31 Days In NYC

As my profile states, since I was a little girl, I've always had dreams of living in a NYC Park Avenue penthouse. But, who needs a dream when you have a NYC real estate broker telling you that you can’t afford your dream? However, because she’s a fellow Leo, a seasoned broker, and a former “Angeleno”, I admired her honesty and candor.

So, on December 31st, 2008, my cross-country movers delivered my things from Los Angeles to my new home, located on the most despised place on earth --Wall Street. Baby steps.

In any event, I swapped my 1200 square foot loft in LA’s Financial District for a shoebox “loft” in NYCs Financial District (FiDi). That’s right, I’m living down the street from NYSE, near Bernie Madoff’s empty office, and more importantly, walking distance to Tribeca.

That’s the fairytale.

But, since relocating to NYC a mere month ago, I may need to schedule an appointment with Dr. Corbin to eradicate the effects of true city life.

This is my story.

CITY “ETIQUETTE”

I loved, and still love my deceased grandfather (Pop-Pop) with all my heart. Amongst being the only man whom I ever loved, he was also a well-respected lawyer, president of The Ohio State Bar Association, and a judge. He was also my first introduction to a vile act that has scarred my psyche until this day. Pop-Pop was a chronic expectorator.

Now, flash forward to 2009 and I am living in the land of expectorators—New York City.

A long time ago, I remembered reading that “back in the day”, spitting was illegal in New York City because it was blamed for the spread of tuberculosis. Apparently, the laws have been spit upon.

During frequent visits to the most amazing city stateside, I would dodge the spit of men that seemed to be flying in slow motion toward the ground. I even remember a couple of guys coming to my aid and yelling at a guy to be careful of where he discharged his phlegm.

But now, having moved here in the winter, the spitting has become more visual. In the creative speak of my friend Brian, “We should call the spit “spitzbergs” because they are frozen … ala icebergs.” I couldn't have said it better!

What really has me spitting mad is that “women” have now gotten in on the act. Yes, women.

In fact, the other day, as I was walking out of the grocery store, glowing over the fact that it was my first trip to a NYC grocery, a young “woman” decided that the thick fluid in the back of her throat needed to be expelled before she headed in to buy her groceries. The sound, the act, and the end result was beyond disgusting. Her act was so mind blowing that I curtly had to say, “REALLY? REALLY?!”

I was so taken aback that I asked three policemen what the laws were about the act in question. To my frozen surprise (partly because it was freezing outside), one of the “gentlemen” said, “WHAT? Youz got a problem with someone gettin’ rid of spit when youz got fairies running around LA?!”

Even though I was speechless, my mother would say that this is another instance when I should have kept my mouth shut. But, why should I when others were clearly opening and expelling from theirs?!

Honestly.

SINGLE IN THE CITY

One of the reasons I moved from Los Angeles is because I decided that after almost 10 years, it was time to start dating before school children started poking me with sticks and chanting, “Spinster Sammi! Spinster Sammi!” It’s bad enough that adults still chant,” Sam I am green eggs and ham.”

So, as soon as I unpacked my computer, I decided to sign up on all of the best on- line dating sites: Nerve, Yahoo, Cupid, and I revisited JDate. Yes, JDate … my dear friend Dina once said I needed to date “her people”.

Anyway, as 4 weeks have gone by, I realized that either someone altered my profile, or at worst, it had been surreptitiously deleted as time after time, the emails I received from all of the sites have been: “We have 0 matches for you” … “Have you thought about adding a different picture?” … ”You should think about dating in Siberia”.

To add to the Ruskie invite, I recently met the few Wall Streeters left in my neighborhood, who invited me to the land of reality. In their beer and Jameson soaked vocabulary, they jovially said, “ If you came to NY to meet normal guys, you’ve come to the wrong place.” Good times.

To say the least, I’m keeping hope alive.

NYC EXCURSIONS

Much like the millions of other human lemmings, I too went to D.C. to engage in the historical moment of witnessing Obama being sworn in as the first black president.

Sure, I expected to be a part of human flesh gridlock, long lines, freezing weather, and probably like other women, I thought maybe I would meet my knight in shining armor. Hey, if it weren’t so damn crowded, I could have picked him out in the crowd. In hindsight, maybe he was one of those men who traded his armor for a full-length fur that I saw so many men wearing.

Anyway, after parting ways from my travel companions, I rented a car, attended the inauguration solo, and left solo. And, when I finally ditched the strange woman who attached herself to me in the human gridlock, I found my way to the train and decided to take a nap. That’s where the pleasant memories end.

Upon reaching the platform at the train station, and feeling quite rested, I saw the hordes of people surrounding the escalator in the distance. It was like millions of ants on top of an anthill. No one was moving and everyone was fighting for space.

So, once again, I made like a lemming and followed the more resourceful ants and decided to run up an escalator that was going down.

Donned in my swing coat, my fur headband, camera strapped across my body, and my “oh so stylish” snow boots, I made like the spry high school cheerleader / former track “star” I once was, and headed for the escalator that was coming down.

Unlike my days of jumping hurdles, jumping escalator stairs was far different. Hurdles fall when your foot hits them. Escalator stairs going down (when you’re running up) don’t wait for your foot to touch them … they just flatten due to modern mechanics.

At any rate, while running neck-and-neck with the other lemmings, up the downward metal stairs, I got to the top and fell.

Then, as I was being dragged back down, and seeing feet flying by me, I got up and made a second attempt. But, because I thought that a man breezing past me was offering me assistance, I reached for his arm, he kept going, and I fell again. I like to believe that it was an honest mistake.

Finally, I got up once again, jumped to the safe zone, and when I got to the subway’s “promised land” (the landing), I bent over, caught my breath, and looked around to make sure no one saw my acrobatics. Unfortunately, I had an audience, and no one was applauding. But, from an older woman who had just enjoyed the show, I did get, “Baby, are you okay? You fell hard … twice.” I promptly replied, “Yes.”

Trying to act like I was a pro and had performed that stunt on Jackass, I walked as straight as I could to my car (that I parked almost a mile away), amidst tears, while feeling fluid dripping down my leg. Yes, it was the red stuff from within.

To end re-living this nightmare, all I have to say is that putting Purell hand sanitizer on an open wound is not a wise thing. In addition, to add more stings to my wounds, my sister called me “escalator road kill”.

Again, good times.

FEBRUARY 1st

At the end of 31 days I became a 1st time aunt. Meet Daisy Elizabeth.


Sammi In The City …

Cougars, Lions, and Silver Foxes

Recently, on a business trip to New York, while also taking time to visit some of my favorite SoHo haunts, I over-heard a guy at Felixes telling his friend that he wasn’t looking for a “cougar” that evening. So, with my inquisitive mind working over-time and a tasteless mojito in hand, I invited myself into their conversation and asked them to please define a “cougar”. And, apparently, I wasn’t the only person who wanted the term defined because a woman who alleged she was twenty-nine, but looked more like a good forty-nine, turned around to tune in.

In any event, this 28-year-old investment banker, and dead ringer for Van Wilder, went on to describe a “cougar” as a woman who’s typically 30-years-old, and out on the prowl looking for some action. That’s right—30. Furthermore, according to Mr. Wilder, this type of woman is usually alone and having a few cocktails (martinis tend to be the drink of choice) while waiting to pounce on her unsuspecting, young prey. In addition, she’s typically attractive, well dressed, and looks like the only thing she’s in need of is companionship from a younger man. But, unfortunately, more often than not, these women take on the appearance of an over-weight, over-perfumed, and grandmotherly type who dresses in flashy clothing. I was speechless and not because I like flashy clothing.

Mr. Wilder, after grabbing the attention of everyone in earshot, with his "poignant" monologue, apparently derived from his sociology class dissertation, asked me my age. Without hesitation, and much confidence, I obliged and said, “I’m thirty-nine, soon to be forty in a few months.” One would have thought I gave away the secret formula to Tide because with much facial contortion, complete with bulging eyes, and the need to use his indoor voice, he screamed, “WOW!, I thought you were my age BUT you’re not only a “cougar”, you’re an old “cougar”!” That’s right-an old “cougar”.

Now, while I don't mind being called a fussy lion, a lioness (as I am a Leo), or occasionally a bitch, I was somewhat mortified when I was called a "cougar" … especially an old “cougar”. I mean one minute I’m being mistaken for a spry 28-year-old woman, and the next, I’m being called an old cat who drinks alone. Either way, I was ready to scratch his eyes out but opted to tame my fury by upgrading my watered-down mojito to a glass of champagne.

Honestly, how is it that an older (usually over 50), attractive man, who's out on the prowl, is called a “silver fox”, but change the gender, drop the age by ten years, and the “silver fox” is miraculously morphed into an “old cougar”? How does a single, "older" woman immediately become a broken down, lonely, old cat on the prowl?

It's been a long night ... it's time to drink my milk and retire to my lair.

No Need for Speed

In my opinion, the only thing wrong with the concept of speed dating is that the time doesn’t speed by fast enough. I know this because a few days ago, I pried myself away from my computer, tossed my agoraphobia aside, and attended a speed-dating event to prove I could finally find a date in Los Angeles, and keep a man’s attention for at least 3 minutes.

So that morning, rather than being annoyed by my neighbors less than stellar saxophone playing, I opened my windows and invited her “music” into my world. I suppose listening to her struggle with the notes quietly comforted me while I struggled with the idea of paying $35 to meet men.

Anyway, somewhere between drinking my morning coconut water and driving down the 101 headed towards the big event that evening; I got use to the idea of paying for love. But, I found myself wondering what would happen if I actually met the man of my dreams in 2 minutes or less. Would this be our “how we met” story, or would we feel compelled to concoct a new scenario? Or, what if the guy I liked was only there to write an expose on speed dating, and not in the least bit interested in meeting his soul mate? Perhaps my anti-social disease wasn’t such a bad thing after all.

As soon as I walked into the lounge, I ordered my special lemonade libation—lemons, Splenda, and vodka. Unfortunately, rather than calming my nerves, my drink made me manic because it was actually lemonade. Apparently, when I said vodka, the bartender didn't hear me and I ended up with a glass of sugar water rather than a glass of liquid courage.

But, instead of wasting my sugar high, I used it to talk up the restaurant manager, event coordinator, the assistant event coordinator, and a bitter, blond European woman smoking in the back of the room. Basically, what I wanted to know was quite simple--should I stay or should I go? And, more importantly, was a man’s phone number worth $35? Surprisingly, the restaurant manager was the only one who thought I should stay and said I’d make a killing because I was wearing a great outfit AND resembled Janet Jackson from her days on the 80s show "Fame". I didn’t know whether to thank him or ask where I could buy a bottle of Aquanet.

After pumping up the volume on my 80s hair and adjusting my shoulder pads, I found my seat at the “older professionals” table. The woman seated next to me, wearing Lee jeans and a Charter Club type blouse, reminded me of the secretary from The Bob Newhart Show. On my other side was a woman who looked like she was probably the former president of her high school 4-H club. Was I in their league or were they in mine?

In any event, before I could finish assessing the attributes of my other competitors, the whistle blew and the dating commenced. With stealth like moves, three older gentlemen descended upon our table and for the first time that evening, I was absolutely speechless.

While Bob’s secretary was busy telling her date that she was a high school principal, I was busy staring blankly into the eyes of Garrett Morris’ clone. Luckily, sensing I was nervous or simply not interested, he started asking me general, harmless questions about my life. And, even though I had no real interest in this man who was old enough to be my father, I decided to play along.

Not only was Garrett previously married; he was also widowed with 2 pre-teens at home. Now aside from being a bit needy in relationships, I also admit to occasionally lacking an internal censor when I’m nervous or at a loss for words. Much like when I asked Garrett if his kids were hoping that he brings home a new mommy. Did I actually say that? More importantly, if I did, did he hear me, and would he actually respond? He did and stoicly replied, “My kids wished me good luck and it was nice talking to you.”

As luck or LA statistics would have it, there were more women than men, and the event ended sooner than expected. But, even though I was pretty sure I didn’t get my $35 worth of conversation or potential dates, I learned a valuable lesson that night ... I have all the speed I need as I live my life in the slow lane.