Living the French Movie

A few weeks ago I received an e-mail via yet another internet dating site from a guy I'll call Luke. Luke's profile was basically blank and his picture had a lot to be desired --- but his e-mails were charming and well-written, and his sense of humor was endearing. Luke was on the tail end of a nasty divorce and entering the dating game after 10+ of being married. He was therefore clueless about dating games and without the unpleasant, jaded aftertaste that so many of us professional daters cannot shake. After a witty exchange of e-mails, I reluctantly agreed to meet Luke for a drink. 'Reluctantly', because I was not attracted to his picture and because I've dated the newly-single and heartbroken before -- and it's never fun to be the Rebound Chick. But I still met him.

As on many blind dates before, I was surprised when I met him in person. But for once, it was a pleasant surprise. He was better looking than the crappy picture he had posted for the background scenery. The conversation was easy and we found we had much in common. Yet, he had lived in many countries, spoke several languages and had life experiences that intrigued me. He admitted to being nervous, and acted it, asking at the end of the long date if it was appropriate to say he would like to see me again. It was, we did, and things progressed quickly.

It was obvious that he was emotionally and financially unsettled in light of his divorce. It also became apparent that he wasn't comfortable being seen in public until his child custody agreement was final, which I understood. Last, it was crystal clear that he would likely be moving for work within the next few months. It didn't take a genius to realize that this had no future.

In the past I would have run, not walked, to the nearest emergency exit. But something about Luke kept me engaged and I went with my gut (and my libido). Things got physical very quickly. As he promised with his intoxicating European accent, this would be a way to get to know each other better. And, I must admit, he was right.

We've been seeing each other twice a week for about 3 weeks and speak or text almost every day. The sex is incredible, he makes me laugh, and he cares about what I feel and say. We talk openly about everything, including the fact that this will likely end soon. We joke that we're living the French movie --- and perhaps because we both know that movies only last for about 2 hours and a bag of popcorn, we're able to enjoy this stolen time together without thinking about life outside the bubble.

Condomnation

I like to think of myself as a contemporary, mature woman of the 21st century who isn't afraid to walk into a drugstore and buy herself a box of condoms. Even during the daytime. Even if the drugstore is right across the street from my office. And so, the other day at lunch time, I did so.

And then I got to the check out. The checkout clerk was an 17-year old Hispanic male. Hey, I'm still okay with this, right? Yes, of course. I'm not going to bail. I'm just going to pretend that I'm the average condom buyer and that this is no big deal.

"Good Afternoon", he said, with a big smile on his face.
"Hi"
"Oh, wow! Look at this - you've got a coupon."
"Great, thanks."
"No, this isn't just any coupon, this is $5 off your next box of Trojan's"

I subtly glance over my shoulder. No, that is not the security guard from my building. And who cares if it is? I am woman, hear me roar!

"Seriously, I see a lot of coupons come through here, and they usually aren't for $5. This is a really, really good coupon. You've got to hold onto this."

"Fantastic, thank you."

Why are RiteAid bags see-through?

Is That a Canapé in Your Pocket?

I was invited to a holiday cocktail party at the private home of a colleague and friend who lives right on the water. From previous experience, I knew this would involved high-end catered food, beautiful decorations, and a room full of interesting adults. Considering that the last 10 parties I've attended have involved cupcakes, juice boxes and ankle-biters, you can imagine I was anxious to attend.

The party was from 5-7pm on a Sunday evening --- not ideal from a Mommy perspective because Lucy is still awake. But considering that we spend every minute of the entire weekend together and are about to embark on a family vacation together, I figured she could survive without me for 2 hours.

My babysitter showed up at 4:45pm to find me on the couch in sweatpants, fuzzy socks, and dead old slippers reading Story #107 to Lucy. I had exactly 15 minutes to transform from the Mom-before-the-makeover to Sexy-professional-woman-on-the-prowl. Not an easy task.

I pushed past the cobwebs in my closet to reach back into my cocktail attire section. I pulled out a skinny, long black lace skirt, the type of low-cut, sleeveless maroon holiday top that is completely irrational to wear on a 20 degree December evening, and a pair of sexy heels that I last donned while shamelessly grinding with the lead singer at a wedding to, "Apple bottom jeans, boots with the fur" before Lucy was born. Could I really pull this look off when just days ago my #1 job was picking whole pieces of baby vomit out of the lint tray in my washing machine? Questionable.

I threw on the ensemble, perfume, and a healthy dose of make-up, said a Hail Mary, and dashed out the door.

The party, as expected, was beyond elegant. Asian dumplings were served in individual porcelain spoons. Tiny Vietanamese-inspired meatballs were skewered with a single snap pea. Shaved tenderloin sat precariously atop tiny pieces of toast aside carmelized onions. I tried not to inhale my 42 appetizers, which tasted considerably better than the instant oatmeal I'd been eating for the past 3 days.

All of the guests were at least 15-20 years my senior, and some considerably more. The two male servers were closest to me in age --- one in his early thirties (Server #1) and one in his mid-forties (Server #2). I noted that they were both well-spoken and very well-mannered, and suspected that this was a side gig for them both. They were polite and pleasant, but also busy, and our conversation was limited to, "Yes, I certainly would like another roasted tomato and brie tart".

At 6:45pm I glanced at my watch and realized I needed to leave to make it home for bedtime stories. Server #1 and the host pointed me down a hall to a back bedroom to retrieve my jacket.

I was diligently digging through a pile of coats and wondering if anyone would notice if I traded up to a mink stole when I heard someone behind me.

It was Waiter #1.
"Let me help you find your jacket".
"Great, thank you", I said, surprised to see him while the party was still going strong in the main room.
"It was dark with a fur collar, correct? It was very attractive."
"Wow, great memory", I said, as he helped me on with my coat.
"By the way, my name is Jonathan", he said, as he extended his hand.
"Oh, I'm Liv"
"Perhaps we'll see each other again"
"Yes, perhaps we will".

I walked out into the cold wondering, "Did that server just hit on me, or am I just high from the 3 raspberry brie tarts I just mainlined in the back corner?".

Maybe you can transform mom jeans into a MILF in 15 minutes?

The Coat

Two weeks ago I had plans to go out on Saturday night with a girlfriend. The babysitter was lined up and I was ready to rumble. The friend cancelled at the last minute due to health problems.

Last minute, Saturday night, babysitter already lined up = what's a girl to do? I decided (and those of you who know me well know how unusual this is) to hit the mall. Yes, I was going to force myself to go shopping.

I was armed with an agenda: new work skirts, shirts and sweaters. Perhaps a weekend sexy MILF blouse. A good fall-to-winter transition wrap if I could find one. Maybe one pair of sexy, yet non-blistering, kitten heels.

I started off strong, going into every store and pulling things off the rack. My resolve started to fail by store #3 when I hadn't even found anything worthy of a try-on. By store #5, I was thinking that I can get 5 more years out of my already ratty 15-year old cashmere sweater.

An then, in the middle of Saks, I saw it. The perfect coat. Black, fur (fake, of course) collar, beautifully tailored and a cut that is good on me. Tahari. Marked down from $450 to under $200. It was perfect.

I quickly shook it off. I already have several coats. And a small coat closet. This trip was intended to buy work clothes and one MILF blouse --- no coat on the agenda. And with that I walked quickly out the door without even trying it on.

Good for me. I don't need a coat. How often do I go out to a cocktail party these days? Would it even look good with a bulky sweater? Hasta la vista, chaqueta.

I made it all of the way to the parking lot. And then I had the brilliant thought, "I'll just try it on. I'm sure it has a fatal flaw and that will make me feel better." And with that I booked it back to Saks.

The coat fit perfectly, but I was still holding strong with my small coat closet reasoning. And then the harried saleslady walked in and said, "Oh my gosh, that coat was made for you." And I could tell she meant it.

So I now I own a perfect coat. This doesn't happen many times in life, but sometimes you just see the perfect coat, the perfect cocktail dress, or meet the perfect friend and you just have to go for it. Even if it means you'll have a cramped coat closet.

Modern Love

A few weeks ago there was a Modern Love piece in the Sunday NYTimes entitled, "Sometimes, It's Not You". It was the honest account of a 39-year old woman who hadn't been in a relationship in 8 years. She desperately searched for 'the answer' to her 'problem': Perhaps she needed to grow her hair out. Grow up. Quit whining. Adopt a positive attitude. Stop being critical. Take more bubble baths.

The list is familiar to me. And the quest to 'figure it out' is one that has become so familiar over the past decade that my therapist now simply presses 'start' on her 1982 cassette player and regurgitates the conversation we've had 1000 times since Clinton was in the White House. I've always felt that my failure to find the 'right guy' and 'settle down' is a puzzle to be figured out. There must be an answer --- and if I can find that answer, then I can finally finish the Rubik's cube.

And then comes the twist. The writer eventually found the guy she then married. She claims that the puzzle wasn't solved because she worked through her issues, grew sexy hair or channeled Jennifer Aniston 24/7 --- she just finally found the right guy. Could it really be just that simple? And if so, I want a refund on my hair extensions.

2-Year Old Psychic?

Lucy and I were going to a relative's home for Rosh Hashanah, so I left work early and ran a few errands on the way home. Mid-errand I stumbled across a comforter I liked, bought it, ran home and threw it on my bed to see if it matched. I wasn't convinced, so I yelled for my Nanny to come take a peek.

The Nanny ran upstairs with Lucy in her arms and said she liked it, "What do you think, Lucy". Without skipping a beat, Lucy pointed to the side of the bed that is currently un-occupado (I've been single again for 2 months) and said, "Man!".

The Nanny laughed, Lucy kept pointing, and I felt a deep red flush roll up my body. It suddenly became a bit too hot in my bedroom for a down comforter.

"I have absolutely no idea why she would say that," I protested, perhaps a bit too vehemently, "I'm not even seeing anyone".

"Well, Lucy predicts you will be soon!"

I felt my imaginary Mother-of-the-Year halo melt down my head and neck to create a tramp-stamp on my lower back. And on a holy day! Chr*st.

And then there was the incident at library hour a few weeks ago. In a room full of mothers, babysitters and grandmothers, Lucy ran up to one of the only men in the room and yelled, "MAN!" while pointing at him and doing a little dance. The 'Man' was definitely her favorite person in the room, and she neatly ignored Miss Mary the Storyteller, all of the children, and the craft project in her quest to win the affection of 'The Man'(which she did). My Nanny noted, "She obviously sees something in that guy --- maybe you should start taking your cues from her."

Lucy 2, Nanny 2, Liv 0.

Bringing Sexy Back

I've been dating the guy from, "Old Dog, New Trick?" (let's call him Jack) now for several months. He lives about 2 hours away from me, we work opposite schedules and see each other only one weekend a month. So, you can imagine, I try to make the most of that one weekend.

Jack came to visit this past weekend. I planned a homemade dinner for Sunday night with all of his favorites: filet, a rich mushroom sauce, fresh zucchini and corn on the cob. What could be nicer for a single guy that a home-cooked meal? He played with Lucy while I did the food prep. Finally, the meal was ready and we all sat down together.

Lucy loves corn, which I cut off the cob for her. She was chewing her first mouthful of corn when she decided it might be fun to stick a kernel up her nose. "Lucy," I warned, "we do not put corn up our nose!". Being almost 2 years old, that was all it took for her to not only stick the corn up her nose, but to follow it with a firm finger shove. And by then, my friends, it was too late.

The kernel of corn was wedged firmly up Lucy's right nostril and she began to cry. I'm not sure if she was crying because her airway was obstructed, or because her mother was holding her chin tightly while peering upside down into her nostril and yelling, "BLOW!". Either way, we rapidly entered into crisis mode. Lucy began crying so hard she couldn't breathe. I realized that this corn kernel was not coming down on its own and was about to enter her sinus. That meant one thing: Emergency Room visit. I took a 5-second visit down memory lane to our previous 2 ER visits over the past year. Four hour waits, exhausted baby, scared baby, crying baby, hysterical baby. Fantasies of raiding nearby cabinets for a fist full of valium. It was then I realized I could NOT endure another ER visit. Enter super hero mode.

I pick Lucy up out of her high chair and carry her to the couch. She is screaming, crying and is now hyperventilating. I pin her on the couch and suck the corn out of her nose with the only suction device available --- yes folks, that would be my mouth. Thirty seconds later the corn is out of her nose and into my mouth (yes, its gross, but I was so relieved I didn't care), the crying has quieted down to a roar, and I'm carting Lucy off to bed.

My date, Jack, has seen it all. This kind of sexy deserves a dedicated screenplay. I just hope Halle Berry plays me in the movie and not Roseanne Barr.