Cowboy boots? Check.
DKNY cut-off jean skirt? Check.
Burberry string bikini? Check.
Four bottles of Chablis in my laptop case? Check.

I’m flying to Birmingham (for the 3rd time) to be with a man–a Southern man. A very Southern man, mind you. He was my 4th grade date to the Camp Beckwith summer dance and, somehow, we reconnected after fifteen years. The last person I imagined meeting on my Florida summer vacation was a college-football lovin,’ NASCAR watchin,’ Appalachicola oysters slurpin,’ handsome, kind, generous man from my pre-pubescent past.

But, I did.
And, something’s come over me.
Is it the damn Alabama heat… or is this love?

In New York City, it’s difficult to discern if you’re dating an alcoholic. Manhattanites drink any time, any place, any occasion. A “Balthazar” lunch with two carafes of wine? Five ‘Happy Hour’ gin martinis at the “Biltmore Room?” A Bordeaux AND a Malbec with an expense account “ Peter Luger’s” steak dinner? A bottle of champagne at “La Goulue’s” noon Sunday brunch?

Good livin.’

“’Nother round over here, bartender,” Steve says, with a sweep of his arm.

I beam. I touch my neck. I lean in closer. My date’s so handsome and he loves my company, I think. He just ordered two more martinis because I’m so damned fascinating—and pretty. My skin looks great, so do my newly whitened teeth…

Wrong.

I could have the conversational skills of Anna Nicole Smith and the body of Starr Jones and he would still be on the bar stool next to me.

His cheeks didn’t flush from desire. The hands didn’t shake because I reminded him of Sharon Stone. The brow sweat wasn’t caused by a rush of testosterone. It had nothing to do with me and everything to do with a half a bottle of Kettle One circulating in his blood stream.

Alcohol is cupid; it puts us, and keeps us, together.

Problems arise, however, when there is the U.S.E.—Unexpected Sober Encounter.

Random time and place—say, lunch hour at the organic market in Union Square—I spot a version of Steve. We’ve been out four times and yet… is that really him?? Shit, he sees me looking. He lifts his arm in a gesture of recognition. He’s walking toward me. He’s close. He, too, looks a little let down by my noon-time appearance. At least he’s speaking, trying to be cordial. Somehow, I can’t concentrate on his words when, for the first time, I’m seeing his mottled, red nose, wrinkled jacket, nicotine-stained teeth and wide, oddly feminine hips. Had I actually sat across from this man in a restaurant? Multiple times?

I gulped my bottle of Poland Spring.

Cupid retracted her bow.

My subsequent two-week relationship was with a tee-totalling Equinox trainer–dumb as bricks.

He looked good at high-noon, though.

Single girl’s quote of the day:

“I’m not trying to meet Mr. Right. I’m just trying to avoid Mr. Wrong.”

A surefire sign that a man loves you (or is really, really into you): HAIR REMOVAL.

Back.

Balls.

Nose.

Toes.

In 25 years, I have loved two men. They, in turn, loved me very much. Both were more than willing to remove unwanted fuzz. I asked. They acquiesced. Very simple.

Think about it: we women shave, wax, thread, pluck, dye and perm every inch of our bodies. Every hair follicle has been “treated” in one way or another. Is it fair that he likes you with a Brazilian while his bits are hidden in a forest?

Dare him to go bare—see what you’re left with.

I moved to the City three years ago. August 2002 meant trash baking in the sun… freedom… a terrible, short haircut… cocktails at “Luna Park”… the overnight shift at “Fox News Channel”… mice on the hard wood floor… “Café Noir”… a crush on Shephard Smith… exactly 2 girlfriends…take-out chicken wings from “Virgil’s Barbecue”…perpetually being lost… thinking “Barney’s” was a children’s program… wishing I had skinny jeans, stilettos and a boyfriend that would take me to “Raoul’s.”

Nothing was definite, nothing was secure. I was convinced of only two things: I could never afford fresh produce again, I would never have a boyfriend in the city.

How did the women do it? I wondered. They were thin, dressed to kill, always a handsome banker-type by their side. They sipped their Grey Goose martinis (“3 olives, please”) and laughed just so. All I had was a pair of kitten heels and a big ass.

“How do you meet these men?” I asked one of the “Fox” associate producers.

She looked at me like I was crazy.

“You just do. It’s New York City, for Christ’s sake.” She tossed back a strand of perfectly straightened hair and continued IM’ing her fiancée on the computer next to me.

I think back now, trying to recall my first real New York City date—I can’t. Was it the blind date with the Skadden Arps attorney? The banker I met at the rooftop bar of “60 Thompson?” The washed up 45 year-old actor that topped out with a “Burger King” commercial? I don’t know. I wish I could tell you.

I made a habit of reading Joan Didion before bed. Whereas the men left me despondent, she gave me hope.

“…New York was no mere city. It was instead an infinitely romantic notion, the mysterious nexus of all love and money and power, the shining and perishable dream itself.”

Things would get better. I would find somebody. Somebody would find me. Lights off. The mice scurry around my bed.

The weapon’s inspector won’t stop calling…

Mi dispiace, poverino…”Madame X” on Houston St is not an acceptable first date venue–the interior looks like a New Orleans whore house. What about “Yama” next door? If you own a floor-through on Greene and Prince you’re held to a higher standard. A burger and fries at “Silver Spurs” would have been better… I could go on, but I won’t.

Next!

G. is old and famous and I consider him one of the first friends I ever made in New York City…