little fluffy dogs: a field guide to flexers, charmers, and ostensibly sensitive types part 2

I'm interrupting the flow of things today, by request, to continue my "Little Fluffy Dogs" series. The first post of the series, which addressed 25-year-old millionaires in Las Vegas, appeared on May 10. The girl (me) with a one way ticket and a house by the beach will resume as scheduled on Monday. Promise.

Charmers

Given the geography of Manhattan, would be charmers face two inherent challenges.

First, there are the streets.

The barely comprehensible alternative side street parking rules require New Yorkers to move their parked cars every other day from one side of the street to the other between the hours of 11 am and 1 pm, 1 pm and 3 pm, or 2 pm and 4 pm. The after school club "M.I.T, HERE WE COME," based in Des Moines, Iowa, has recently revealed that the Manhattan parking rules can be determined by the following mathematical equation: (xy+7)-23%+4(z)(Y)/pi.

Since double parking is illegal, common sense tells us that it is impossible for all of the cars on one side of the streets in Manhattan to move to the other side of the streets in Manhattan. The only viable alternative is the common one, and this is to not have a car in Manhattan. So (and here's where this is all going to come together for you), most would be charmers in Manhattan do not have a car,* which puts them at the distinct disadvantage of not having a car at their disposal to make some sort of charming statement regarding their economic status or prowess, sexual or otherwise.

What’s a would be charmer in Manhattan to do, then?

Enter the $23,000-$68,000 wristwatch. Admittedly, such a watch is somewhat effective while vying for the attention of the single Manhattan woman, who is (by virtue of her geographic location) well-versed in the intricacies and price points of Swiss-made time keeping pieces. In fact, a moderate percentage of Manhattan women at Ciprianis or One Oak will in fact be impressed--or at least intrigued enough to accept a drink--by the quick flash of a Patek Philippe from under the cuff of a well-made suit.

However, herein lies the second geographical challenge presented to would be charmers in New York (and I came up with this one all on my own, thank you very much "M.I.T, HERE WE COME"): at any given moment, the number of single women inside Ciprianis or One Oak is much less than the number of single women outside Ciprianis or One Oak and furthermore, interaction with single women outside Ciprianis or One Oak is dismally limited to short jaunts to and from the train** or to a brief, and highly unlikely encounter in the lobby of a shared apartment building.

In other words, Manhattan charmers have to be FAST in their display of resources and mating potential. From across the street, a Rolex tucked under a shirt sleeve or winter coat might as well be a Swatch, as it is all but invisible to the discerning eye of a New York woman.

A dog, however, is not.

And, in an unscientific poll of my male friends, little fluffy dogs seem to be the least invisible of all.

The sight of a man walking or perhaps cuddling in his arms a little, fluffy dog speaks to several things--all favorable-- regarding his potential date-ability in the mind of an unsuspecting woman (which you, by virtue of simply reading this thank goodness, no longer are).

From across Sixth Ave, the unsuspecting woman sees the would be charmer with a little fluffy dog and the poor thing thinks to herself

1. Now, this man must be responsible and capable of sustaining life in an organism more complicated than a potted bamboo stick.

2. And surely he must not prescribe to antiquated ideas of "masculinity," such as beer pong, twice weekly reunions with his old fraternity brothers at the Princeton Club, or any other vulgar behavior involving chest beating or declaring "me hungry."

3. And! And! He must be at least minimally employed, as dog food at those little corner delis IS NOT CHEAP (By the way, there is a marked difference between the ulterior motives of a dog walker and a man who walks a dog. The former doesn't have them, the latter does).

Take home lesson: the telltale sign of a man out to charm in New York is not a Ferrari; it's a puggle.***

*if a man does have a car in Manhattan, be careful: unless you can verify that he rents a $2500 per month spot in a parking garage, he is NOT at work between the hours of either 11 am and 1 pm or 1 pm or 3 pm or perhaps 2 pm and 4 pm every other day of the week, which should set off its own stadium wave of red flags in the clever woman's mind.

**Any kind of interaction with single women on the train is considered poor form (you say one word too many, pal, or stare one second too long and sorry, freak, you're a serial killer).

***Manhattan men, though many things, are not uninformed. They read the Science section of The New York Times on Tuesdays too, and science says that women decide within 11 seconds of seeing a man whether or not she is interested in mating with him.

PS and by the way--I've got two more words regarding would be charmers for any woman who has lived, presently lives or will live in Manhattan: Bud Fox.

On the surface Wall Street is a cautionary tale about greed not being good, and it is lost on none but the most dim of us that the real charmer on Wall Street to avoid is the wolfish Gordon Gekko, but I would like to posit that just below the surface is the more relevant lesson.

If you one) are female and two) reside in the city, there is at least a 95% chance that you have dated, are dating, or will date one version or another of Bud Fox—the less obvious predator of the two.

The reason? Well, while little girls across the country were watching Jem in the late 80s and dreaming of growing up to be a Hologram, little boys were watching Wall Street and dreaming of growing up to be Buddy Fox. If the last time you watched the movie was when you were 13 and bored, rent it again and lo and behold the dots of a constellation of strange coincidences you've noted, are noting, or will note, will be connected for you. Suddenly, the slicked back hair, the strange preoccupation with Persian rugs, the careful placement of The Art of War on the bedside table, the I-swear-baby-she's-just- my -interior -decorator line and even the Haagen Daaz in the fridge will all make sense.

And, ladies, while it's true that Buddy Fox ultimately reconstitutes his moral fiber by story's end, he’s STILL BROKE and HE'S STILL GOING TO JAIL. There are no happy endings here. I'm just saying.