Do friends have a moral obligation to throw out your bad cheese?Jenny and Vicky thought so.
This past weekend as part of my birthday celebration (No numbers mentioned) my two oldest and dearest friends came from Ohio.
Within hours of landing in New York, the two sisters were rummaging through my refrigerator in a mad hunt for “that bad smell.” Before I could object, Jenny had the cheese shoved in a bag and thrown down the garbage chute.
When I was 16 my best bud Vicky and I briefly ran a rather successful cleaning business.
Our favorite client was Mrs. Carson, a social x-ray with who lived in a beautiful, rambling 1800 farmhouse. Children grown and a workalcoholic husband, she filled the void by dotting on her two stoner teenage house cleaners, preparing us these elaborate lunches of tuna sandwiches, cheese doodles and grapes and granting us pool privileges.
Thank God that’s over. That being Valentine’s Day.
I approach February 14th with the same “Let’s just get this damn thing over” attitude as a dentist appointment. Meanwhile, every flower delivery boy sighting is a power surge reminder of the bizarre trail of disastrous dates I’ve blazed through Manhattan these past two years and my relationship-less state.
After two exceptionally brutal years on the New York dating circuit, I’m starting to think the polygamy might be the answer, after all.
Blame it Meri, Janelle, Christine and Robyn Brown, the stars of TLC’s show “Sister Wives.”
As an independent, professional woman living in lower Manhattan, I’ve become fascinated with these four Mormon women, who driven by religion conviction, have shunned traditional marriage. Their devotion to the polygamous Kody is mind-boggling and what kept me glued to the TV for two seasons, devouring their every birth, anniversary and shopping trip.
Yet, stranger than the sister wives’ cult-like adoration for Kody is that despite his lifestyle he’s nice and quite good looking – even someone I might date. On his advertising sales salary he’s no Mitt Romney, but he’s not Warren Jeffs either. He’s like the neighbor who lends you his snow blower or voluntarily rakes your leaves. But like any guy he has a rap. His is just perfected.
I am sure that Dr. Phil wouldn’t approve of this. But I tell my daughter that every day I receive letters from children all over the world begging me to be their mother. I don’t know why, but she doesn’t believe me.
How did anyone date pre-Google? It’s just a given that before I do my hair and make-up I’m Googling the dude. And, for the more shady characters, I’ll kick it up and do a Net Detective search.
Once, in what could be considered a Freudian moment, an investment banker I was seeing bolted so fast after sex that he left his wallet on the nightstand. It was bulging with a $1,000 in cash, but being a “good Catholic girl” I didn’t touch it. Instead, I sweetly handed it over when he came running back. Big mistake on my part given that by that point I had been downgraded in the girlfriend hierarchy and no longer considered Nobu-worthy and had a mountain of bills to pay. Still, seeing that bulging wallet sitting on the nightstand by its lonesome and knowing that I was fuckable but not datable, I felt like a dog staring into a butcher shop window.