A Screen Memory

My Canadian friend living in Paris usually dates people whom she meets through reputable connections, preferably at black tie functions. I was astonished to discover that she recently pulled a creeper move straight from my toolbox of 'meeting men' tricks.

She exchanged stolen glances with an attractive gentleman seated in the next box at the Comédie Française. When the curtain rose, she left her phone number dangling on a grocery receipt at the edge of her seat. He succeeded in noticing the strategically placed errant paper, and they exchanged text messages, and they met, and they dated. And they had long romantic lunches in cozy Parisian bistros -- and even longer strolls through idyllic Parisian parks.

But two months into the relationship he left his cell phone on the café table while he went to the toilettes, and it began to ring. She glanced at the caller ID to read the name "Poupée" (translation: "doll"; a.k.a. "baby doll"; aka "my baby doll"; a.k.a. "my other lover"; a.k.a. "my other girlfriend"; a.k.a. the owner of this iPhone is a Wanker of the Week).

Maybe true love is not found in random theatre boxes. But as Edith Wharton would tell you, the other woman definitely completes the scene.

Pimp of the Week: Graydon Carter

Over the sea of Botoxed brows and candy-coiffed diners at a posh restaurant, I spotted the billowing plumage of none other than Graydon Carter. The Vanity Fair editor-in-chief exudes laid-back New England suavity, even though he is a political, literary, and cultural king of Manhattan. He also dabbles in restaurateurism and co-owns New York's cozy-clubby celebrity dining spot, the Waverly Inn, along with Midtown's old school Monkey Bar.

As Carter was exiting the restaurant, I dashed up to him like the desperate young pseudo-writer that I am and handed him my email address on a scrap of paper. All I could muster up to say was, "I'm a huge fan -- I'm a starving writer," but then I corrected myself, "Well, clearly I'm not quite starving, but you know..." I told him about the unpublished novel I wrote and let him go on his way. You never know when a humiliating experience will spin into gold. Perhaps Graydon Carter will be my Rumpelstiltskin.

Erotic Novels ... For Children

While wandering through Soho searching for the perfect 1970s bling to add to my collection, I noticed a smattering suspicious men taking photographs of my sister and me. Then the salesgirl at the jewelry stand finally commented: "Lindsay Lohan is always so much shorter in person." Lindsay Lohan, the child-star-turned-lesbian-rehab-frequenter-extraordinaire was hovering a mere two feet away from me and I didn't even notice her.

So I did what any former teeny-bopper would do: I broke into a sprint and followed her three blocks down the street and into a vintage shop. Lindsay Loho was so fierce in person—menacing black leather sandals that snaked up her legs, black cape, no pants or shorts to speak of, freakishly long bleach-blonde hair—that my usual celebrity solicitation skills melted away. I remained a pathetic voyeur for the duration of the shopping trip. Lindsay kept commenting on the retro-chic dresses in the store with a typically '90s exclamation of Long Island fondness: "That's sick ... that's sick."

"In Drum Dosing Ball"

We encountered two charming middle-aged men dining at the table across from us in a romantic jewel of a restaurant in Bariloche. At first we had the impression that they were quite attractive and intriguing fellows. Then, we noticed their wedding rings, and we realized that they were married, and probably on a boy's night out. Then, they became increasingly touchy-feely with each other, and we noticed that they were wearing pinky rings, and we decided that they were probably gay. Then, on our way out of the restaurant, they were checking us out brazenly, and we realized that we had been hoodwinked.

The following morning we went down to breakfast in the hotel restaurant and noticed the same two men. They greeted us happily, and we went on with our mornings.

Hours later, we passed the same attractive middle-aged male couple on the street, and we started to feel a fated uncanniness to our repeated meetings. They pulled us aside and asked us if we were leaving for Buenos Aires that afternoon. One of them gave us his business card.

In the airplane en route to the big city, we realized that they were on our same flight, seated just two rows in front of us. Fate may have its way with us after all. We are still mystified by their gay-and-away-on-holiday tendencies. Maybe it is just a Spanish thing. But their pseudo-stalking is suspect.

[The above title is a quote from the poorly translated manual to the washing machine in our Buenos Aires apartment. It's oddly poetic.]

Big Men in My Life

I recently met up with a very important man for drinks. I suppose I stalked him. It turns out I have relative success with pseudo-stalking male celebrities and masquerading as a girl less desperate and deranged than I truly am. In the past year I have finagled my way into a personal email correspondence with Woody Allen and a personal Escalade ride through downtown Manhattan with Leonardo DiCaprio. Two days ago it was the love of my life, the ultimate man, the real deal (other than, sigh, Jack Nicholson, for whom I will forever have a special place in my heart). In psychological ways, this week's man is bigger, much bigger, so big in fact that he is referred to as such on a certain sex-and-shoe-related show.

We met over drinks at the Plaza Athénée Bar, one of the Upper East Side's rare (though decidedly square and semi-elderly) gems. The day itself had been surreal in terms of celebrity run-ins: I had stood a mere three feet away from Bill Clinton on my way home from an early-evening stroll through Central Park. He was friendly, with a head of bountiful white hair and a winning smile. Later, I walked right by Debra Messing and Katie Couric on their way to an event.

The stars were aligned, as I entered the dark-hued imperialist Morocco ambiance of the hotel bar to meet the man whose screen image lulled me to sleep almost every night of prep school (and, sad to say, most of college). Before he arrived, I encountered yet another middle-aged heart-throb who was sitting in the lounge: Pierce Brosnan. It was utterly uncanny.

So there I was, perched at the bar with two flesh-and-blood James Bonds, and only after leaving a single pseudo-prank cell phone message. So I guess it goes to say: a little stalking can go a long way on a Manhattan Monday of male mania.