This Year, I Resolve to Become a Giant’s Fan

aww poor Packers. haha NOT!

The Giants made the playoffs. And then they beat the Green Bay Packers. As a New York sports fan generally speaking, I know this was excellent news.

“The Gaints? That’s the team Eli Manning plays for, right? The ones in blue?” I shyly asked my friend Sarah, a diehard G-Men fan (apparently, diehard Giants fans call the Giants “G-Men”… a nickname that, if you ask me, sounds a lot like a bad Vegas boybandesque act…regardless, this was one of many things I’ve learned about football this weekend.)

“That’s a shame,” I replied. “Tom Brady is so dreamy.”

Tom Brady makes me want to be a football fan. Oh! If only he was one of the "G-Men"

I’ve never been a football fan. As the daughter of a former international rugby player, I grew-up believing real men don’t wear helmets and that real games are organic, ever-moving team endeavors. However, in 2012, I resolve to become a football fan… and here’s why:

Men dig girls who dig sports. And being a one-season sports fan is limiting…

“You follow baseball!?!”

The guy standing across from me on the Metro-North train couldn’t believe the suburban-bound girl in the  red heels and low-cut blouse was a die-hard Yankees fan. I couldn’t believe the handsome youngish-looking  guy lived in suburbgatory.

“Common, man! I have the MLB app!”

I quickly whipped-out my phone to prove it. The background picture of Jorge, my traveling Yankee garden gnome, only confirmed that I was legit.

We chattered back and forth for a few stops. He had just come from Yankee stadium and had watched our team loose a tragic game to the Rays, 1-5. I had just come from dinner in the West Village. He was slightly drunk and eager to convince me to skip my stop.

“It’s getting close to Fantasy Football time,” he eventually said. “I’ve just updated my NFL app.”

As he moved to pull out his iPhone, I sighed.

“Sorry. I don’t follow football.”

“You were a 10. I’ve just downgraded you to an 8.”

To me, an 8 rating was still pretty flattering, fantastic even, if not a bit inflated. I shrugged. It was my stop, and so, to much protestation, I bid him good night.

This is, like, totally gonna be me come next football season.

The baseball season is a long way off, the Rugby World Cup has come and gone and I’m now forced to take my pom-poms and move on to another season.

I’ve never cared for basketball. It’s just not one of those sports I can get behind with any sort of enthusiasm, feigned or genuine. I grew up the daughter of a Canadian, so hockey seems the most natural winter sport fit. The problem is I root for the Vancouver Canucks.

Luckily, I have a week to go shopping and start researching. If I’m going to watch the Giants take on the San Fransisco 49ers at a sports bar next weekend, I’d better have my number 10 jersey broken in, my NFL app loaded, my football lingo ready on the tip of my tongue, and my player stats uploaded to the little grey cells. Because this rookie QB is throwing for a touchdown…

The Hazards of Online Dating In a Suburban City

Am I the Samantha Jones of suburbia? No... not exactly... but I do love a good cosmo.

“Does this mean you’re officially the Samantha Jones of Westchester?”

If only she was referring to that time a Vanity Fair editor told me I was a young Kim Cattrall!

Instead, that was my best friend’s response to an email — the exclamation point to a series of stories — referencing an awkward encounter in an elevator with an artist my gallery recently decided to represent.

“That would imply I’ve slept with every unmarried man in suburbia,” I replied. “I haven’t slept with them — I’ve just met them on OkCupid.”

Donnie’s email was the last in a string of run-ins with local guys the world of WWW dating suggested I fall in love with. When I had been matched with a good-looking artist who recently moved into the neighborhood, I was obviously tickled pink. Even better, he happened to be a sculptor and I happened to be coordinating a sculpture exhibition. The opportunity to meddle in both business and pleasure could not be missed, and so I sent an introductory email — a rare act of self-pimping.

Immediately upon hitting send, I forgot I’d ever read his profile.

And then, this week, my guest curator announced the addition of a new artist to the roster for our summer exhibition. A meeting and tour of our space was scheduled. The artist made his appearance.

“Gosh, he looks familiar!” I thought as I attempted the requisite pleasantries in the elevator (it’s so good to have you on board! The exhibition really needs your aesthetic… etc).

"Gosh! Why does he look like I'm about to steal his wallet?!" Yea, it was an awkward elevator moment

“Gosh! He looks like he’s afraid I might steal his wallet.”

The next day — the email came with all the answers.

“I recognized you from OkCupid. Sorry, I saw your message but I’m seeing someone. I’d be happy to go for a hike or meet for coffee as friends some time.”

As uncomfortable as it was reading that email in the office, my real-life encounter with Donnie was the least awkward of all similar encounters. Sean was the nice real estate agent I eventually began exchanging text messages with. We found each other during my job’s peak season and I was frequently cancelling our scheduled rendez-vous. Eventually, the inevitable happened — we met standing in line at Starbucks. He was less than cordial.

Thanks to online dating, I can no longer buy coffee from the Starbucks across the street from my office, go to the movie theater a block away or order tostones from the Puetro Rican restaurant around the corner. All of these places are frequented by the men I’ve either asked out, been asked out by or been on a date with. Westchester is not a small county, but the number of single men under the age of 40… well, that is a relatively small number, and apparently, they all know my name.

“I guess it’s better to be the Samantha Jones of suburbia than a Desperate Housewife.”

Only a best friend could say something like that and live to order another cup of coffee.

I guess when it comes to suburban dating, it's better to be a Samantha Jones than a Desperate Housewife... for now...

I’m Sorry, I Can’t Meet You for a Drink. It’s the Post Season.

I travel with a Yankee garden gnome named Jorge.

Most girls would scoff at the thought of staying home on a Friday night to watch a baseball game in lieu of meeting a witty, model-good-looking, 6-foot, D-1 ball player turned Ivy-League Law student turned successful litigator for drinks.

But then again, I’m not like most girls. I’ve got my priorities straight.

The first app I downloaded was MLB Lite. I travel around the world with a Yankee garden gnome, tenderly christened Jorge. There are 3 pictures on the pushpin board of my office at work – one of a Japanese maple, one of the old Yankee Stadium, and one of Alex Rodriguez at the plate, from behind.

Is it really a surprise that when faced with a choice between the first game of the American League Division Series, the NY Yankees vs. the Detroit Tigers, and a first date with Mr. Perfect on Paper that I would chose Game 1?

The photo hanging over my computer at work -- A-Rod at the plate, from behind. Thank you telephoto lens

My diehard allegiance to the Bronx Bombers has been both the impetus and executioner’s axe of many a potential relationship. I once dated a boy who worked for the YES Network with the principal aim of securing season tickets. “What team do you root for?” is one of my 10 essential “get to know a person questions.” I can accept Phillies fans. Mets fans I have little tolerance for. Blue Jays fans I forgive because they’re probably Canadian and have no alternative home teams to root, root, root for. Red Sox fans?

Well, see exhibit 1:

Me: “I’m tired of dating smart boys. Enough with Rhodes Scholars. I want someone stupid.”

Friend: “Well then, I’ve got the guy for you. He’s a Red Sox Fan!”

Me: “Perfect.”

It's the Post Season, and my team has a 28th World Series to win

To some men, a girl who rain-checks dinner because she wants to watch “the game” at home with her friends (and garden gnome) is the holy grail. To others, it’s confusing — who wears the pants in this romance?

As the grounds keepers pulled the tarp over the Yankee Stadium infield Friday night and news filtered in that the game would be postponed, a friend turned to ask if rescheduling drinks with Mr. Perfect-on-Paper was worth it?

“Did you see C.C.’s last inning?” I cried.

To this she could offer no retort. A first drink with Mr. Perfect-on-Paper wasn’t going to be the only date rescheduled in October. It’s the Post Season, after all, and my team has a 28th World Series to win.

They Warned Me I’d Find Love, the Summer 2011 Edition

The mating rituals of Banana Slugs give new meaning to the term "cock-blocking"

The Ariolimax columbianus, more commonly known as the Banana Slug, is ubiquitous in the rainforests of the Pacific Northwest. The Banana Slug is a hermaphrodite. When mating time rolls around, Banana Slugs engage in an act called “penis jousting.” Somehow, the slugs fight until one slug’s penis gets knocked off. The winner gets to be “the man.” The loser has to carry the eggs.

“Banana Slug mating rituals sound a lot like a Friday night in a Manhattan bar,” I told my guide as we sloshed through the green squishy stuff that covers the floor of the rainforest on Meares Island, a small island off the coast of Vancouver Island, British Columbia.

Cock-blocking had suddenly taken on a new, more serious meaning.

My guide chuckled and, lost in the mental comparison I was drawing between slug life on Vancouver Island and the NYC dating scene, I slipped on a cedar plank.

Whoosh, slap, squish, thud <– Those are the sounds an eco-tourist makes as she falls in the forest.

There's a lot of green squooshy stuff in the rainforest. Where's my mountain man to help me up when I fall?

Down the trail, a fiance hoisted his fallen fiancee back to her feet —  another victim of the squooshy green stuff — while I flopped around, clumsily trying to make it onto all fours without eating anymore lichen in the process.

Where was my mountain man in shining plaid when I needed him?

A few days earlier, I arrived in the great Canadian City of Vancouver ready for 10 days in the woods, away from work, domestic duties, and dating in the city. Or so I thought.

As soon as my rental car drove across Vancouver’s city limits, my phone started beeping relentlessly. The little blue light that illuminates whenever I have an OkCupid message was flashing like a lighthouse beacon in a hurricane. When they warned me I’d find love on this Canadian adventure, they weren’t kidding.

Hello, Mr. Vancouver. I knew I had a lot to look forward to on this vacation...

Warning! New matches ahead! Warning! New messages!

I opened the alerts icon in disbelief. I had been in Vancouver not more than 30 minutes, and already my inbox was overflowing.  There were notable similarities between the Vancouver men and the Brooklyn men OKCupid frequently found for me (why are they always in Brooklyn?!) — beards and plaid, in all their incarnations, were the standard uniform and a commitment to “sustainable living” was high on lists of interest. That’s where the similarities ended.

Good-bye hipster. Hello mountain man.

Good-bye bike-riding, semi-unemployed, struggling artist. Hello banker-turned-kayak-instructor who plays in two hockey leagues, sails on weekend and skis in the winter.

I knew I had a lot to look forward to on this vacation. And apparently, it wasn’t just the sea-kayaking.

Lessons in Conquering Addiction and Smart Investing

Anthony would agree, this cartoon was written about me.

Anthony had the most angelic set of kinky golden curls I’d ever laid eyes on. All it took was one compliment on them and his magenta blush and I was in, set for life. We quickly developed a special relationship: I was a junkie and Anthony was my dealer.

I was addicted to organic, fair-trade coffee, and he brewed the best espresso on the Upper West Side.

“Girl, you know I love you, but if I were a real bartender, I would have cut you off weeks ago. Do you have any idea how much you spend here?” I appreciated his concern, but I was in a hurry for class and he was taking his sweet time topping off my latte and counting my change.

“Ant, just gimme the cup and I won’t tell Madge about those ‘missing’ double-fudge brownies in your handbag.”

The quarter and penny slapped against the stack of “Perks” cards sitting in my wallet. In addition to Anthony’s cafe of employment, I held Coffee Club cards from Whole Foods, a local deli, and another small NYC gourmet coffee chain. Each were one stamp away from my free cup. None were a first-time membership.

I quickly did the math. Ant was right to be embarrassed for me — I was spending, on average, $12 a day for coffee. When I measured my monthly caffeine expenditure against my monthly college student income, I understood why I no longer had a shoe fund. It was time to seek help.

This little machine may have cost me some credit card debt, but it was going to save me thousands in the longrun

Luckily for me, this economic epiphany coincided with a home-sale at Bloomingdale’s. Rather than quit the bean cold-turkey, I decided to reinvest my coffee stocks.

I bounced home from the Lexington Avenue department store with a french press, a DeLonghi espresso machine with built-in milk frother, a pound of course-ground medium roast, and a can of Lavazza espresso. I was out about $250, but had enough supplies to get me through 3 months of caffeine consumption. Despite accumulating some credit card debt, in the long haul, I was scheduled to come out ahead.

I knew Anthony was going to miss me, but Gary, the shoe guy at Saks, was glad to finally have me back.

It’s New York City, You’ll Never Know Who You’ll Meet

“Oh. My. God. I just, like, walked into George Clooney. George. Cloooooooney!” Rebbecca was so excited she nearly tossed her venti caramel machiato onto my white winter coat. “Aaaaaaaaaaand I got his autograph! Swooooon.”

I looked at Rebbecca with envy. For someone that’s spent 25 years living in and around star-studded New York City, I never meet anyone famous, let alone get their autograph.

Actually, that’s not true. I have “met” famous people. I once practically crashed into Tino Martinez, one of my all-time favorite Yankees, walking to MoMA. Even though my latte splashed on his running shoes, I never thought to ask him to sign the baseball and glove I keep in my purse. My celebrity encounters, like probably most people’s, are generally awkward and typically fall into one of the following categories:

1.Famous People I went to School With — Columbia is a magnet for famous people, but my grade school boasted a few future celebrities… too bad I didn’t get them to sign my yearbook.

2. Famous people I’ve tripped or nearly tripped — Vera Wang, Fern Mallis, and Ronan Tynan of the Irish Tenors would be included in this large group. (A subcategory of this might be entitled “Famous People I spilled Stuff On”)

I was once an extra in a Joan Rivers TV show. My Fanatic fan ways may prevent me from ever having a viable acting career

3. Famous People I could have Met — This list could go on for ages, but my favorite is James Franco. I was a graduate student at Columbia at the same time Franco was getting his MFA in the Columbia School of the Arts. Later, my time at MoMA coincided with his own MoMA appearance. I frequently saw the car that brought him places, but I never once encountered the over-achieving Hollywood Renaissance Man in the flesh. Meanwhile, one of my college fencing teammates not only met him, but had coffee with him. She was thin, blond, leggy and two-faced — some girls have it all.

4. Famous People I Met, but Surely Creeped Out with My Over-Aggressive Enthusiasm — Joan Rivers and Sloane Crosely. My “Oh my god! My mother and I are just like you and your daughter! Except, my mother’s had hip replacements, not cheek replacements, so she can move her face,” and “I want your career, in fact, I want to be you,” were met with fearful eyes that read: I’m going to need a restraining order against this girl.

Famous Athletes I've Met, but Pretend to be one of them...the exception is Evan Lysacek. He's just too pretty.

5. Famous Athletes I’ve Met, but Don’t Ask for an Autograph from because I’m trying to pretend I’m one of them — Given that I’ve grown-up in the company of Olympic medalists and that I once considered myself an Olympic contender, I try to act unphased by their achievements even though I’m in awe beyond awe. The exception to this is Evan Lysacek. I shamelessly had a friend ask Evan if I could take a picture with him.

6. Famous People I’ve met But Didn’t Realize They Were Famous Until I Went Home and Googled Them — Most recent example: at my favorite lounge, the cocktails are pure perfection and staff is family. My friend and I wiggled into an open spot at the bar next to an older gentleman with white hair and a familiar face. The head bartender kindly introduced us to the man, his friend Jeffery. Jeffery asked us if we had tried the cherry garnish — it was the best cherry garnish he’d ever had. Later, after some computer stalking, we found out his friend Jeffery was the legendary Jeffery Steingarten. Iron Chef America groupie fail.