Thanks Weekend

Oh good lord this weekend was just super pleasant. I mean really, how could a weekend NOT be charmed when kicked off by the most beautiful wedding ever? Trees, a full orchestra, timpani, trumpet salutes, posh British accents inducing shivers in my nether regions and hats!Sorry Jews, it was nice and all for the past 40 years but I’m jumping ship, where do I pledge my soul to the C of E? BTW, they did kinda had me at “Pancake Day” anyways.

Next up I would like to give ol’ Mother Nature a huge sloppy wet kiss cause she doled out a picture perfect spring day – TWICE in a row! Swason said it best today – Us New Yorkers REALLY have to work hard for Spring but once we get it, it’s fantastic.

But back to my Saturday. In celebration of the glorious sun returning to his realm I walked the 3 miles to the East River and lounged my day away with a back log of Vanity Fairs and a huge ice coffee. The walk was fantastic, sometimes it’s just kinda nifty to take the slow road and absorb the world. The beautiful small row of restored brownstones on a lacey tree lined street, “secret” community gardens squeezed into the cracks between buildings and a handful of really interesting abandoned industrial spaces all dotted my route. Back home after another 3 mile jaunt I extended my Saturday glow with a Long Term Booty Call fly by. Though it was not some of his best work (damn you bourbon), one can always find a glimmer goodness during any naked funtime.

Moving on…SundaySwason and I joined the inside foodie community for a Sunday lunch at M Wells in LIC. I got one word for this French eatery, decadent. It took all I had NOT to order the heavy cream and 7 cheese potato thing (not having a car and driver to race me back to my apartment 3 min. after all that dairy hits my intestines drastically reduces my menu choices) so I went with the egg soufflé garnished with salty pork stuff and a freshly baked biscuit with honey… love. As per usual the two gays perched atop their chrome stools to my right became my BFFs within 30 seconds of my bottom coming into contact with the red vinyl of my counter stool. Maybe one day I will learn how to fine tune this power to focus on STRAIGHT single men, but probably not.

The remainder of the day included a mini banana cupcake, more lounging river side (after introducing Swason to Gantry Park), watching what could only be described as a sailing ship of urban graffiti pirates, drinkies at LIC Bar and some spring time house work.

Fer reals, this was my weekend. Not too shabby.

I Love to Hate You

Welcome to the 2^nd full week of my YMCA membership where I believe I’m blossoming into a very well rounded masochist. I’ve belonged to gyms before and have always enjoyed it, sure I’m not a muscle head or a lithe aerobics master with boundless spring and energy, but I push my sweaty ass around laughing between my dying gasps of life. I can think of a bucket load of things that are so much worse than my gym time, actually after experiencing the ‘prep’ for my colonoscopy 2 weeks ago I have a whole new gauge as to what is really not THAT bad. However there is something about going to this YMCA that creates within me a wonderful cocktail of hatefulness and joy, and isn’t that the core of masochism?
Fun House Mirrors – I know there are mirrors created in this world to lull me into a false reality of my body proportions. There are retail dressing rooms equipped with such magical looking glasses that I’ve not wanted to redress for I felt as though I should be sharing this wondrous nakedness with the entire city - I’m a freakin’ Venus! However at the Y, these sadists have installed the reverse of those wonderful mental rainbow inducing mirrors. For the past 2 weeks of class I’ve been taken by surprised to see this woman in the mirror who is wearing my work out gear but is at least 4 inches shorter and totally round, WTF that is SO not me! I didn’t look like that when I left home. It’s odd though because when I look at the other women in the class then look at their reflections their representations are spot on….hmmmm must be the angle.

Perky Perfection – My instructor has the body of a graceful ballerina combined with a rock hard marathon runner. I am confident that her boundless energy can only be the result of a fist full of coke (please just let me live with that delusion) and if it wasn’t enough that she is perfectly perfect physically she is a professional pastry chef… right of course you are. However the other day there was a sliver of light when during our stretch she blurted out to the class, “Ughhh my skin is so dry, it’s disgusting”. For at that exact moment while trying to reach the tips of my fingers to my shins I thought, “You know what, my skin feels rather fantastic – I RULE YOU INSTRUCTOR!”

Random Gawkers – OK I get that this is the Y and because I’m saving cash I have to deal with crap that wouldn’t happen at a real gym that cost some bucks. Well I mean I am TRYING to get that this is the Y and unlike the gym where adults are there for one thing and one thing only – working it – at the Y I’m sharing the space with a multitude of users. Hi piano class! Howdy Chinese learners! Check it out, 7 year olds learning to play the recorder! Now if you all could just stay put in your classrooms and NOT loiter in the doorway of the studio gawking at my red faced sweaty mess we all could get along. Or YOU GUYS I can see your reflection in the mirror, stop leering through the window at the back of the studio and keep running the track! The other night a guy actually had the balls to stand at the front of the class checking us out (?) and after a few seconds the instructor said, “Are you here for class” he calmly looked at her and answered “Oh no, I’m not here for class” and remained leaning against the mirrored wall, well until the instructor pointedly told him to leave.

So that’s just a few of my observations from the past fortnight but oddly enough none of those bitterly annoying things appear to inhibit my level of enjoyment. I get a kick out of attending class and I feel better for it even if the process does tend to piss me off.

mas·och·ism gratification gained from pain, deprivation, degradation, etc., inflicted or imposed on oneself, either as a result of one's own actions or the actions of others.

The Talented Mr. Ripley’s Believe it or Not

Ok Cupid finally came through with a very entertaining, yet mildly age inappropriate dating situation.

Back tracking - a few weeks ago a wise talking (email= talking) 29 year old peeked my interest with his witty and biting e-banter. Of course our 4:30am drunken IM exchange was a hoot (I still cannot for the life of me remember what I was typing or HOW) which lead to The Talented Mr. Ripley’s Believe it or Not asking me out on a real live date.

The days between the asking and the going were filled with one of my favorite activities, internet snooping, compiling of facktoids and fashioning a fully rounded persona, chock full of assumptions and creative conjecture. I quickly discovered that I may be socializing with the new millennium’s Talented Mr. Ripley (the Believe it or Not part just kinda rolls off the tongue after one says The Talented Mr. Ripley… or maybe that’s just me). Anyways the guy is the type who may or may not write grad students’ doctorial dissertations for cash, and/ or use his wits not always for good but most certainly for gain. The more I read the more I liked. My date was showing signs of brilliance and craftiness combined with a very low moral set…… yummmmmm.

The locale for our rendezvous was ladies choice but he picked the time 9:30pm (oh these kids and their late nights out) and the borough, Queens. What the what? NOBODY who lives in Manhattan chooses to go to Queens unless there is a baseball or racquet involved, but I was happy considering that this old lady would not have to drag her ass across the river in the middle of the night.

I picked a swank hidden speakeasy-ish bar in LIC where the bartenders ne ‘mixologists’ sport suspenders, custom chop your ice, and utilize at least 7 ingredients per beverage. I arrived 2 minutes early (as per usual) while The Talented Mr. Ripley’s Believe it or Not wandered aimlessly along the banks of the East River. Once he realized that “Queens is hard” his call for help was answered with my booming instructions, “WALK NORTH EAST” while the circa 1928 live jazz band rocked out a Cole Porter ditty.

He finally arrived looking like a cross between an undergrad shuffling across the quad to grab a slice and person who was rudely shaken out of bed by the words, “Call 911, the apartment is on fire” This guy was one button fly away from wearing sweat pants… really? But I swallowed my pride and put all my faith in his charm, and thank god the kid had charm.

We talked and laughed and after several fancy drinks (and one Jameson’s – that one’s for you Swason) we gazed glassy eyed at each other across the table. Of course he was adamant that I become a performer (oh sweet child) and demanded that I begin writing my 7 min. stand up routine ASAP. He also told me stories with no endings, or stories that ended like, “So Shelly Long and I spent the afternoon placing 60 mini cottage cheese containers into her fridge”. Maybe it was the free flowing liquor or the jaunty way his head of bobbing black curls danced as he spoke but I was entertained.

The evening ended with a bit of snogging on the empty dark streets of LIC and a walk to the 7 train. I don’t want to tip my hand in fear that The Talented Mr. Ripley’s Believe it or Not may actually read the blog (even though he has stated that he probably will not) so I will just say that it would be lovely to hang out again and maybe hear more about those intriguing D list celebrity cottage cheese containers.

Getting a Foot in the Door

This past Friday morning I was greeted with a really normal funny email in my OkCupid mailbox. The guy was charming and clever and his profile (though lacking a proper sized photo) was lush with details and well written – BONUS! We exchanged 2 rounds of witty emails then began IMing.

After a few IM exchanges Mr. Friday lobbed over an unexpected invitation, “What are you doing at 2:30 today? Want to meet me and my friends for a movie at the Ziegfeld?” My knee jerk response was “No Way I don’t know you” but then as the gears turned in my head I thought WTF, just go the movies. This is what the summer is for, meeting a stranger for an afternoon flick, calm the F down and just GO! But before I could accept this blind matinee invitation he addended his offer with “We can hold hands and kiss in the dark” – OH GOOD LORD! Now you are on the creepy side of the Mr. Milk Toast to Robert Chambers continuum. Great. I ignored the quip, hoping that he too realized the oddness of the request after sending it out into the www and was embarrassed by his misplaced prepubescent blurt. I instead inquired about the feature presentation BUT he responded with, “Ok, we could just meet after the movie.” Hmmm, I didn’t remember saying no to the movie, I guess we are moving on.

I agreed to meet Mr. Friday after the movie but because of my very popular Friday night schedule (Fresh Direct order arriving at 8pm) I could only meet for a few drinks. He suggested going for a cup of tea then holding hands and kissing on my couch. Really? What is it with this holding hands and kissing? And on MY couch, who the F are you? I attempted to stay on the humorous side of the request by assuming that he too was ummmm… just kidding (as the kids say). But my “easy killer, let’s keep my couch out of this” reply butted up against his response suggesting that I was uptight and prudish… oh no you didn’t. The gauntlet was thrown.

To keep this guy out of my apartment but show him that I was “up for fun” I suggested two establishments located in LIC where we could either get a drink or a cup of tea (insert eye roll) followed by a stroll along The East River and snogging to our heart’s content. He was nonplussed at my suggestions and stated that he would call me later to discuss the evening’s details.

Not feeling all that confident with this pushy lothario I turned to my dating guru Lola. I shot her an email outlining the pertinent facts then asked if I should “Calm the F down or shut this guy down?” Lola responded with, “Meet Him! If he's creeptastic, shut it down, If he's super cute and funny and the rest -- do it”. Yes of course that is what I should do, I’m freaking 39 years old and it’s the summer, why am I getting all wacko?

About an hour later my phone rang, it was Mr. Friday. He sounded charming, he liked my voice, we exchanged pleasantries then he asked, “So what are we doing tonight?” I repeated my proposal of public establishment followed by “we’ll see”, Mr. Friday was not happy with that arrangement at all. He repeated several times that he wasn’t looking to have sex but he was not a guy who sits in bars or clubs or kisses in public, he would rather sit on my couch, watch TV, hold hands, and makeout. Ok people fess up WHO told this guy about my new 32” TV and my most amazing red couch? I laughed him off, still trying to stay light and humorous explaining that we didn’t know each other so why not just agree to meet up for “a cup of tea” (don’t know if this guy had a tea or a couch fetish) THEN after that see what happens. He pushed back explaining that he was “type A” and needed to know the entire plan for the evening and that he would not agree to meet me unless I promised that after one drink we would be snuggled up in my apartment (of course no sex). I kept hearing my guru’s voice in my head, just do it, don’t be so uptight, have some fun. So with a carefree sigh I agreed and asked where and when we were meeting. Mr. Friday only could give me time, 6:30pm and he would text me later with location. Ughhh…

The envelop of down time between 3 – 5 pm afforded me the opportunity of clarity of thought. I ran analogies through my pea brain such as; If I had a pile of $200,000 in small bills and placed it on a table in front of a stranger then asked them to guard it until I returned, would I trust them? No way! But I am going to blindly trust this Mr. Friday with my life? Is my life worth less than $200,000? If I open the door to this man I am basically saying, “Hi welcome to my home, please don’t kill, rape or mutilate me, OK? I am putting all my trust in you, for no other reason than the fact you had perfect grammar in your OkCupid email.” And this whole kissing thing, good lord, just post an “Intimate Connections” add on Craig’s list, I am sure there is some fetishist that would be totally into this, however this is NOT a date. There are a number of men I would love to canoodle on my couch in the coolness of my AC on a Friday night, men that I KNOW, why would I invite a stranger over to hold my hand and neck?

Long story longer he texted me at 6:10 (nice since we were supposed to meet at 6:30) asking, “What’s the plan?” I replied, “I thought we were meeting for a drink and btw my apt. is off the menu.” He quickly retorted, “Sounds like our intentions are different. Good Night”.

Two hours later Swason and I were tossing back beers and eating a smorgasbord of finger foods with me on my couch and her curled up in my big chair, watching my huge new TV in the sub zero temps of my kick butt air conditioners, it could not have been a better Friday night.

Cocktails, Balls, and A Boy At A Urinal

Just a few little tid bits that never really amounted to a full post this week :

Monday night was another free drink fest hosted by my office building’s concierge service. Pix (one of my favorite long lost gays) and I stood atop a roof lounge between the Empire State Building and the golden turret of the NY Life Building enjoying our free bee Bombay Sapphire Gin cocktails while tearing apart the fashion (hardly) choices of the surrounding guests. Lot’s of sloppy boobs, bad spray tans, and at least one twenty something in a borrowed suit 3 sizes too big. The highlight of my night was discovering my new signature drink - ta ta G&T, and hello Tom Collins! How retro 60’s of me. I swear I was built for the bombshell era and now with my Tom Collins in hand…. I am ready for my time machine.

Tuesday was Bastille Day and in celebration Jesus and I went to Barolo for an Italian dinner. Upon entering we were faced with a rowdy group of red faced French men (ooh la la) playing petanque in the restaurant’s roomy back garden. As fate would have it just hours before dinner the co-workers and I were researching petanque and agreed, after looking at the official FPUSA (Federation of Petanque USA) website, I would probably have better chances of scoring a date if I joined an officially sanctioned NYC petanque team than if I stay on Match.com. The pictures show hardy teams of grinning floppy haired Frenchmen enjoying big French Provincial meals and several bottles of red wine – and why am I not playing petanque? Oh and for a mere $20 registration fee I can obtain my official USA petanque credentials so I could compete in the national tournaments. Vivre la France!

On Sunday after my lazy day in the hammock I took a detour over to PS 1 since I was in desperate need of a bathroom. I hightailed it past their summertime environment installation

(looked like Frank Gehry meets Snuffleupagus) zipped past the admissions counter, with a quick smile and a wave, then down the stairs to the WC. As far as I could tell there was only one restroom, I looked at the door for any gender demarcation but there was none. I quickly searched the hallway for another such facility and again nothing so considering PS1 is avant garde I went with the whole Gender Non-specific situation and made a beeline for one of the 2 open stalls. The stalls were fully contained rooms with doors that went from floor to ceiling…ahh ha this is why it is all genders all the time, unfortunately when I exited my private pisser I was forced into a VERY public situation that I was not prepared for. There I was face to back with a young man who was mid stream in his urinal experience – whoopsie! Unsure of how to react he put his head down and sped up his task at hand, I trying to appear ‘cool’ and oh so “avant garde” sidestepped it over to the sinks to quickly wash my hands (running out into the hallway would have been so prosaic). (the following is my internal monologue) - Turn water on…TURN WATER ON….. crap no water, ok move to next sink…good lord who designed this place we have a half wall between us, our shoulders are touching…. ok now just some soap …no not the MIRROR yikes, (half smile as we both regard each others’ countenance in the reflection of the mirror in front of me)...ok I don’t need soap, look back down…. now for a paper towel and I’ll be out of here but where is the paper towel dispenser?...please don’t think I am stalking you peeing man…. I am just looking for a towel…. WTF!!??? It is on the wall next to his right arm!!! Nope no paper towel I’m good…. wipe hands on pants and I’m OUT! What is it with me and bathrooms, maybe this is why I never go?

Discovering your own backyard

Living in my 24 hour city becomes a bit overwhelming at times. The quantity of entertainment options are limitless yet it’s the vastness of the offerings that can stunt my motivation to actually participate. If I miss something no big deal there will be another new show, new exhibit, new whatever in 10 minutes. This past weekend however I made an internal pact that I would take a journey of discovery and visit a new local locale.

Friday night began with a few bottles of wine atop Swason’s Astoria abode. Yes I did call Astoria my home years back however I never sat on my roof and drank wine on a cool summer’s night – I lived in a basement. This act of semi-illegal behavior, though very lovely, was not conducted in order to satisfy my stated goal of a journey of discovery it was simply a nice way to kick off my weekend – and finally prove to Swason that I could drink like the Irish stock from whence I have sprung.

Day 2 of my quest – not so much discovery but I took a journey. LIRR out to Long Beach to put some quality time into my tan – mission accomplished!

Day 3 –Sunday morning, a bright yellow sun and sparkling blue sky beckoned to me as I began to weigh my options for the day’s J of D (that’s journey of discovery). I was torn between two unknown mistresses luring me out into the wiles of the sweeping city; Gantry Park in Long Island City or the grand opening of The High Line in Manhattan. After quickly completing my cerebral list of pros and cons Gantry Park won hands down – mostly because I assumed it would be less likely overrun with hot smelly crowds and avoiding malodorous masses is my main goal for any excursion.

Hopped onto my ol’ 7 train with my wearever chair strapped to my back filled with my survival gear (water, book, grapes, etc…) and 6 minutes later I was exiting at Vernon Boulevard in the middle of nowhere. Yes there really is a reason that for 12 years I have never seen anybody enter or exit the 7 train at the Vernon Boulevard station. Once above ground, using the sun as my guide, I navigated westward past the abandoned one story cinderblock warehouses to the high-rise luxury condos perched on the edge of the East River. The river, just steps away, lapped at the organically manicured man made shoreline bursting with wild pink roses and swaying sea grasses. I had made it – it was GANTRY PARK!

The park consists of piers, winding shady pathways, a riverside board walk equipped with lounging chairs, a rolly polly green space that beckons to be enjoyed by bare feet, a round seating area that is magically misted from below by fine sprays of water and a small row of bright orange hammocks. I thankfully scored the hammock with the best unobstructed view of both the Empire State Building and the U.N. (FYI delegates – your building needs a good power wash). True the bright orange strapping of the hammocks, though comfortable, was a bit reminiscent of those cargo nets one finds on the docks in Newark so I never quite relaxed into a deep rest for I was concerned that a barge with a large crane might take advantage of the situation and use me as ballast for a training drill.