Upgrade Available. Click to Start

On April 25, 2014 By KathleenIn Bio Pics, Breakups, DatingLeave a comment

Men should not only go to, but should be like gyms.

“Men should be like gyms,” a Park Avenue Power Lawyer, breast-cancer survivor and mother of 2 grown children advised me. “Conveniently located.”

This is a rather good criteria, and it’s true that of late, real estate has been a deciding factor in romantic endeavors. When I discovered the guy I started dating last summer had an apartment on the upper east side, a stone’s throw from the Met, a block from my favorite Italian market, across the street from my doctor, and directly above a restaurant with the best gnocchi on the planet, I was sold.

Mr. UES had a small handful of things going for him, but the location of his apartment — the fact it wasn’t in Brooklyn and came with the opportunity for a proper pied a tere in my most frequented neighborhood — persuaded me to ignore the inclining that this was a poor match and thus helped lock him in as my one and only.

It was sinkholes like this on the road to my ex's apartment that killed my beloved car — It was sinkholes like this on the road to my ex’s apartment that killed my beloved car

As our relationship progressed into the winter, I made it a habit to bypass public transportation in favor of driving to his apartment. For the last 10 years, I’d been driving my first car. It was a compact SUV, invaluable in schlepping artwork around the Hudson Valley and I’m convinced it could drive my favorite routes through Manhattan by itself. I knew its time was limited, but it was a car built to last… and it would have, if it wasn’t for my ex-boyfriend, the Major Deegan and global warming.

If you were living anywhere in North America this winter, you’re well aware of the havoc the cold and snow inflicted on the roadways. The drive to his apartment was riddled with sinkholes, most of which were hidden by poor street lighting and other vehicles. The drive to Mr. UES’s apartment on snowy winter evenings bent the underbelly of my beloved FreeLander in half.

And then, in the coldest heart of winter, we broke up.

Not only did he refuse to buy me earrings for Christmas and never took a duster to his furniture, he broke my car.

With my 4-wheel companion for the last decade deemed irreparable, I started shopping for a replacement. It was time for an upgrade.

It was the day I settled on a Ranger Rover Evoque that I met the foreign athlete turned PhD engineer and agreed to dinner. A new car. A new boyfriend. It felt like upgrades all around. Needless to say, I got over the broken car and the broken heart in the time it took to sign the paperwork.

machine fail — Transportation Upgrade Fail

Not. So. Fast.

2 weeks into my new car, and it was being towed out of the supermarket parking lot on a flatbed. A part was faulty. I couldn’t get it out of park. 2 weeks into life with a loaner car, and 4 weeks into our romance, Le Monsieur showed his true colours.

I was paying for a car I didn’t have and I had already ended two relationships before the end of the new year’s first quarter.

It seemed my upgrade came with a virus.

But luckily, viruses usually can be treated. Just in time for my 3rd month’s car payment, the dealer called to tell me the new part had arrived from the UK and was replaced. I could come pick-up the car whenever I was ready.

So now, a few months later than I planned, I have my new, twice upgraded car. It’s a silver Ranger Rover Evoque with black leather interior. It has a push start and heated steering wheel. The panorama roof comes standard. The soundtrack heavily featuring songs like “Diva” and “Bad Girls,” and “Fancy” is driver-supplied.

If you ask nicely, maybe I’ll take you for a ride sometime…

Upgrade complete.

Panorama sunroof: check. Bad ass playlist: check. Feeling pretty cool behind the wheel of my new car: check.

When Your Mother Offers to Buy You a Crop Top, Don’t Bite.

On April 8, 2014 By KathleenIn Bio Pics1 Comment

Clearly my new haircut and 90s childhood inspired my Mother the stylist

“You should wear that,” my mother said as she pointed to a model standing center floor in a 5th Avenue Department Store.

We had decided to spend a Sunday afternoon shopping for spring clothes together. I had one of idea of the type of wardrobe I wanted to cultivate this year. She clearly had another.

“THAT” was a crop top.

A crop top.

My mother, the woman who was constantly telling me that skirt was too short for a woman with legs the size of mine was advocating that I wear a shirt that barely covered my nipples.

“That’s not a shirt,” I told her. “That’s a collar.”

“I saw Kevin today,” she continued, ignoring my refusal to show off my upper abs as she pulled a shirt “my size” off the rack. “He’s gorgeous, of course, and almost done with Law School now. He doesn’t want to move in with that girl, which means it’s not serious. You should call him. Worse case, he’ll have some friends.”

It was a this point I tip-toed away to look at maxi-dresses. I’ll do backless, but I won’t do shrunken. I might be a child of the 90s (we thought crop tops were so cool), but I’ve grown up a bit. I was also not in the mood to discuss Kevin — if this was still the age of arranged marriages, our parents would have has us hitched a decade ago. Frankly, I don’t think this would have worked out badly for either of us.

When it was time to cash in on the fitting room, I noticed hidden in among the many silky floral printed blouses and high-waisted skirts of my choosing were more belly-baring numbers my mother deemed appropriate for the new season.

Was my mother recommending I start rocking this look on Saturday night!??!$ — Was my mother recommending I start rocking this look on Saturday night!??!

“What are you trying to tell me, mom?” I said, handing her back the arm-full of short shirts.

“Well, you know some things to wear when you go out. Maybe it’s time to change things up a bit. Maybe a little less top-shelf and a little more sorority girl? Maybe it’s a less intimidating look. I mean, you go to the gym, don’t you?”

I secretly hoped she was flasking it.

“Take these out and try again.”

She came back with a stunning striped Equipment blouse that fell neatly below my hips.

“Just testing you!” she cried. “I wanted to make sure you hadn’t turned desperate on me.”

I wasn’t sure if I all the way believed she was punking me, but when the only thing I went home with was the blouse she found on the replay, I was willing to forget the whole crop-top incident ever happened.

This Equipment blouse made me willing to forget the whole crop-top incident ever happened.

Je comprends mieux que je parle, or How I Always Get Free Breakfast I’m in France

On March 30, 2014March 30, 2014 By KathleenIn AdventureLeave a comment

My high school French teacher friended me on Facebook. In case the gray hair and lack of tax refunds wasn’t enough validation that I am officially an adult, this settled it. Like any good educator, her first order of reconnecting was to inquire into the current proficiency of my second language.

When preparing for a day exploring Paris, all you need is a good lipstick.

“These days my French is only good enough to get me through the morning ‘Le Monde’ which came with the free breakfast I earned for being si charmant the day before,” was my response… but it’s not how you think…

By the fall I drove from Paris to Madrid, I’d been studying French for 10 years and had been many a time lost in Marseilles and on back streets in Paris. While I was far from fluent, I had a cache of useful phrases that usually won over important people like concierges, bell hops, and bakers.

The sun drenched entrance to Le Saint-James in Brodeaux

Our rental car rolled into the drive way of Le Saint-James, a Relais and Chateau “gourmand” hotel nestled above the city of Bordeaux, on a mini vineyard. It was a one night stop for the food — the restaurant was hailed as one of the best in France. The bell man/valet/Mr. Fix-it was a broad-shouldered, dark-haired man who was a real-life incarnation of Gaston from Beauty and the Beast, complete with the red polo shirt. I giggled when I saw him. He instantly became sour when he realized we were American.

I realized that if I didn’t want him to smash all the porcelain mugs I’d just scored in Limoges, I was going to have to act fast.

Limoges is known for its outstanding porcelain. I picked up a lot of it.

I threw out a few quick directions and asked a few location questions in French. He paused.

“Parlez-vous Francais?” He asked with surprise.

“Un peu. Je comprends mieux que je parle.” (a little bit. I understand better than I speak.)

He smiled and repeated what I just said. “That is excellent! Your French is excellent!” he said back, in French, before happily carrying my bags to our room and offering to park the car for us.

As he walked me to our room, he chattered away at me. Talking about what to see in Bordeaux if I had any time and then carefully instructing me on how to work all the high-tech functions in my new age white-from-floor-to-ceiling room. The bed was on the floor and every light and blind and tap was operated from one remote control.

Le Saint-James was the ultimate blend in space-age and old-world design. I just couldn't work the blinds. — Le Saint-James was the ultimate blend in space-age and old-world design. I just couldn’t work the blinds.

I didn’t see him again until the morning, when I was on a hunt for some advice on breakfast. Le Saint-James is the kind of boutique hotel that can get away with charging 40 Euro per person for a basket of breakfast breads. Our indulgence had been dinner the night before — a luxurious multi-course tasting menu of nouveau French cuisine. A. MAZ. ING. For breakfast, all we wanted was a roll and coffee… and not to spend another fortune on a meal.

I saw Gaston sitting at a counter outside the restaurant. He was reading the paper and I paused to scan the headlines and pictures over his shoulder. There was a snapshot of a local rugby game. I asked if he played and told him my father had played for South Africa. It was a replay of a chat I had a few years ago in a college level French conversation class.

“Is there a bakery in town I can pick up some a roll for later? Maybe a cafe?”

He quickly turned to the fancy coffee machine next to him and rolled out a petite cafe — the French version of espresso and ran down the hall. He came back with two of those 40Euro bread baskets and dumped them into a paper bag for me.

“Shhhh,” he said with a wink. “There are always ones for the garbage, any how.”

He handed me a copy of the paper as he loaded our valises into the car and bid me bon voyage.

My je comprends mieux que je parle and canned convo about rugby had made me a friend for life. I promised him I’d be back. He hoped it would be soon.

A wee (oui?) bit of French goes a long way if you want free breakfast.

The Worst Break-Up Ever

On March 12, 2014 By KathleenIn Bio Pics, Breakups, Dating, insights/observations, Love2 Comments

The worst break-up I ever survived was not with a boyfriend. It was with my best friend.

When I got my college freshman room assignment, the first thing I did was shoot an IM to my teammate, Suki. We were only slightly better than acquaintances, but we lived in the same area, trained at the same fencing club, and were both going to be spending our next 4 years at Columbia together. Great news! We were assigned single rooms a floor apart. We spent our summer preparing for college life by becoming bosom buddies. By the time orientation week started, we were thick as thieves, bonafide best friends.

As the year unfolded, our bond as friends grew stronger. There were few things we did apart. This was our first big mistake. We were always invited to things as a set, and when only one of us were invited to things, we’d usually bring the other. While we were each on different academic courses and had a handful of friends that didn’t overlap, for the most part we were peas in a pod, attached at the hip — one person to the majority of the outside world.

Nothing could possibly come between us. But 19 year old girls can let anything come between them, and in our case, it was 2… make that 3 boys.

What exactly happened over the course of a year and half is less important than the fact it culminated in me calling her a slut, she locking me out of our shared dorm room and both of us flushing our friendship down the toilet. She had picked boys over our friendship while putting other relationships at risk. I take loyalty very seriously. There was no option for recovery.

We had timed our break-up well — a week before reading week, 2 weeks before finals, and a month before we called it quits for summer recess. We lived together, but she had an upperclassman friend who would let her crash at his place on week nights. I’d go home on the weekends. Without coordinating it face to face, we had worked out how to avoid each other. There was a mural on the wall behind our beds — something we had started working on one sleepless night when we didn’t feel like studying but never really finished — I took a sponge to it.

I sat in a kind of quiet depression through that summer. I was fragile and jaded. I had confided in her in a way I had never confided in someone before — she knew all my secrets. How could I trust anyone — friend or lover — again? I lashed out at friends that tried to push us back together. Perhaps a few other relationships fell by the wayside. The collateral damage was almost too large to measure.

It is a truth universally acknowledged that 9 out of 10 boyfriends become ex-boyfriends. But best friends, those are supposed to last a lifetime… so when best friendships come crashing down, we’re left feeling abandoned, betrayed, and wounded in a way no significant other can ever effect us.

Of course, a decade later you get the benefit of saying “things happen for the best.” And for us, the end of our friendship was probably the best thing that ever happened to us both. She found true love outside our complicated polygon. We found our unique identities. I moved on, and while I’m more cautious about who I let into my life, years later, I learned to trust again.

Playing by the Rules

On March 3, 2014 By KathleenIn DatingLeave a comment

The French, apparently, go from kiss to couple faster than a La Mans race car.

“You Americans and your rules of dating!” He said teasingly, before kissing me.

Our conversation of cultural comparisons had revealed that the French don’t date and they don’t play games. They go from zero to first kiss to bonafide couple in 60 seconds flat. Perhaps this is not surprising for a nation home to La Mans and “la langue de l’amour.”

“As far as rules go when it comes to love, I only have one…” I replied.

I’ll come back to that later.

A few days earlier, I dropped into my favorite department store to cash-in on (or drop cash on?) its annual spring make-up event. Double points. Free gift tote with samples. What do you mean I don’t need another red lipstick? Of course I do! Natasha, the facial-care brand representative who had introduced me to the benefits of toner and weekly exfoliation, was more keen to catch-up on life than sell me eye cream. I was happy for the free make-up application and girl chat.

Under the influence of pink ginger ale, I divulged that I had stumbled out of a relationship and immediately into a new fling with a foreign suitor. Her eyes opened wide and she put down her lipstick pencil.

“Just remember, you have a lot of things going for you. Above all you have the advantage of youth — after you turn 30, men will lose interest.”

Pause.

Context: Natasha is hot and exotic. She has a boyfriend who treats her like a queen. She refuses to get married. She is in her 50s and looks 25. Seriously. She is the best advertisement for $500 face cream in the world.

Resume.

The only games I'm interested in playing are ones like Monopoly — The only games I’m interested in playing are ones like Monopoly

“There are lots of rules out there to playing the game, but there are only a few that matter. Here they are:

1. Make him wait a month before you sleep with him. That’s just long enough to become friends so the sex is better. Any longer and he’ll go looking for it elsewhere.

2. Never let a man walk all over you. Be confident in who you are. A man should enhance your life. Not make it.

and 3. Don’t settle for anyone that doesn’t spoil you rotten. You’re wonderful. You’re a princess and deserve to be treated that way. A man that doesn’t pay at dinner will cheat you in other ways. And watch out for French men. They’re fantastic in bed, but they usually have a mistress. I work for the French. I’ve seen it all.”

Natasha’s words of wisdom blew my mind. And not because she had basically told me my prime only lasted two years. No, mostly because other than #1, her rules sounded less like rules and rather mottoes to date by.

We all acknowledge that dating is a game — this is an unfortunate reality that bothers the hell out of me. The only games I like are Monopoly and Scrabble (which I’m terrible at, but play with competitive enthusiasm/optimism). But I think we misuse the word ‘rules’ when we talk about dating. I prefer to think of these things — things like deciding when a couple takes certain steps — as guidelines, suggestions, a roadmap in finding what will make us happiest in the long run. It’s easy to find someone to go to bed with. Less easy to find someone that will make our whole lives better.

My one rule in dating is simple: Follow my instincts. Not just when it feels right, but also when it feels wrong.

Before I sign off, Natasha gave me one more morsel of wisdom and it’s the insight I might just love the most:

“A good relationship is like a good pair of shoes. A good pair of shoes don’t need breaking in. They fit you right and feel comfortable from the first step. That’s what you’re looking for. You don’t need life blisters.”

A good relationship shouldn't remind you of this Marilyn Minter painting... #artnerd — A good relationship shouldn’t remind you of this Marilyn Minter painting… #artnerd

The Best Valentines I’ve Ever Had…

On February 14, 2014 By KathleenIn DatingLeave a comment

This is cute. Order it on etsy from scrapbits

“If you feel comfortable to go on a date on Valentine’s Day, we could go out then.”

I had planned on avoiding Valentine’s Day this year. Those plans involved signing the lease on my new Range Rover Evoque and going for a kind of joy ride. Heading north a ways. Away from the red mylar heart-shaped balloons and pink doillies bombarding you at every store from Duane Reade to Saks. Perhaps I’d go somewhere I could test my new car’s off-roading capabilities, or take it somewhere where I could get lost on my snowshoes (but not really lost, cuz it’s winter and that would end badly.)

My stomach churned a little bit at his text message. A Valentine’s Day first date with the most stunning and potentially most interesting man you’d ever met? This was bound to go as badly as my snowshoeing without a map plan.

This puppy was my best Valentine's Present — This puppy was my best Valentine’s Present

I am famously neutral about Valentine’s Day. I have a knack for ending relationships ahead of the holiday, and so I can’t remember if I have had a legit Valentine. My mother often comes to my rescue, buying me necklaces, or chocolate, or shapewear to help me turn future first dates into second dates. I’ve also fulfilled the day’s requirements by going bar-hoping with plantonic male friends.

This year, my right hand in the office, my Gallery Coordinator and I agreed to be each other’s Valentine. I’m taking a comp day on Valentine’s Day, so I cheated and gave her a box of truffles on Wednesday.

The best Valentine’s present I ever got was Kasey, my Cairn Terrier. She was a grey-black puppy who I nicknamed my Blue Valentine. She liked to chase feet and sit on my lap while I sat at my desk, writing on my laptop.

When this man asks you out on Valentine's Day, you say yes. — When this man asks you out on Valentine’s Day, you say yes.

“Do you think he’ll bring you flowers?” my girlfriend Sammy asked when I told her I’d accepted the invitation from the European PhD who bore an uncanny resemblance to Rupert Penry Jones.

While I’d welcome the gesture, I confessed, part of me hopes he won’t. They’d totally steal the thunder from my new car — I’m a sucker for flowers.

They Told Me to Find a Rich Husband

Tag: life