Dessert is TBA... let's see what happens at dinner first. (Are you noticing that conversation skills are a key here?)

The usual CL disclaimers: D/D free, please send a picture, no spam.

Cheers...


That's the posting... simple, straight forward and fairly low key. I swear that when I wrote the "dessert TBA" thing, I wasn't thinking dirty... I honestly meant chocolate cake or something.

When I first thought up this little social experiment of mine, I thought it would be kind of fun - to write a blog about Craig's List and the weirdness of online dating. To be sure, I received plenty of strange and humorous responses, including "J" who wanted to make some cultural assumptions: "'cheers' means your British?" while "D" let me know exactly where his priorities were right off the bat: "I've got my Bruins on til 8 but after that I am free", and super-date "F" was "here to save the day :-))" complete with a double-chin smiley.

"L" apparently has a problem with backslashes: "M39 nyc here/ East Midtown Manhattan area 235lbs/ brown eyes/ dark hair/ 6'2''Marketing consultantI like to travel/ golf/ movies/ the beach/ romantic dinners/ good wine/ long candle lit baths/ kissing ........" and "R" apparently doesn't have much to say quite yet: "hi. I live on the ues..6 feet/185 finance, blah, blah, blah." Hm, wonder what part of the conversation requirement he didn't get...

"V"'s email (submitted sans photo) was short and to the point. I'll quote it in it's entirety here: "Find anyone?". But "Vinnie's" was the one that scared me the most: "www. freewebs.com/ woofwoofbone"... and no I didn't go there, and no, neither should you. Yet another, from "S": "oh, I'm sure we'll get to dessert! (*winky smile*)" (gack.)

"I" was brief and strangely insightful: "With your athletic background... ever dabble in martial arts! " Hm. Why yes! Why does he ask?

Others were confident, like "A", whose response email was titled "tall blond looking for me!". In the body of his email, he says: "I am replying to your post because it's simple and honest. And you have a warm, vibrant smile." Interesting how he values honesty, and so very nicely complements me on my smile. There could be potential here! Oh wait... In my original ad, I didn't post my photo.... So, how does he know what my smile looks like? Uh oh, I think I just busted a "cut and paste" responder! Another confident responder - "M" - apparently works for Nike and is a tad competitive: "Lets do it. I am taller then you probably in better shape too." Get the impression we'll end up arm-wrestling over who will be paying for dinner?

"D" was much more verbose, with no less than a 7-paragraph self description ending with a very clear list of what he requires when responding to him: "If I am indeedright, ONLY IF YOU ARESERIOUS ABOUT WHAT YOU ARELOOKING FOR, would I loveto know whatyou do fora living, what brought you tothe site, what doyou like doing for fun, what you arelooking for, what turns youon/off in a man etc." (to his credit, at least he gave me the option of picking whether or not he was "indeed right"... and - a side note - apparently has a problem with his keyboard space bar. I really wonder if any woman really does have any prepared notes on what turns them 'on/off in a man etc.' Quite interesting, however, was that earlier in the same long email, he explains his lack of required photo by stating that "i do not havemy picture handy sincethis was totally spontaneous (a nature of mypersonality)." Is it just me, or with all of his requirements for a response, it's clear that he doesn't want spontaneity from his date? Hmmm...)

Congratulations are due to "M" who was the first to respond. I posted at exactly 1:57pm, and his response rolled in at a time stamp of 1:58. So a special prize to you, "M" for being on the ball when it comes to trolling CL for new listings! By the time the clock hit 2:05pm, I'd received 15 emails.

Through the course of the afternoon and evening, I received two very strange offers to take me shopping:
"F": "Seeking a hot girl to take shoe shopping once a week. very submissive and love to be bossed around" (eww!)

"I": "A suite at the Mandarin Oriental or Hotel on Rivington (a getaway in the city). A facial and massage at the Ritz Carlton (Central Park of course).. Private tour of Bergdorf (Courtesy of Amex). Maybe some Shoes, Maybe a necklace, Maybe some La Perla, Maybe a dress..dinner at Daniel or Per-Se.. table at Tenjune (its all about being current) or Bungalow or Butter on Monday nights (I have trust me, but need someone lovely to do this with). (First off, what is it with men and shoes? Second, I think what I really want to respond to these two guys is 'They're called Professional Escorts... give 'em a call sometime'. )

I also got a fair number of photos... some very artistic, and some pretty straightforward. More than a few were close-up photos of men's genitalia... I'm not quite sure where that fits into my request for good conversation, though. (If anyone has any ideas on that, please enlighten me.) Other photos were just plain work-ID types, but some were quite creative. One was a photography buff who sent me a photo of his chin. Yep. Just his chin. For the record - "B" - you should shave before taking and distributing another photo of your chin to potential dates.

Believe it or not, the chin-shot wasn't the most baffling, though... The photos that really confused me were the ones that included the prospective dinner-date with his arms wrapped around another woman that was definitely NOT his mother. This happened twice, and in one photo, "C" very clearly had his hand on her tush. The accompanying note said "Here's a photo of me, and my friend." Hmm. Note to "C": When sending a photo to a prospective on-line candidate for a prospective off-line dinner date, it's best to at least edit out with Photoshop your former girlfriend... or at least edit out your hand on her arse.

I also received several photos of men scowling into the lens... Trust me, guys, you will fare better with a toothy, cheesy grin than an I'm-serious-handsome-and-mysterious photo that - in all honesty - makes you look more like a child molester than an appealing dinner date. Yes, I know we all ask for tall-dark-handsome-mysterious types, but what we really want is someone who isn't afraid to laugh a little.

A few responses, however, made me really worry about the "women" (I put that in quotes because like the lottery, you never know) that are posting on this site. And about here is where I started feeling a little guilty about my fun social experiment.... when I started getting warm and fuzzy, I'm-lonely-just-like-you responses like these:

"DL": "Hi. Hope you're having a nice day. I saw your posting on Craigslist. You sound like a nice and normal woman."
"TL": "Thanks for your honest post about where you are in life and what you hope to find."
"L": "Wow, you're a real person!"
"C": "I found your posting to be sincere and quite articulate. What a refreshing change!"
"J": "I may be a sucker for brains and a well-penned posting but I had to reply, and I guess I only get one shot at this so here goes."

These were just a few of what I dubbed the 'nice-guy' responders. Of course they all could be fakes, just hoping to figure out if I really am a "natural" blond, if you catch my drift. But the impression I got was that there are - simply - a lot of lonely people on this planet, and they're all just hoping to catch a break when it comes to companionship and intimacy. I feel a little bit unethical, posting a listing as simply a misleading social observation and experiment. My only consolation is that few people really expect to get responses from these kinds of postings... I think... I hope...

Nonetheless, to the authors of the thus far 79 email responses I've gotten to my posting: Thank you for participating in this study. You can get free orange juice and cookies on your way out the door.

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