plum wine and raw meat

Last night was one of the most extraordinary dinner experiences of my life. It is common in this industry to have sales reps take our team out (mani/pedis, dinners, broadway shows, concerts, sports games, etc) - and last night was no different.

I chose Jewel Bako (which means "jeweled box" as the decor supports). Someone recommeneded it, in addition to being Critic's choice by the Times. The reps arrived at our offices in a limo, with bottles of Veuve Clicquot. We arrived at the restaurant on the lower east side, only to discover it's very intimate, glowing space. We were invited in, and I started to realize that maybe our group of eight (predominately fun-loving advertising women and a gay man from LA) might be a handfull for the local Manhattanites to our left and the kissing couples on our right. No matter. There was only one thing to do: slosh down 3 flutes of sparkling plum sake per course to numb the social faux pas.

There were 5 courses of raw rish. I was officially in Japan. We ordered omakase (at the suggestion of our LA friend who spent several years in Japan) and the tailored waiters brought us endless plates of raw meat to the point where I thought I might lose it entirely. My mouth was gaping when I saw the black, beady-eyed shrimp tragically looking up at me.



Big surprise, the night became even more bizarre, as do most of these drunken, dinner debacles. Someone took their fake teeth out at dinner (almost choked on the plum in my glass). We discussed the Morman religion, sexual pleasure, and how hungry dogs are.

*Verbatim quote*: "My dog is so hungry, when I unzip my pants, he thinks it's a zip-lock bag".

I'm still not sure what that means. I feel like death warmed over this morning - but I'm glad the sugar plum rush is gone.

gossip girl

I may have missed last night's episode of Gossip Girl, but I still got to watch some UES socialites. Plans change quickly sometimes. After I left work, an acquaintance of mine sent a text inviting me to the Dominique Cohen jewelry store opening - 65th and Madison, across from Valentino. Among the short guest list of 50 or so, swanky upper-east-siders was the co-host Gillian Hearst Simonds (of publishing giant, Hearst). Impressive.

I've been thrown into a lot of brilliantly diverse environments with equally diverse classes of people here in NY. The VIP lounge of a dark, pounding night club with about 30 Soprano-esque Italians who LOVE to party - hey where's Vito? A Latino dance club over-looking the river, with incredible music and oh can they dance. Then of course, we have the intimate loft party with a buffet of ethnicity's and accents (see a few posts back). However, I must admit, I had been looking forward with great anticipation to catch a glimpse of the snobby socialite scene that is portrayed on one of my favorite shows - Gossip Girl.

The store is by far, the most luminous corner on Madison Avenue tonight. Coat check, velvet ropes, chitter chatter, snapping photographers. Dominique Cohen creates beautiful designs with the most intricately delicate patterns. Draping gold necklaces adorn the headless decolletage in suffocatingly small glass display cases. We brush past an almost-beautiful redhead who is more slender than my left pinkie and 6 feet tall because of her patent leather bootie/pumps. She is surrounded by five or six well dressed admirerers. Our eyes meet, and she smiles with an intensity that seems to stem from curiosity or blow - or both. I'm later told that she is a diamond dealer heiress and has graced Page Six with her addictions. How should I know?

Similar to wild animals in their natural habitat, you wouldn't want to get too close - because they look crazy and who knows what might happen. Okay not really. I was complimented on my Tory boots by a short lady in a short dress. There was a cool-as-a-cucumber DJ spinning in the back near the bar. Yummy waiters - in all black - slid in and out of the crowd with hor'dourves. And then I saw him...

Slender like a model. A young Johnny Depp with a baby face. Thick, black rimmed eye-glasses and a shy smile. We locked eyes and I immediately told him he was the cutest thing I'd ever seen. (I was a drink or two in at this point and it was acceptable) He grinned, looked down, and I took an artichoke tart from the tray he presented me. Yes, he was a waiter. I was intriguied by no other for the remainder of the evening. Of course he kept moving, but he came back. We passed eachother, and smiled. He winked. I tried not to stare and pathetically scan the room every five minutes to find him. I would take this man over a Park Avenue Prince any day.

The party is ending and I become frantic. I have nothing. No card, no pen, no time to store a number in my cell. Talk about being unprepared. I tug on the waiter nearest me. "The man with the glasses, is he gay or straight?". I can't even believe the words that are coming out of my mouth. Is that even the question we are supposed to ask first? What about single or taken? I have no idea what I'm doing. He smiles kindly and tells me he is straight - and taken. Damn damn damn. There is no point in pursuing. We take our coats, our gift bags (which contain a scented candle, custom Dominique Cohen black bowtie earrings, and two chocolates), and leave. I can't stop wondering if the other waiter knew exactly which "man in the glasses" I was referring to. *sighs*

We go across the street to a small French restaurant called Paris Match and have dinner with my friend's friend - who is a fashion designer. We have hummus, and sushi, and french fries (I'm wondering the same thing now). At the end of the night, I hop into a cab .. accidentally leaving my DC gift bag .. and McDreamy .. on Madison Avenue.

Heeey! You suck, let's date!

I've recently discovered that I only attract psychopaths and gay men!!! Let's get this out on the table first, I am not complaining about the gay men part. For the most part, I get along with everyone and some of my close friends happen to be gay. But after a year or two of being single, you have ask yourself, "Do I look like a drag queen?". . .

And then there's the crazies. The straight men:

I mean do I SCREAM, "HEY ALL YOU CRAZY WEIRDOS WITH THE QUIRKY TENDENCIES THAT DRIVE ME CRAZY, YOU WANNA ASK ME OUT? OH YOU DO? PERFECT! IT'S EVEN BETTER THAT WE MET IN A SKETCHY CLUB WHERE MY BLOND HAIR AND PAINFUL WHITE-GIRL DANCING GOT YOUR ATTENTION. DINNER YOU SAY? OH GREAT. LET'S GET HALFWAY THROUGH THE APPETIZER BEFORE I REALIZE HOW INCOMPATIBLE WE REALLY ARE AND HAVE TO GULP DOWN A FEW MARTINIS TO GET THROUGH THE REST OF THE EVENING - AT WHICH POINT, I WILL NOT CALL YOU AGAIN SO PLEASE DON'T GET WASTED ON THE WEEKENDS AND DRUNK DIAL ME A MILLION TIMES."

*After this blog, I'm sure that I won't have anymore bad dates to complain about - as I probably won't be asked out on any*

Ahhhhhhkkkkk...but you know what? This is dating. I mean this is it. True Life: I'm 23 years old, single, and dating frogs. I'm running out of steam here and I'm only 6 months into dating here in NYC and I feel like I've seen it all. Two financial consultants, a few Europeans, toss in a couple models and actors (come on, it's NY), and a even a "my new haircut" or so...and still nothing substantial. Poor Carrie - I feel her pain.

And then I look at my friends who are in serious relationships. What a joke. Half of them aren't even really happy. So I have to ask myself? What am I REALLY trying to accomplish here? Am I hopelessly scouring the streets, bars, ice skating rinks (yes I've met one there too) for a McDreamy who doesn't exist - just to get STUCK in one of those dead relationships my so-called "happy" friends are in?

Sighs....okay I think I'm done now. My post-work-out energy is finally fading. I should really stop watching WE's "Platinum Weddings". . . stupid crap.

singin' dolla dolla bill ya'll

I was invited to a Christmas party at someone's loft on the LES a few nights ago. I took the 6 down and waited outside of the building for my friend to arriva via cab. (still a few blocks away) It was in the low 30's and although he offered to call up his friends to buzz me in, I decided to wait.

Through squinted eyes, I saw a sleek, black Maybach 62 (one of the top 10 most expensive cars in the world) pull up to the curb in front of me. The folded cream blindes on the back windows mechanically slid to a close and a dark, mafia-esque man emerged from the backseat. It was obvious I was waiting outside the door of the building and as he pressed the buzzer, he turned to me. "There's a party, are you coming?" * "Actually yes - I'm just waiting on my friend" * "Psh, it's cold out here - come up with me."

Enter: my new friend and I are greeted by 10 or 15 well-dressed foreigners. I say "foreigners", because they were all from various international places. The loft is dim and candle-lit. House music moans quietly from a flat screen. Shrimp cocktail and brie sit on a nearby table and a handsome man with sweeping brown hair is pouring a foamy fruit cocktail while wearing a scarf. Hello. I just stepped into an episode of Sex and the City. In addition to this, there is no possible way that I could stand out more. The upside to this is, of course, that international people are the most open-minded, easy-going people you could ever befriend.

"Would you like a beautiful, sexy drink?" -- this is verbatim.

Don't mind if I do, mister scarf-wearing-sweepy-espresso-hair.

So, I join my new friend on a black leather couch and I learn of his yacht in Miami and how he watched this year's tree lighting from his apartment above Rockefeller Center. We laugh synonymously about how I'm making what he probably made last week. More people arrive and so far I have met: the starving Jamaican model who is throwing the party, a Harvard graduate who is a tad bit cocky and seems to be putting forth an immense amount of effort to impress, a few Italians (the real, not Jersey kind), a quirky Swedish girl who made the most incredible facial expressions I've ever seen, and a gay couple who looked like they were upset they had to leave the gym in order to be at this party.

My friend finally arrives and we stay until we decide we are hungry. When we leave the building, the Maybach 62 is still sitting outside - running. Must be nice, having a driver.

Cab it over to Yaffa Cafe and it was there that I had my first crepe ever.

Cash rules everything around me.