Manhattan Lovers / edited

November 4, 2008

Juliana lay awake in the dark, on a bed so heavenly, next to a man who she thought must be an angel sent directly to her from heaven, but her thoughts were keeping her awake.

She was in New York again, determined to “make it” – for the third time in her life. Only this time, she had found love. A love that made her believe that she and New York were meant to be after all.

Trevor was a writer who she had met at the Starbucks on the corner, between their two buildings.

He would go there to write, and watch people, and get inspired – inspiration which he was constantly lacking.

Juliana would go there for the free WiFi, since she couldn’t afford it after charging her new MAC Airbook to her sole Visa card. She would go to Starbucks and look at celeb gossip, checking out Gawker and what else there was to do in the seemingly busy city.

This time she had been in Manhattan for no more than two months, working as a shop girl at an independent clothing designer’s boutique. The city seemed to swirl like crazy all around her, but she had yet to be sucked in – instead she watched stolen cable on her 27″ flat screen, set up crazy outfits for work the following day, and went to Starbucks, which was, ironically, consistently packed with people, all who said not more than two words to each other – “Seat taken?” – and even that was sometimes drowned out by the incessant ‘klickey-klack’ of keyboards on laptops.

To be so entirely surrounded and yet feel so disturbingly displaced from it all made Juliana a little angry and a little hopeless.

When she finished reading the latest gossip, checking the latest fashion shows on Style.com, and even reading random blogs from old classmates on Facebook – she would people watch. Juliana often sat there, waiting for life to happen, and then it just did.

She saw Trevor. A dark-haired, blue-eyed man, who kept glimpsing over his laptop to look at her.

At first she was freaked out, imagining a stalker-like scenario, but then he lifted his head, smiling at her, showing off his perfect teeth and chiseled features. After a few minutes of stealing glances, he closed his computer and left when she wasn’t looking.

She considered jumping out of her seat and chasing after him, but didn’t want to appear desperate. A tap on her shoulder brought her back to reality and a ‘Seat taken?’ took her right back up to the heavens.

Trevor bought them another round of coffees – his a Tall Americano, her a Skinny Vanilla Latte – and she suddenly felt alive. She felt a connection with someone other than a computer screen and it was exhilirating.

He was 28, a published author working on his second book, raised in New York – Upper East Side, but needed to a find a more ‘real’ scene, so he moved down to Greenwich Village. He used to play piano, doesn’t watch much TV, and spends his weekends walking in the city, discovering places.

Juliana knew it was love at first sight. And although she didn’t confess her TV-obsessed, non-reading, hermit-like ways to this sexy artist, she did tell him about her job and her two previous apartments in New York. And when she started ranting about something irrelevant, which is what she did when she was nervous, he touched her hand ever so softly and asked if she wanted to go somewhere to eat.

They walked half a block with their cute messenger bags in tow – his a beaten up brown leather, hers was a pink Juicy Couture – and she thought they must have looked like a real couple to the strangers around them.

They arrived at a shabby chic Mexican place that Juliana passed on her way to work. During the day the noticeably peeling paint, mismatched colorful furniture and broken door looked downright gringy and ghetto. But at night, with colorful string lights, candles scattered on all the tables, and the smell of good cooking in the air, the Mexican place looked cute, romantic and cozy.

Sharing nachos, fajitas and a pitcher of sangria, Juliana swore to Trevor that she would read his book, her first in 3 years, and he swore he would start watching MTV – just to stay pop-culturally current, for his “material”.

The drunken sloppy kisses started when the check arrived, her Juicy bag felt so heavy she made him carry both their bags while he groped her walking down the sidewalk to his building. The building was two blocks away from hers, a five story walk-up of which they climbed to the fourth floor.

He fumbled with his keys while she kissed him as passionately as she could. When he finally got his door unlocked they fell into his apartment – dark, and smelling of coffee, chinese food and vanilla (thanks to Glade Plug-ins found throughout the place she would later discover).

They eventually made it to his bed, which was surprisingly comfortable, with a mountain of pillows and a cozy duvet which landed on the floor. Their lovemaking was passionate, lengthy, and very satisfying. Liliana hadn’t made love in ages, and this made the wait worthwhile. Trevor was attentive, intuitive, and made her orgasm four times.

They fell asleep all over each other, literally a tangle of limbs, sweaty and exhausted.

When she awoke she felt enlightened. This only happens in the movies, she thought to herself with a smile. Meeting in a coffee shop, a lovers tryst, one that you could only dream about in Paris, a city full of romance, and not in New York, a city full of cynicism, failed idealism, and those drifting, like herself, waiting to be found.

Now awake, she heard the shower running and she was alone in bed. She suddenly felt shy – she was nude, and the large windows all through his apartment let in so much daylight she felt exposed, as if people could be watching from the outside.

She scrambled around his apartment trying to find her clothes, her bra was hanging gleefully off of a lamp in the corner, her pants were found scrunched up on the sofa, and she mistook her sweater for a sweet little area rug by the doorway. When she gathered up her clothes and quickly threw them on, she noticed there was a sudden quiet in the apartment, and she realised that the shower had stopped running.

And then there he was. Trevor was in the doorway, his hair wet, a towel wrapped around his waist and a smirk on his face.

“Did you find your clothes alright?”

Juliana nodded, and noticed a weird feeling creeping up behind her, an uneasy feeling that she attempted to shake off, even just temporarily. Trevor made her coffee, he actually used a coffee grinder and the glossy high-tech machine and made her the best tasting latte she’d ever had. And then she realized what that feeling was.

She suddenly felt like this was all too good to be true. She’d been in New York twice before this, her last sexual encounter was with a busboy at an Italian restaurant in Brooklyn, and she heard so many stories about love in New York – most specifically that it doesn’t exist. In one single night she had fallen for a man so amazing, so romantic, so sexy, but what if it was all fluff? A dream? What if when she goes back to her apartment and her heart gets broken again and she’s left alone, again?

She shrugged away the feeling yet again and put down her latte. Trevor walked her two and a half blocks to her apartment, and she was surprisingly calm. They held hands, he even kissed her before she went up to her place.

She wasn’t sure what this would lead to. She wasn’t sure about Trevor or the future or love. She looked in the mirror with happiness, and walked to work with a kick in her step. All she knew was that she didn’t feel alone anymore. Someone had found her.

And that was the only sure thing that mattered.

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Spinning Magnolias

September 8, 2008

Magnolia Pettes is a model, a beautiful girl with large green eyes, long blonde streaked hair and a body girls envy and men covet. At every party she is the It Girl, in every room it was like spotlights were only on her, she is the star where ever she goes. She can have any man she wants, any drug she wants, and she can have it now.

The only thing was, at 22 years old, she already felt old – she felt used up.

She was getting sick of the coke binging, sick of feeling slutty the morning after, sick of walking through Yorkville Park at three in the afternoon, getting breakfast at the coffee shop while children next to her were getting there after school snacks.

The jobs weren’t flying in anymore. Her agency called her less and less. Partly because the jobs they were offering her were crap and she kept turning them down, but partly because when she did accept them, she showed up late, high and/or drunk.

No one wanted to book her for modelling gigs anymore – she was only being hired for openings of new clubs and restaurants. Expected to be the ‘date’ of expensive clients.

At the cafe she sipped her coffee through a straw, watching a girl play with her dog. It dawned on her that this girl was probably the same age as her, she wasn’t extraordinarily beautiful but she wasn’t ugly either, she looked like she could have been a student, maybe she has a boyfriend. Her clothes weren’t necessarily front-page worty either – last year’s UGGs with ripped up Rock’s, but this girl, who had nothing better to do at three in the afternoon but play with her little white poodle looked genuinely happy.

And this made Magnolia wonder if she would ever get there.

Her penthouse suite had lose its allure, the sexy baller types with wads of cash they gave her had also lost its thrill.

Nothing seemed to excite her anymore.

Sleeping with the new It club owners was boring now – she could barely fake an orgasm. Her so-called friends were only interesting to her when they were high.

She wondered if there would ever be a normal life for her. She wondered if there would ever be a boyfriend in her life. Maybe even a relationship.

How did she even get here? She half-laughed to herself. A place in her head that she actually wanted a ‘normal’ life with a relationship??

Sadly, she knew exactly how she got here. She just didn’t think that her life would ever lead her to this conclusion, this need of normalcy.

So she stopped.

She slowed down, and she stopped.

Magnolia changed her phone number, not telling anybody her new one. This was so refreshingly weird that it almost frightened her. No missed calls, no searching for a vibrating cell phone in her bag – it just seemed so quiet.

Just peace and quiet.

Rumors started flying about her – she was on a bender. Or in Europe. Or in rehab.

They weren’t too far fetched though – hadn’t she been there already?

She was still going out and partying, but with no phone there was no way to invite her to after parties, no late night booty calls.

Sometimes her friends tried going to her place after the clubs, but she placed her buzzer on DND and her doorman never let them in. It made her look as if she was still partying, as if she had somehwere better to be.

In truth, she was getting to bed earlier so she could wake up earlier, for her 11 am yoga class, three times a week. She was naturally ultra-slim, but she was noticing her body was changing now, sleeker, more strong.

She bumped into a club promoter in the park as she was sipping her coffee through a straw again. The kissed air and he started shouting at her in his fake British accent.

“Hey Magnolia! I’ve been trying to get ahold of you! Where have you been, love? Holiday? You look fantastic!”

She shrugged but thankfully didn’t have to reply because he kept on talking.

“There’s a new club opening darling! It’s called Rehab! Isn’t that so tongue-in-chic? Everyone’s gonna be there – you have to come! I insist! VIP, bottle service, anything you want!”

She half-smiled, told him she would try to make an appearance, which seemed to satisfy him because he jumped on his phone and left.

She felt her world slowly shut down around her. Calls were non-existent, her only contact with the world were the coffee shop employees and her yoga class.

Magnolia sat in Yorkville Park again, this time at 9 am, fresh out of her early yoga class, watching the birds fighting over a piece of bread, and she wondered to herself, “Is this what it feels like to be alone?”

She saw a shadow form from someone standing behind her, hesistantly she turned around and recognized the man’s handsome face.

Paul, an old party friend, a banker type who had married a model. He looked good as ever in his Armani suit and Prada shoes, his dark hair falling over his dark eyes, and she suddenly realised what she looked like. Her own long blonde hair was pulled back in a ponytail, no makeup, with her purple yoga pants on. And Paul sat down at the chair next to her.

“What you been up to?” He started. “You look terrific! Pilates?”

“No, yoga,” She said with a smile.

“Oh. Sheniss was a pilates freak.” That was her name, the model wife, Sheniss. Magnolia once pulled out her hair in a bathroom fight.

“So how are you and Sheniss? I heard your honeymoon was in Fiji? Sorry I missed the wedding, I think I was in London on a shoot.”

“Oh no worries. We honeymooned in Mexico. And now we’re in the process of a divorce.”

“Oh my god – I’m so sorry.” Magnolia was surprised that she actually did feel sorry for him.

“No, no. It’s honestly for the best. We, we weren’t very… compatible I think.” He shook his head for a couple of seconds. “Anyway, she moved out, I get my condo back, it’s almost like it never happened. You know, I’m having a dinner party at my place next Saturday, you should come. We could catch up.”

“Definitely, that sounds like fun.” She smiled, she knew she wouldn’t go, but it was nice of him to offer.

She returned to her penthouse, which now seemed extra large and empty now that everything was packed up and moved out. All that was left in the echoing rooms was a couple of rugs, huge, shaggy, luxurious things that she was leaving behind.

She decided there was no way she could really make a change in her life if she felt like she was stuck, stuck in the same place physically.

Her place sold within an hour after it was on the market, at 40% over asking. She immediately put down a deposit on a huge authentic loft conversion on Queen St West – away from the posh little neighborhood she was living in – away from the clubs and people she knew. Her new place was a penthouse, but it felt more true to her now.

Polish concrete floors, exposed beams, original brick walls. It felt right to her.

There was no doorman, but the building had a gorgeous rooftop patio, with gardens, benches and little bonsai trees. It felt like so calm above the busy city. It felt like home.

The Saturday of Paul’s dinner party was her first night in her new home.

The week leading up to the move-in was her and her decorator picking out paint, furniture, appliances, and new rugs – even better than her original ones.

And she even got a job. She had called her modelling agency and informed them she was leaving the business. She got a job at a luxury boutique, the first time in her life working an 8 hour shift was so exhausting for her, but at the same time, exciting.

It was exciting for her to feel normal. She started reading more than just magazines. She was in advanced yoga. And she was doing everything on her own.

She felt empowered. She felt like herself again for the first time in a really long time.

She realised she never actually knew who she was, until she stripped it all away and was alone, all by herself.

But she wasn’t alone anymore.

She was in a relationship now.

With a little brown yorkie named Max.

Magnolia and Max lived happily ever after. For now.

Just Calling to Confirm

August 1, 2008

My friend Josie Rindee is a very busy woman. Her blackberry calendar is completely full from morning until night. An average day for her may look like this:

5 am – Personal Trainer
7:30 am – Work
11:00 am – Work Brunch w/New Client
12:30 pm – Work Lunch w/Existing Client
3:00 pm – Mani/Pedi
6:00 pm – Meet Steve for drinks
7:30 pm – Bikram Yoga
9:30 pm – Dinner w/Girls
11:00 pm – Calvin

This girl does schedules more in one day than I can in one week – and she almost always keeps to her schedule. No joke – there have been times where I’ve been cut off midsentence by Josie telling me that she has to run because so-and-so has scheduled her time starting in 10 minutes. Josie is single, but somehow still finds the time to date more than one man, two in one night sometimes.

She is a machine.

We were having lunch the other day (from 11:30 am – 1:00 pm at Sassafraz), and I grabbed her Blackberry to schedule myself and our friends in for a Saturday night with the girls. Her night looked free until midnight, where instead of a description, a reminder, the only info was “Calvin”. I scanned my mind quickly thinking of a guy she was dating named Calvin, but nothing came to me.

She told me it was a guy she saw a few times week. She canceled that night with him promptly, leaving him a bland message about cancelling, leaving it open for me and the girls.

When our girl night rolled around, we all went to dinner where nobody ate anything, went to a martini lounge, and ended up back at Maria’s penthouse for drinks. Us girls were tanked. There was no way about it. We were all dancing to no music, lounging on couches but really just slightly slipping off of them, and one girl was even lying down on the fur rug talking about life and love and the new shoes she bought.

Josie was checking her phone.

“Joooossss! Who are you texting?” Maria shouted catching the same thing I was.

“No one, no one.”

We let it go, but then we both saw it again. Josie was texting on girls night. Drunk. Drunk texting is the worst. The words never type out right. You can’t read the message coming in. And it just ends up bad. Bad.

Maria ran over and grabbed Josie’s Blackberry out of her hand, scrambling to figure it out and then threw it over to me. Josie half-attempted to get it back, but all the champage she drank earlier was making her move in slow motion, and then just collapsing back in the armchair she cradled herself in.

“Calvin!”

I looked at her across the room and a smile rose on her face.

I read outloud: “Calvin, I’m just calling to confirm our 3:30 am”

Maria started howling, “You’re calling??? You’re texting dumby.”

Blake questioned why she was meeting a guy at 3:30, and Josie just shook her head, still smiling dope-ily.

“You mean, you’re meeting him tonight? After you leave here?”

A short silence filled the apartment. And suddenly a screech from the kitchen:

“BOOTY CALL!”

“You confimed a booty call?” I asked her, trying not to laugh too hard.

Josie finally mustered up enough sobrerity to say her little speech, “Listen ladies. I have so many demands in my life. I have a job. I have to workout. I have a dog. I have my friends. I have my dates. I work.” Josie was counting out her points on her fingers.

“And you know what? Sometimes, I just need to get fucked. Okay? And if we, as women, don’t do this for ourselves – well who the hell can we count on to do it for us? So I schedule sex. So what? At least I know when I’m getting laid.”

Maria was still laughing, “But you confirmed?”

“Emily Post requires you to confirm your appointments at least 3 hours ahead to ensure that all parties are on time.”

We all burst out laughing at Josie’s advice, while she held her head up high, threw on her Louboutin’s, and bid us all good night.

The Suburban Socialite

June 21, 2008

Socialites are a glamorous being found mainly in metropolitan areas, such as New York, Los Angeles, London, Milan and Paris, Toronto being a smaller city has its’ handful of up-and-comers, party girls with too much of daddy’s money and are deemed socialites as well.

My one favourite friend, Taylor, is a Toronto socialite. Her father owns a marketing/media company as well as a number of posh resto-lounges throughout the city, all of which makes Taylor a rich girl. She doesn’t work, sleeps in until 11 everyday, and makes shopping and partying her only two bullets on her list of things to do.

I used to envy Taylor, her blonde hair perfectly coiffed, her tiny body sculpted to perfection by a combination of pilates, personal trainer, and a doctor who shall remain nameless, her amazing shoes that she only wears once or twice before she deems them ‘out’ and keeps them in her enormous closet that’s larger than my apartment. And people always tell me not to be jealous, but really, not only is she rich, looks like a model, but she’s also such a sweet person – seriously. She gives money and food to the homeless on the streets, she always says please and thank you, and she always seems sincere.

Eventually Taylor found a boyfriend that stuck to her for more than 2 months, this boyfriend also proposed to her with a beautiful, huge ring from Tiffany’s, and pretty soon we were all going to Taylor’s wedding. Her wedding was not only featured in one, but two bridal magazines, an amazing fete that brought together bigwigs, celebrities, socialites, and people like me, friends of the bride and groom. Everything was white, the flowers, the fabric hanging from everything, the cake, everything was lit with candles, there were water features, a champagne fountain, sushi desert – and everything was done tastefully and chic.

The honeymooned first in Fiji, then in the South of France, for a whole month. Then the newlyweds disappeared into their huge Tudor-style mansion in the suburbs for weeks – literally. I spoke to Taylor probably 3 months after her wedding for the first time, and she was in marital bliss, as all perfect people seem to be. I almost wanted to puke at that point. And then it happened. A little trickle of unhappiness.

And as always, a trickle leads into a river, a river into a waterfall.

Taylor said she missed the city, the nightlife, and the parties. She said she missed shopping everyday, and she said she was getting a little lonely. She even took up cross-stitching, but as soon as she was done her first one, she threw everything into the fireplace so she would never be succumbed to that kind of boredom again. It was HIS mom that bought her the cross-stitch set in the first place.

She even asked me what my latest shopping spree got me – Marc Jacobs bag and Lamb shoes – which she never ever does because she’s always five steps ahead of me shopping wise, at least, before she was. Now, locked up in her suburban mansion she’s the wife that used to have a life as a single. She confessed she sometimes goes for drives aimlessly in her Porsche convertible, not knowing where she’s going, and not really trying to get away, but just looking for something, anything, interesting in this little suburban town.

Last I heard, she had remodelled her mansion and was looking for a magazine to feature it. Poor little Taylor, the richest little sad suburban socialite I’ve ever seen.

Interesting

June 11, 2008

After the heat, the rain came pouring down for days. At times it would come down intense, with thunder and lightening, at times just soft and sprinkling. It seemed to cool me down for a bit, but the humidity would come back stronger than before.

It relates to my relationship in many ways – sometimes we seem to not get enough of each other, sometimes we don’t want to be in the same room as each other, and sometimes it’s just so-so, just getting by, day to day, which is boring, but sometimes, that’s life.

I wish my relationship was exciting and intimate and sexy all the time – I wish it was a rush of me and him, him and I, 24/7. That feeling you get when you first meet somebody, that feeling of butterflies and flirting, and feeling hot for him all the time. The way a girl shows off a bit when she first meets a guy, laughing a little louder, thrusting her breasts out a little further – sometimes I want that all the time.

And it’s so cliche isn’t it? Enter a kid, a dog, a house, a life together, and the passion retreats just a bit, sometimes a large bit, but in my case it’s a small-medium bit. My boyfriend works an awful lot as well, for instance, today he left the house around 7 am, and he’s hopefully going to be back by 9 pm. He’s always tired.

But sometimes I’m left to wonder, are these all just excuses?

Successful couples learn to deal with each others issues, problems, and learn to live together somewhat synchronized albeit in a repetitive semi-bored state, right? It’s like a machine that’s well-oiled. And everyone else is what? Unsuccessful? Meaning that their relationship will eventually dissipate? Do “successful” couples even exist?

Kids, dogs, work, and other issues in relationships should NOT be excuses as to why a relationship is slowing down or losing its passion. They shouldn’t be – but we let it happen to ourselves all the time. Are we self-sabotaging ourselves? Why do we let this happen?

I have to say though, there are times where I don’t feel entirely connected to him, I feel like we are more a mom & dad both working at keeping the world turning consistently and boring, working hard and living life. But there are times….

When he comes home from work at 9 pm to find me all dolled up and ready to go out, and, instead of hanging his head and whining about a hard days work, he gets dressed and cleaned up, and takes me out for a light night snack. A couple of glasses of wine.

And then we make love so passionately, so intensely, that I forget any feeling of disconnect I could have had.

Maybe that’s what makes a relationship work. Those special nights of passion intertwined with the blandness of life. Just to keep things interesting.

The Fine Line

June 7, 2008

I joined my friend Blair for a late brunch today, and I noticed she was definitely wearing her walk of shame outfit to brunch – her hair was slicked back, she was wearing a purple cocktail dress with a light pashmina thrown over the top, those gorgeous new Dior shoes, and her makeup didn’t exactly look fresh. She looked hot, but as any good friend would know, she was doing the walk of shame at brunch, with me.

She started telling me about the guy, some rich Italian man with lots of money, those guys at the club who pull out a money clip full of hundreds, gold jewelry, everything Armani or Boss or D & G, and continue to get bottle after bottle of booze in a reserved booth. Blair was there for some MAC party, and was quickly invited into the Italian’s booth where she drank a vintage Dom Perignon Rose until they closed the club.

All night Italian was telling Blair how gorgeous she was, his job had something to do with fashion, and he kept telling her he would take her back to Italy and dress her in the very latest – evidently there was a Cavalli maxi dress with her name on it back home.

Blair went back to the Italian’s penthouse suite at the Pantages hotel downtown, and she definitely enjoyed herself there. That is, until she work up. She turned over in the luxurious sheets to give her Italian a squeeze, but all she was left with was a piece of paper. The note indicated that he had to catch his flight back to Italy, there was a phone number and a date next week when he was coming back.

She was more than a little stunned – not by the one-night stand – but by the one-night stand who took off before she woke up. A knock on the door twenty minutes later signified that her breakfast had arrived, which the Italian had ordered before he left. And on the tray, next to a bowl of strawberries was an envelope addressed to ‘The Most Beautiful Woman’.

The envelope contained four thousand dollars.

Blair was dumbfounded. A man who couldn’t even remember her name (she didn’t remember his either) had left her enough cash to pay for almost three months rent. There was another note, a simple ‘Buy yourself something nice’.

This one night in Blair’s life reminded me of a SATC episode where Carrie hangs out with the fabulous European friend who hooks her up with another European hottie who also leaves her some cash the next morning. I don’t exactly remember what she did with the cash (I *think* she took it but I’m not sure), but I remember her freaking out over the aspect that this European hottie thought she was a prostitute.

And that also got me thinking.

Where do you draw the line between one-night stand and blatant prostitution?

Women always have the opportunity to get free drinks, free meals, and sometimes free clothing courtesy of a man they meet. Sometimes they know the man for a while, sometimes a day or two, but as women we usually feel that we’re worth it and, why shouldn’t a man spend some of his money on us?

We will resist at first – Oh no, that’s too much, I can get it myself – but men will try and try again and we will give in most of the time. I am all for that. I am no golddigger, I am also not a woman who has ever had a man buy her an extravagant bag for no reason or left her four thousand dollars by the bedside as a thank you for having sex with them. My bf has purchased me a couple of extravagant gifts in the five years we’ve been dating – a Michael Kors winter coat with fur trim, a Bebe fur coat, and, most recently, a John Galliano cocktail dress. But they were always for Christmas, or birthdays, or some sort of occassion – and we are dating, so obviously gifts are something to be expected of.

But when you’re not even dating the guy, and he bestows you with a large sum of cash, wouldn’t you be a little worried? I mean, the practical mom voice in me comes out and thinks – is he some kind of bad business guy who’s laundering money or something? Which really makes no sense and really doesn’t matter as she will probably never see him again.

Does he see her as a prostitute?

What man in his right mind does something like this?

Is it a power game? But who really has the power? The one giving or the one taking?

My thoughts were interrupted by Blair’s cell phone blasting the Kanye/Coldplay song.

Her conversation was short and sweet, something about new shoes, and she ended it with a perky ‘Ciao!’.

“That was Andre.” She told me. She looked guiltily up at me, and then she said something so quietly I almost didn’t hear her in the clatter of the bistro around us.

“I took the money.”

Blair went on to tell me how she sat there for almost an hour staring at the money. She thought of all the pros and cons. Pros being: new shoes, rent paid, new clothes, and maybe another rendevous with the Italian (whose name she learned after calling his cell and hearing his message when it went to voicemail). Cons being: prostitution, does he think she’s poor?, and what would happen to the money if she didn’t take it?.

She was throroughly confused. But then she thought, at the end of the day, what does it matter?

She had a one-night stand, and it wasn’t her first one, this is a man she will most likely not see again, but if there’s an opportunity she would like to, and who cares what he thought of her? She made herself believe that she almost found this money, and when an opportunity of four thousand dollars falls in your lap (or next to your strawberries), who wouldn’t take it?

Before she met up with me she stopped by Holt’s and bought herself the Dior Extreme Gladiators in the Pewter shade, and she wore them out of the store, to brunch, and told Andre about them on the phone.

We spent the rest of the afternoon shopping – and to my surprise, Blair bought me a pair of Manolo Blahniks I’ve been eyeing, the zebra-print D’Orsay pumps, which were not only on sale, but there was one left and in my size!

There may be a razor-thin line between one-night stands and prostitution, but it’s one that is a little blurry, one that is all about what you believe in yourself to be. And if you are an independent woman, who has sex with hot Italians who enjoy showering women with gifts, why not accept them?

And when someone offers to buy you a pair of beautiful shoes, who am I to say no to that?

I just thanked her and spent the rest of the day admiring my beautiful feet.

Settling Down

June 4, 2008

It’s a windy day today, blowing around leaves and garden clippings, random pieces of garbage, and I watched them all swirl together in the middle of the street for the longest time. And then it just settled. I noticed the wind picked up almost a block down the street and more leaves and garbage swirled around. And then it settled again. And the wind was on its way to find something else.

It made me think of settling down in life, settling for what you can get or holding out for what you really want. Does the wind of life pick you up, swirl you around, then drops you and moves on to the next?

I know where I want to go. I know where I want to be. It’s the ‘how I’m going to get there’ that I haven’t quite figured out yet – and probably never will. I find planning and strategizing on how to get your dreams never pans out in the end anyway, things change, plans will change, but as long as the goal is a constant star on your horizon, I believe you will get there. Eventually. It’s bound to happen, right?

A lot of my friends are settling down around me. Getting married, having babies, buying houses – this is the progression of life, it’s what happens when you grow up. But why does it seem that does who have settled down get consumed by this life?  Everytime you talk to them it’s about weddings, babies, houses. There’s whole conversations I can’t have with these people because they will stare at me blankly until I am done, then go on to tell me something cute their dog has done.

My other group of friends are like the swirling wind, never stopping or slowing down, going from one party to the next, from one guy to another, and never ever touching the ground. They live this exciting life and they know everything that’s hot, what’s not, and what’s new before anyone else does. When I’m with these people I get wrapped up in their world, I forget about everything else in my life for a mere second and I start thinking and acting like them – but the second passes and my kid starts tugging on my shirt so I can colour with her.

I’m in between the settled and not settled.

I have found a boyfriend, I have a baby girl, I even have a dog (who’s more of an accessory than anything else), we’re moving into a cute loft downtown – and looking at this little list of things I’ve done, it certainly seems like I’ve settled down.

But I really haven’t.

My heart is still moving, we love to travel, we want to move everywhere and do everything – yet I live in the fear that one day I’m going to end up like all the rest of the ‘settled downs’, getting overly excited about dog and baby poop, and proclaiming my love for a new window cleaner at a cocktail party. Yes, this is the world of the settled’s. If you’ve never entered it, run while you still can.

When does your life and your interests cease to exist because you’ve created a new life with a family? Why does it happen to 8 out of 10 people it seems like? It’s almost a trap and because of this trap I understand why there’s so many commitment phobic beings running around this world. There is seemingly no happy medium that’s broadcast to these people.

It’s either:

a) Get married, have children, buy a house, have a pet, make dinner every night, go to work everyday, yardwork on sunday’s, bbq’s on saturdays, children’s birthday parties, et al.

b) Stay single, party every night, work if you have to, go shopping, go out to eat or don’t eat at all just drink!, travel, no responsibilities except making sure no one steals your shoes/purse, et al.

What about c?

c) Find the one you love, perhaps have his baby, maybe get a pet if you want one, find a home together, continue to date each other when you can, go to new restaurants, go to cocktail parties, go to fun events with the baby, continue to travel, continue to work, and just remain blissfully happy.

I choose C.