Thursday, August 31, 2006


Ah, air travel. It’s now the bain of our existence due to the heightened security measures that airports are taking. Most young women can identify with my angst over not being able to bring certain liquids and gel toiletries on board…lip glosses, perfumes, toothpaste…consider it all confiscated.

According to the TSA, they’ve loosened the rules just slightly to accommodate for “the health and welfare of certain air travelers.” Of course, this includes such boring items such as breast milk, liquid prescription drugs, “life support and life sustaining liquids such as bone marrow, blood products, and transplant organs”...and…KY Jelly.

Let me repeat that one...KY Jelly.

OK. Who at the TSA let this one slide by?

Let’s analyze this, shall we?

  • Point #1: The desire to have sex upon an aircraft likely doesn’t fit within the terrorist MO, unless before ending the lives of everyone on board said terrorist wants to “get closer to God” by giving himself one last romp in the airplane bathroom with the help of a trusty personal lubricant.
  • Point #2: KY Jelly, isn’t exactly something an air traveler would need for “health and welfare” unless it’s used to improve one’s overall demeanor by jacking off, jumping a flight attendant, or joining the mile high club. Yes, sex does puts one in a better mood, but it’s not like we can’t wait until the plane lands (in most scenarios at least).
  • Point #3: I’m not aware of KY Jelly being used for any mechanical necessities on board a plane, thus that crosses out any practical applications.

In a nutshell, someone over at the TSA doesn’t want us to look or smell good on a plane, but we sure as hell can have as much sex as we want, pending you don’t run out of your 4 ounce allowance.

So, I’d like to give a big shout out to the TSA: THANKS for keeping our libidos in mind while flying the friendly skies.

TSA Travel Assistant

Wednesday, August 30, 2006

I’ve Been Cheating

I fell in love at a young age. As soon as I saw the power and excitement that he exuded I was hooked. From that moment I knew my life was destined to be closer to him. At the age of 22, my dream finally came true after years of longing. I moved across the country to have him in my life. I was completely and utterly in love…with New York.

It’s been the longest relationship of my life thus far, and we’ve had quite a time together, all five years of our courtship. To think about all the fun exploits we’ve had, the fabulous people he’s introduced me to, the job that I was hooked up with when I decided to move in, it’s hard to ignore that I’ve been living the fantasy that I had dreamt about as a little girl.

Sadly, as with any relationship, we’ve had quarrels, hurdles to overcome and lulls in passion for each other. My interest began to fade and I wondered if New York really was the right choice for me. Is this love really what I wanted for my life? As I faltered over my lack of decisiveness, I was introduced to someone new…London.

I didn’t fall into the tryst easily; in fact it began slowly, but then picked up in pace. Within months of considering a relationship with London, I realized…I was already cheating on my beloved New York with the worst of all possible options…a foreigner. For the last nine months, London had been on my mind and I can’t escape.

I’ve gotten myself into a predicament and am now stuck in the impossible place of deciding which choice is right for me. It’s clouded by being in love with both. I’m in front of a sliding door. Which to choose?!

I’ve got quite a history with New York, as we’ve been through a lot together. To be frank, I know he’d be royally pissed off if I ditched him for someone that doesn’t even live on the island. The hardest thing to do would be to break up with New York after all this time.

But, London. Oh, London! He offers me experiences I only dream of having. With London the world is my oyster and I know it’d be an exciting time. Our relationship has been short in comparison, but I’ve gotten used to him being on my mind, continually whispering tempting promises into my ear.

Unfortunately they found out about each other rather quickly, and neither is being patient with me about who I will ultimately choose. Both New York and London have told me they want me, but I'm scared that given my cheating past, I've jeapordized any chance I have with either.

At this point, all I can do is make the decision for myself. I've cheated, and as they say "I made my mess and now I have to lie in it." I’m torn between two loves who both offer me a great life, but I now have to own up, choose my mate and quit my cheating ways.

Monday, August 28, 2006

To Go Or Not To Go...That Is The Question

It’s time to let you in on a little secret I’ve been keeping…I’ve been offered an opportunity to transfer to the London office of my company. I requested this last year, and last Friday I finally got a formal offer letter. After all this time of waiting and wondering and feeling like my life is in limbo, I finally have something to ponder – for real.

My current battle is whether or not to actually go, and my company has given me a deadline...I have until Friday to decide. After over nine months of waiting and wondering, you think they could give me more than a week, right?!?

Anyway…here is my predicament:

On one hand, I have a great job in NYC. I’ve worked really hard to get where I am and if I stay, my career will still be on the up-and-up. I’m finally living comfortably, have fabulous friends, live decently close to my family and am generally happy.

On the other hand, here is this amazing opportunity to go live and work in another country, something that I’ve wanted for some time. It’ll certainly be lucrative for my career in the long run, and I’m not scared one bit by picking up and trying something completely new.

My decision-making problem does not lie in the obvious pros of each path; in fact it lies within what I’ll be trading up if I choose one or the other.

It’s about regret.

I have one week to decide which path will leave me with the least amount of regret, and I don’t want to regret anything in life, least of all missing out on something that is important to me…

So is it about…losing a life that I know I will have here? Or is it about…losing a life I think I might have somewhere else?

I'm going to drive myself batty trying to figure this one out.

Friday, August 25, 2006

A Chemistry Test

Last night was my first date with The Frenchie. We went to a tiny hole in the wall Spanish tapas place – Bar Jamón - that I will absolutely be returning to. We had wine, munched on some small plates and chatted while sitting on tall stools lined up behind long mahogany tables. It’s to no surprise that this little treasure of a restaurant is another Mario Batali brainchild, as it reminded me of a smaller, more intimate version of one of my New York favorites – Otto.

You’d think this atmosphere combined with the fact that I was sitting across from a very passionate Frenchman would lead to a hot and sexy first date. Quite the contrary. You see…I wasn’t really attracted to him. I don’t know if I am compensating for the fact that my ex is another passionate European man, or if we truly just didn’t have that je ne sais quoix with one another.

I have an admission to make. I’m sorta quick to judge when it comes to men and it’s not about their looks or how much money they make. In fact, the one thing that I subliminally seek is chemistry. It’s either there or it isn’t.

In the case with the Frenchie, he clearly was into me, proven by his constant eye contact, occasional and intentional touches to my arm, and solidified by him grasping my waist as we left the restaurant. Through all of this, all I could think was, “Hmm, I wonder what time it is.” Knowing myself, that is not a good sign.

I might give The Frenchie another chance, but I’m not one to string guys along just to have a date. I hate feeling guilty for leading people on, and a second date implies that he’ll be expecting more, which I know I’m not so into at the outset. SIGH.

On the upside…tonight is my third date with Mr. ESPN and I’m really excited. Following my date last night, he called just to say ‘hi’ and chat about our plans for tonight...

Wednesday, August 23, 2006

October is the new June

Last week I said to a friend that only a handful of my girlfriends are married...and that was a statement that included high school, college, post-college AND family. Well, I spoke too soon because this past weekend included a flood of wedding news...

To recap the results of me not knocking on wood following my statement: I attended my cousin’s bridal shower, simultaneously received word that a friend had just gotten engaged, was told that another friend would be co-habitating with her boyfriend come this fall and then arrived home to a wedding invitation. To boot, I have already been invited to three weddings this year and all of them are this October.

Are fall weddings the new trend on the block, or is global warming just making June too damn hot?

Of course, I can’t contribute anything of true value to this topic because I’m so far off from an actual marriage that my mother has assumed my spinster-hood until otherwise informed.

This is just a simple observation...and a warning to all others who’s friends are “nesting.” In short, anticipate a severe influx of booked October weekends.

Monday, August 21, 2006

“Real” Shoes

Every woman has a fashion fetish. It could be handbags, jewelry or belts. Mine happens to be shoes. When I say shoes, I by no means want to imply that my closet is filled with Jimmy Choo’s and Monolo’s - far from it in fact, as my budget does not allow for such extravagances. I do however have a fabulous array of more reasonably priced shoes that are carefully boxed up and stacked waist high in my tiny closet.

Despite my collection, it wasn’t until this weekend that I realized what a real shoe was.

As I was walking to meet my cousin, I walked past a little shoe shop in the West Village. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of a pair of beautiful jade and brown patent leather, Mary Jane pumps with bronze grommets, buckles and a solid stacked heel. I stopped dead in my Nine West tracks to admire them. I promptly entered the store, requested my size and slid the handmade, Italian leather masterpieces onto my feet. I stood up on the four-inch heel, half expecting my calf muscles to give out, but alas, I felt as if I was walking on air.

I stepped carefully around the store, accepting the coos from the sales staff at how lovely the shoes looked (of course) and acknowledged that the color scheme of the shoes matched my choices for the current day’s attire.

I had just been introduced to my first real shoe! Perfectly pieced together. Smells of new leather. Shiny and without a single imperfection. Fits like a glove. With or without encouragement from the sales staff…I was in love. I then looked at the price tag. GASP!

My predicament at that point in time could have been equated to showing a cocaine addict and 8-ball and then telling them they couldn’t touch it. It was a pitiless and desperate moment I was stranded in, completely incapable of making a rational decision. I had to have those shoes. I couldn’t live without them!

I quickly calculated my ability to float my social life for the rest of the month if I decided to make the purchase. I figured I could swing it, but it would mean I’d be eating less over the course of the month. You know what they say…trading up food for fashion is never a bad decision.

I paid for my beauties and walked out of the store sans a shred of buyer’s remorse. I now owned a pair of real shoes! Talk about retail therapy! I truly felt great.
After all, a shoe is the only thing that will never go up a size, regardless of how much cheese, chocolate and wine one consumes.

The Frenchie

Things with Mr. ESPN have been progressing slowly. Almost too slowly for my liking, but that of course isn't going to stop me from keeping my life exciting. I managed to make it out on Friday to one of Downtown Chic’s fabulous rooftop parties. A summer staple of for our weekend antics...

I arrived at her stoop, ventured up the five floors to the roof and stepped out of the top floor door to a 360 view of a clear Manhattan. The Empire State and Chrysler buildings to the North. The trendy, mirrored and brand spanking new lower east side hotels just across the street. To the Southwest, a full view of the Financial District, shining with all it old world flair, pomp and circumstance. I spun around to a perfect New York night - with a view.

Vino was consumed and conversations were had. Eventually, I was introduced to a tall and friendly Frenchman named Pierre. Pierre just happens to be the son of a prominent French Chef, born and bred in Paris. To sum up the evening…Pierre had eyes only for Elle. We talked of food and wine, dining and enjoying life. I was quickly consumed by the eloquence of his demeanor, his polished (and very French) way of picking up women. Despite the obvious, I was hooked.

The night wore on and we talked and secluded ourselves to a corner of the roof top. I told him I loved to cook. He told me he could make homemade fois gras. I told him I loved food and wine pairings. He told me he loved American women with an appreciation for the culinary arts. Then it hit me. The more I talked to him the more he reminded me of The German. It was the same free-spirited, suave and calculated persona that – sadly – was the downfall of my last love interest. At the same time, I was hooked, yet cautiously unoptimistic.

As the night wore on, I realized he had dismissed his friends entirely and had remained on the rooftop to keep talking to me. Knowing my track record with foreign men, combined with the fact that Downtown had left her own party and I had no wing woman left to speak of, I knew I was obliged to leave.

With two cheek kisses for Pierre and a hail of a cab, I was gone and on my way home. As I drove the way up the West side highway, I thought of his accent, his smooth and nonchalant way of speaking so emotionally, yet remaining aloof. In a split second, I snapped out of it. “Elle!” I thought. “He’s a total Euro. You know what they can do to you!” I stepped out of the cab and into my apartment, and forgot all about him...

Until he called me this afternoon...

I saw the strange number pop into the window of my cell phone, I was curious and picked up.

“Bonjour Elle! Comment ca va?!” Oh, that accent!

I was entirely shocked by his call, as I had not given him my number, nor had I intended to. In fact, he had gone out of his way to contact a mutual friend to track down my number. We’re going out this week.

Mr. ESPN had better pick up with the pace or he'll be "une invention."

Saturday, August 12, 2006

My David

6am. Newark Airport. The morning after a terrorist threat.

I walked into the main terminal and joined the security line, which consisted entirely of screaming babies, airport security personnel with way too much attitude and wastebaskets plumb full of various toiletries and beverages. Not exactly a relaxing start to my weekend trip to the Midwest. All I could think about was slipping into my window seat and falling asleep until the airplane wheels hit the tarmac in Minneapolis.

I made it to my plane 15 minutes before it was to leave, slipped into my seat and pulled out my iPod. Just then, an older man and woman sit down next to me. As I start to put my earbuds in, the woman begins to strike up a conversation. “Are you from Minnesota?” “Why are you going home?”

After she tells me I am a “good daughter” for going to see my parents, she launches into yet more probing questions: “How long have you lived in New York?” “Do you like it?” “What neighborhood do you live in?”

I couldn't help but feel like I was on trial. She then asked, “Where did you go to college?”

“University of Wisconsin,” I said politely.

She nodded with approval and said, “What do you do for a living?”

“I’m in marketing.”

As she gave another nod, it was then that I realized who this woman was...

“My David is in marketing too. My David also went to Wisconsin, as you did, but probably is a few years older than you. I should have him call you.”

7:30am. Newark Airport. The morning that I was picked up by My David’s mother.

Is this actually happening? Am I being pimped out yet again, this time by a seemingly innocuous older woman who has just finished screening me for her beloved son?

Yes, Elle, cue your iPod...N-O-W.

Two hours later I woke up to a birds eye view of a city spotted with lakes and blanketed with deciduous trees. Just as my eyes adjusted, My David’s mother began asking me for suggestions on how to pass the time in Minneapolis. After a few choice recommendations, she pulls out her wallet and hands me her card while simultaneously requesting mine. I halfheartedly handed it to her.

The plane finally landed and I gave a small sigh of relief under my breath. As the woman got up and exited the plane, she called out behind her, “I’ll have My David call you!” As she walked off I could have sworn I saw her husband flash me an apologetic look that could only have meant, "she does this a lot."

The passengers behind me snickered and gave me "that look" as I sheepishly grabbed my bag. I then dragged my weary self off the plane and into the airport. I was home and could begin unwinding myself from a New York state of mind.

As I walked to meet my ride, I had a thought: For a single girl stuck on a morning flight, a terrorist threat is a lot less bothersome than a mother on a mission.

Wednesday, August 09, 2006

A Perfect First Date

Since our first meeting at my gal-pal’s birthday soiree, Mr. ESPN and I have been chatting back and forth pretty much every day since. Nothing too labor intensive of course, just enough to know that there was to be a date in our future (although his use of exclamation points is truly quite thought provoking).

Last night was the date. In a nutshell, it was one of those dates that followed the flow chart of how a first date should go. Not that this is an ideal by any means, just that it was fun, simple and will (hopefully) be leading to a second date.

I met Mr. ESPN at the 79th Street Boat Basin, a place that is by nature, fun and casual - and has a great view of the Hudson River. The conversation began and pretty much never ended. We had a few beers, sat at a table and ordered sandwiches. We flirted and kinda, sorta played footsie under the table throughout dinner (I almost shudder to actually write that out).

After he paid for our meal (yes, I offered), we decided to walk up Riverside Park on the water since we both live further uptown. We strolled, chatted some more and took our time since the night was near perfect.

NOTE: I’m trying my best not to get too sappy here. It’s not my style at all, but like I said…it followed the flow chart.

The night ended by Mr. ESPN walking me home. We stopped at my stoop and said our good nights and thank you’s. We smooched in front of my crazy foreign neighbors for a bit until we could tell they we’re totally staring. He said he had a good time and I told him to give me a call later in the week. Off he went and I went into my apartment feeling like a giddy 17-year-old.

I don’t think I’ve been on a date that went that well in over a year. The German outright sucked at dating, and every other guy I’ve been out with in recent memory had odd quirks or just had ‘something’ about them that wasn’t quite right. Mr. ESPN knocked it out of the park and I hope there is a date #2...because I just can’t get those cute dimples out of my mind.

Friday, August 04, 2006

My Pimpette

Lately, my social circle has expanded exponentially thanks to my dear friend Downtown Chic – a gal who’s social prowess has no limit. In fact I asked her the other day how she knows all of these new faces, and all that came over her was a blank stare as she replied, “I have no idea.” No worries though because we can all benefit from the new personalities, right?

In honor of a 30th birthday soiree we organized for a friend last night at Sapa, Downtown decided to put her new circle to good use by pimping me out to The Producer’s single friends. In a nutshell, she sent The Producer my photo to send around…Not exactly my idea of being subtle, but whatever…in a city where the dating scene is downright brutal, a gal should always appreciate her friends’ efforts to introduce her to new and eligible men.

So, the night began. We all looked fabulous in our summer dresses and heels, drinking cosmojitos like they were going outta style. People strolled in, mingled and said their hellos to the birthday girl. As we were ordering another round, up walks the Producer with a couple of his friends. Downtown’s pimping efforts were looking up, as the Producer’s friend was a tall, dashing guy who works for ESPN. I called dibs immediately.

To sum up the encounter, I totally got my flirt on and he flirted right back. I think I ignored everyone in the room for a good while. Around 10:30 it was finally time to head to another bar and unfortunately Mr. ESPN had go to another party, but he didn’t leave before getting my number and giving me a kiss goodnight. Shortly after he left, he texted me: “Very nice meeting u tonight. I’ll call u to get together soon.”

I think my pimpette has some pay dirt coming her way…