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.

a girl, a house on the beach, and a one-way ticket...day eight (nine?)

Against all odds--cottonmouth snakes, crocodiles, alligators, panthers, black bears, thunderstorms, mosquitoes, menacing dragonflies, yellow-bellied turtles, bogs, swamps, slightly off kilter pontoon operators, poisonous coffee beans*, and daunting ferns, I made it to, through, and back from the Everglades.**

Oh, yeah, and I did it in heels.

So take that, Carrie Bradshaw. It is one thing to trek in heels from Bergdorf's to Scoop in NYC without tripping*** on one of those ill-conceived (obviously by a man) sidewalk grids; it is quite another to trek from salt marsh to salt marsh through a black water terrain that is an eerie, oxymoronic brew reminiscent of scary junior high sleepover movies, such as Jurassic Park (post security meltdown) and Predator.

Now since I am writing this, it is apparent that I was in fact not swallowed by a crocodile (see, dad, I told you). The crocs, it turns out, are rather shy. The snakes, on the other hand, are rather not.

Regardless of my disappointment in not seeing nary an alligator, I was rewarded with the peculiar beauty of the cypress trees and the water orchids, as well as all sorts of other unidentifiable botanical curiosities. And, I learned that a mangrove is not at all what it sounds like--that is, it is neither a man nor a grove nor a grove full of men.

*a sick joke, isn't it?

**If you possess the same etymological curiosity as I, you are probably already wondering from where exactly the word "everglade" came. Its definition is agreed upon--a large, subtropical, marshy swamp south of Lake Okeechobee in southwestern Florida--but as far as the origin of the word is concerned, no one freaking seems to know--not even Dr. E. Wallace McMullen from Hartley, Iowa whose 1953 PhD dissertation on the matter I read almost in its oh-no-this-isn't-a-waste-of-a-perfectly-good day entirety in search of the answer.

***tripping on one of these things is the best case scenario. Legend has it that more than one well-heeled woman on her way to dinner has unknowingly lalalallala laaaaaaaaaaaa fallen through a sidewalk grid to the subway tracks below-- much to the consternation of her blind date, who, several months later, is still bitter about being stood up.

a girl, a house on the beach, and a one-way ticket...day five (or six?)

As of late, I had been thinking about what I want to do with my myself (if not forever, then at least for the summer). I had taken a half-hearted step toward figuring this out by browsing the classifieds, and up until Saturday, my best prospect in a town that subsists on the volunteerism of retired executives and their wives was scooping forty rotating flavors of gelati at The Ritz Carlton. But then I decided to attend an exhibit of Princess Diana's dresses at the Old Naples art museum and suddenly...I knew! I knew what I want to do with myself this summer!

I want to be a princess!

Duh.

Why hadn't I considered this before?

This would be the Best. Summer. Job. Ever.

Ahem...Dear Prince William:

Yesterday I attended a lovely exhibition of your lovely mother's lovely dresses, and I found nestled among her childhood spoons and tiaras a short list of the requirements for being the Princess of Wales. I read it, committed it to memory, and after sleeping on it, am certain that I am perfectly capable of carrying out the role. Now, I understand that you are in love with whatsherface and probably just about ready to propose, but hear me out on this before you do anything rash.

I hereby declare
1. To produce an heir, as well as a "spare," so the monarchy will continue. Um, admittedly the most difficult of all five requirements to fulfill as may be biologically impossible due to typical brevity of summer employment, but plenty of summer jobs, my dear William, have turned into long-term gigs.

2. To serve as a Goodwill Ambassador for Great Britain by participating in Royal Tours, hosting foreign dignitaries, and officially representing her husband or The Queen when so asked. Now it is true that I have hosted exactly one party in my life and have baked exactly one dessert for said occasion--but ask anyone in attendance, my flourless chocolate cake was divine.

3. To do everything possible to present Great Britain and its people in a positive manner. Working on my wave at this very moment. And! And! I believe anything ultimately lacking in my waving skills can be more than made up for by my abilities to twirl a baton, turn my feet inward almost 180 degrees, and proofread all of your royal correspondence.

4. To head numerous British charities and assist with their fundraising efforts. I am well-versed in the art of fundraising. Namely my own--ask any one of my 37 employers.

5. To encourage worldwide purchase of British goods. So obviously capable of this one...look what I've done for Starbucks.

And my dear William, should you be concerned about my American habit of drinking coffee, rest assured, most addictions I have found are transferable, and I'm sure that within a week or two, I'll be more than happy to sit down for proper tea.

Sincerely,

Your Lady in Waiting

*I realize I'm a bit late to the parade regarding the well-deserved worldwide reverence for Princess Diana. The day of her funeral I was an undergrad preoccupied with studying for an Eastern Arts and Religion test and in retrospect, my priorities were decidedly off. At the exhibit I learned that Princess Diana's amazing wardrobe was probably the least amazing thing about her. Of course, one must applaud her very public humanitarian efforts, but I found the details of her private self equally captivating. She was it seems, at the beginning of all things, a hopeless romantic--"I thought I was the luckiest girl in the world when I looked at Charles through my veil. I had tremendous hope in my heart." And, at the end of things, she was a consummate realist- "I kissed a prince. He turned into a frog." Interestingly, after her divorce, Princess Diana did what any tall, heartbroken woman ought to do: she threw away all of her flats and bought Jimmy Choos heels, as she it was no longer necessary for her to be concerned with towering over her husband at dinner parties or in photo ops. Very good advice indeed.

Tomorrow: Day Six (Seven? Eight?)