Romancing the Apple

Sing Your Heart Out!

Before humans ever spoke or wrote, they sang and danced.

These primitive forms of expression can bring us great joy and liberation and ought to be practiced on a regular basis.

In terms of romance, I believe that when you set yourself free to burst into song or move your body to music that stirs you, something inside you opens up.

It’s a sensation of great release, ecstatic and (dare I say) orgasmic.

In any case, it’s good for the soul, relaxes inhibitions and paves the way for pure expression of emotion.

I spent three hours in a private karaoke room last night…

I recommend you try it sometime.

Follow me on Twitter: @RomancingTApple

In Your Own Backyard

Fact: Very few New Yorkers know their neighbors. 

I think that’s insane.

Maybe because I grew up in Missouri, where we used to greet anyone who moved to the block with Blueberry muffins.

And then I lived eight years in Rome, Italy, where neighbors talked to each other every day, or at the very least talked about each other and stared at each other with suspicion.

Last Saturday I attended a private party, hosted by my gym at a NoHo club.

While I was waiting for my third Campari & soda, I crossed eyes with man.

Dark blond hair (short, but still tousable), pretty grey-green eyes, and a far-too familiar face.

We assumed we knew each other from the gym, but my eavesdropping ears picked up on “Park Slope” a few minutes later.

He was saying he lived near there, at Carroll and Third.

“Hey-” I interrupted, “I live at Carroll and Third!”  We figured we must have passed on the street. A hundred times.

No, it went further than that.

As the night progressed we realized we’d tasted wine together at Roothill Cafe, he’d overheard me chattering in Italian from his kitchen window, and during the summer, he and a whole company of Polish construction workers had seen me sunbathing on the roof. Au Natural! 

We shared a cab home, and couldn’t stop talking, so we went to neighborhood bar for more storytelling.

When my eyelids got too heavy he walked me home.

But it didn’t end there! In order to determine each others kitchen windows, he radioed me via text message  and I sent an SOS with a flashlight.

As it happens, our rear windows are practically back to back!

We sat in our windowsills and talked for another hour.

Hypothetical plans were discussed at length.  I’m not sure when they’ll come through, but at least we know where to find each other.

I can see in his window as I write. Perhaps I’ll wave….

Follow me on Twitter: @RomancingTApple

A Good Fit Feels Good.

No, that’s not me, but it may as well have been for how great I felt in the jeans store today.

What the?

I had a mini-revelation today that jeans-shopping and love-shopping have a lot in common.

First and foremost, you’ll have much better luck if you approach the situation feeling good about yourself.

There’s nothing like wriggling your way into a tight pair that was never meant to be. It’ll just leave you feeling suffocated, unattractive and a total failure.

I hit the MAVI store today with the intention of replacing an old pair of black skinny jeans that had busted a hole in the crotch.

I buy them too sizes up so there’s no unbuttoning or zipping necessary. Easy on, easy off. Yet the the look is adherent and sleek. 

I’d just come from  TRX class, so my thighs were all quivery and toned (feeling).

After a few shimmies in the mirror, I felt like trying on more and more pairs in smaller and smaller sizes. I was on a roll and took a pair of pairs to the register.

They were buy one, get-one half-off, so all the better.

If only men were that easy…

But wait!

On the way home in my new Serena skinnies I made eye contact with not one, but two men!

We talked all the way back to Brooklyn on the subway, took in an impromptu break-dancing show (apparently “the greatest show you’ll ever see.”  It’s not. ), and exchanged information.

Not bad for a cold, grey and bundled-up day.

But I was hot on the inside.

That, my friends, is the secret.

PS - Men also like tight jeans. Can’t fight the facts.

Follow me on Twitter: @RomancingTApple

Dodged a Bullet

A few posts ago I warned of the dangers of writing for too long and never meeting face to face.

After some Internet sleuthing, I was delighted to discover that the man who managed to string me along only to stand me up on a breakfast (breakfast!) date is frightfully unattractive.

Of course it’s all in the eye of the beholder, but I’d say I dodged a bullet on this one. 

He was definitely not my type: slobbish, unshaven, and unkempt. I like my men fit and clean, as a matter of self-respect.

All of my rancor has melted away, and suddenly it all makes sense.

Why he wouldn’t meet, and why he writes with such passion. I am admittedly delusional when it comes to love and I understand the cultivation of a fantasy.

This time, I was the fantasy.

I won’t disclose the actual image, but for your (visual) reference, take Fred Flintstone up there, give him glasses, a T-shirt, and a beard.

Today’s Advice:

Be more like Wilma. Do your best to take care of yourself, even in Stone Age situations (like camping or work conventions).

And be bold. Look each other in the eyes. Sometimes that’s all it takes to say exactly what you feel.

Follow me on Twitter: @RomancingTApple

Wet.

I don’t know about you, but this rainy weather has got all kinds of thoughts running through my head.

Maybe it’s the desire to be out of the rain and into someone’s warm arms and a big blanket.

Whatever it is, I’m certain I’m not the only one.

Take your eyes off the puddles today for a few minutes and peek out from under your umbrella.

You never know who you might find…

Word Ploy

Do a Google Image search for the word “Maialino.” 

I’ll even do it for you.

For an entire country and speakers of its native language, that word means piglet.

For in-the-know New York foodies (that word still makes me cringe), it’s Danny Meyer’s Roman trattoria-inspired restaurant in Gramercy.

It’s the kind of place that serves a gussied-up if (reportedly) authentic version of rustic Italian cuisine.

It’s the kind of place I would never go, considering I lived in the real rustic Italy for eight years.  Like so many raved-about spaces serving gourmet versions of cheap food, the whole concept feels like a well-executed scheme.

What if Jackson Pollack had admitted in an interview that one day he had simply dropped a can of paint by mistake, and the senseless splatter garnered him such attention he spent his last years laughing at the Art world and watching the money roll in.

That is how these restaurants make me feel. On top of that I know how much the wine actually costs. It’s maddening.

Yes, I’m fortunate to have traveled to and tasted the real Italy, France, and Spain, and few people share my experience.

But this is America, and that’s what we do here. We improve upon our collective cultural heritage through creative cuisine.

Perhaps I should open my mind to these fine Manhattan establishments and accept them for what they are: Culinary Artistry. Liking it or not is not the point.  Simply appreciate the thought and creativity involved.

That is what I was prepared to do (for breakfast no less) on a first date with a journalist who had been pursuing me online for quite some time. Match.com had been pushing him on me for months, but to be blatantly superficial, I wouldn’t have given him a second glance on the street. 

His dull eyes did nothing for me.

What did, was the email he  wrote.

A skilled wordsmith on the worst of days, he managed to inspire intrigue, flattery and sex in a few sentences. As you can imagine, I’m susceptible to such things, and I told him so immediately.

When I mentioned the eyes in my note (yes, I did), explaining that yes, he seemed intriguing (he did, sincerely!), I needed someone whose eyes sparkle.

His response: “My eyes sparkle, but not for photographs, I like to write and I let my words shine for me.”

Followed by something about taking me in his arms….

Like any pure romantic, I am by nature un-cynical.  Words thrill me, and in no time at all I’ll fill the space between your lines with every sweet imagined possibility.

I asked for a meeting, or at the very least a phone call. Better yet, a video call.

He kept putting it off with the usual excuses (So busy, so tired) plus some pizzazz about how he would rather be with me.

Maybe we was afraid to meet me in person, and hoped to seduce me first, so that his face or physique somehow wouldn’t matter - or buy himself (with words) some time to hit the gym.

He would drop a million hints (and a million names) about his fascinating career and life experiences. I could have written him-off as smug, egocentric, or pretentious. 

I recognized his attempt to disguise contrivance (it takes one to know one). He reminded me of a quite self-possessed polyamorous composer I’d mistakenly (and briefly) fallen for last spring.

And yet.

Against my better judgment I wanted to believe him. I wanted to transcend appearances, open my heart and my eyes, and give us a chance.

When I gave him an ultimatum, he asked me out.

In a text message in the afternoon for a date that same night. I was already well into a boozy late lunch with best friends.

We negotiated via text and email. His following weekend was “all mine” but I was booked, so we agreed upon a breakfast date at the aforementioned Maialino.

In New York City, anything can happen. What sparkles one day, might just as soon lose its luster to something bigger, brighter or closer the next day.

As fate would have it, I met a charming Italian man that week whose affection spills out of him unapologetically, exactly the way I hope to inspire with these posts.

I was (and am still) exhilarated, relieved and terrified in that too-good-to-be-true kind of way.

It may be against my nature to love strategically, but in light of a recent mini-heartbreak, I am trying to take my time with this one. 

And taking time requires distraction.

So while a part of me felt like canceling the breakfast date with the fascinating journalist, my curiosity, courtesy, and strategy kept me from doing so.

After all, he’d kept my attention long enough. I owed him and myself a chance.

As you can imagine, a breakfast date requires at least a 12-hour preparation.

The night before, I attended a show and a bar, where I declined a date (why throw another one in the mix?), a slice of pizza (saving my appetite for the culinary artistry), and a cigarette (first date = fresh start, and not everyone finds a woman with smoky hair charming in that Parisian kind of way).

Instead I cozied up at home (ravenous) and finally crawled into bed at 2:30am, having ripped myself from an old friend’s side on the couch. I was afraid to oversleep…

A few hours later I awoke, dressed and allotted  45 minutes to get there.

Being late is never fashionable on a first date.

AS I was locking my front door, the phone buzzed.

An email (email!) from the writer. 45 minutes before our date.  Considering his behavior so far, I’d been expecting it. 

What I wasn’t expecting, was this:

I just woke up and I’m in no condition to make it to breakfast, but it’s with good reason. I went out with someone on Wednesday and spent the past 36 hours with them, I am, and was literally at one point, head over heels for her. I wish you the same happiness.

“They” say the best reaction in these cases is to say nothing. Disappear and remain mysterious.

But that will never be me.

I called. He didn’t dare pick up.

When I get angry, I cry. It’s highly ineffective. I said, or tried to say:

I LET MY WORDS SHINE FOR ME.

Take action my little friends!

Speak your words. Call when you feel like calling!

Better yet, be together where you can share some air and let your eyes and everything else really sparkle…

Dispatch from Chicago

Chicago blossoms with full force in good weather.

It’s so rare that one can even expose his or her skin to the air, that a balmy afternoon really brings out the best in the otherwise bundled-up denizens of the windy city.

I was there this weekend during an unseasonably warm few fall days.

In the course of three blocks I exchanged smiles with no fewer than ten different men, one of whom from the behind the glass window of his gym!

When I walked into the Caribou Coffee for an espresso (not terrible!), several heads rose, along with eyelids.

Even the airport pulsed with romantic possibility.  Once on board headphones came on and eyes lowered. Passengers returned to their  compartimentalized  New York City lives.

Once arrived at LaGauardia I almost asked a delicious young thing to share a cab when I overheard him say that he was Brooklyn-bound. But then my phone rang.

I stared at him from the window of my car though. He caught my eye and looked straight down.

Welcome home.

Tell Him

Select a soundtrack to this post from the following:

Lauryn Hill

Barbra & Celine

The Exciters

I haven’t felt so compelled to share my feelings with a man since the day I wrote a love letter to Paris. The letter that  inspired this blog.

About two months ago I met someone. The where and how are not important. What matters is that his enthusiasm was refreshing. Our first date went long…

And I heard back from him that same day.

For two weeks we must have exchanged a thousand text messages. Among other things.

It didn’t take long for me to realize that I was falling hard and fast. I desired his caresses and conversation with equal fervor. I couldn’t wait to know him better.

And  then our frenetic lives began to smother the flame like a knot in a power chord. Everything short-circuited. Or rather, flickered and threatened to burn out.

In a city with so many places to be, things to do, and people to meet, there’s a collective ADD going around that makes getting close to someone an immense challenge.

I’m not used to having to measure my emotions, or worse, keep them secret. Once I realized what was happening it felt like carrying an enormous and awkward object. All I wanted to do was set it down, but the table just kept moving!

There was so much affection inside of me for this man that I had to let it out. Or explode. Do you know the feeling?

After several attempts to meet up were twarted by his schedule (he was sincerely sorry), I called.

We talked for a long time.

We agreed that timing was not on our side but that we both enjoyed each others’ company. He said that my thoughtful phone call confirmed what he thought of me.

We vowed to keep in touch and see what we could “pull off.”

I’m not sure what I expected him to say. It would have been too soon and quite irresponsible for a love declaration.

And yet, had we had more time to indulge the feeling, that is exactly what could have happened!

Love requires time and attention to rear its funny little face. In this city of a million distractions it’s close to impossible to notice.

 It’s out of my hands now, and I feel lighter and happier.

Croatia In Passing

A storm was kicking up in the city this morning.

The ruffles on my skirt fluttered as I scuttled to catch a yellow light.

A man brushed past me headed in the opposite direction and out eyes locked in perfect film fashion, but there was no time to stop with such dark clouds overhead.

Once safe on the other side I looked back.

So did he.

I flashed a big smile and he shot me a toothy one in return.

I looked up at the clouds and made a move for the awning over Duane Reade.

Across the street he was was making number signs with his fingers.

I can barely remember what’s on the to-do post-it in my pocket, so I signaled for him to meet me inside the drugstore.

There, breathlessly, he introduced himself as Marko - a lawyer on business from Croatia for a month.

I took his number.

I’m not sure I’ll call. Perhaps if we had more time…

America, take a lesson.

Five Alarm at the Pharmacy

I was just hanging around outside the CVS waiting for some prescriptions and chatting on the phone to my friend about finding inner peace and feeling settled, when he just sauntered by and left me feeling anything but settled.

What is it about fire fighters?

Sure, the courage it takes to run into a burning building is pretty hot. And they’re awfully tender when they rescue kittens (and children) from trees and rooftops.

But I’m going with the uniform.

Nothing accentuates a swagger like a pair of heavy, low-riding trousers, straps flying everywhere. The suspenders (un-suspended) frame that part of them where the ‘V’ muscles form, and function much like an unbuttoned top button or a loosened tie.

First the suspenders, then the belt, then the….

So this charming member of Ladder Company 122 catches my glance. I smile. He looks back, so I take off my shades just to be sure he knows I’m smiling at him.

It doesn’t end there.

I followed him halfway down the block and waited outside the supermarket. I checked out beef specials through the window (a few of them were clustered at checkout) I checked out  him in my peripheral.

I shot him a final smile or two just before they pulled away.

Consider me on fire.

Any chance you can help? Consider this my leaving you my number on a cocktail napkin.

romancingtheapple@gmail.com

PS - Read the blog. I’m not kidding.

First-timer Charmed

Tonight began with a New Yorker symposium on internet dating and the state of modern day romance. Was the internet expanding our horizons or simply confining us to the isolated space of ourselves and our computer screens?

The invitation said there would be a mixer following the panel discussion, but quite sadly (if predictably) the majority of the 100-some attendees lit up their mobile phones and left the venue before any real social interaction could begin.
My neighbor Giana*, who had accompanied me, was actually emailing someone from OK Cupid during the event - although in her defense she stayed on with me afterward to work the miniature crowd.

With the exception of one brave (if awkward) little man who chatted me up at the bar (right on Jordan!) there was little to no attempt at romance at the romance symposium.

As we were leaving, the breeze was to good to waste, so Giana suggested we swing by her favorite neighborhood bar, Freddy’s. She’s been attempting to bed the bartender for a while so I’d heard plenty about the place. 
I also didn’t want to waste my dress and heels.

She was right. Freddy’s was cozy and the people were friendly. One in particular…

As I was leaving I asked a group of men for a cigarette. Two of them lit up and went for a “walk.” The third decided to stay.  In the space of an American Spirit (they do burn longer and make for extended flirtation) we discovered it was the first time for both of us at fantastic Freddy’s. 

We agreed the people were certainly nice (eye contact, half smile), and that it had been worth the trek (full smile, glance away).

We chatted about business and Chilean Merlot, and just as he was turning to back inside I volunteered my card.

No computer necessary.  

*Names have been changed.

Love Thyself (With Caution)

In a turn from my usual tales of searing eye contact and talking to strangers, I thought my latest misadventure warranted a recap…if only to serve as a warning.

As a very late bloomer, I’m currently in the honeymoon phase.

With myself.

I can’t avoid a mirror, I know all my best angles when it comes to taking pictures, and I will on occasion respond to compliments with “thanks, I know.”

So when I thought I’d met the male version of myself I went for it.

He was enthusiastic and unabashed with his affection, so much so that at first it didn’t seem real, but then I figured that maybe I’d met my match. Someone so open and easy with his feelings in this town of tightly packaged hearts.

If only I’d listened to that instinct. Unbelievable, but I believed.

He certainly shared my romantic flair and appreciation for food and wine.  He had a sense of humor even more asinine than my own, and he had a way of joyfully flinging his limbs around and hitting everything in his path.

All heart, no coordination.

I was enraptured and ready to see where it could go. He’d held my attention and kept it harnessed tightly. The possibilities glimmered and my footing felt solid.

And yet.

The are parts of me I do not love. My hips, my upper arms, and a tendency to distraction - a fickle head and heart - that have managed to rip the rug out from under a number of my endeavors.

Call me mercurial to shine a more flattering light on this fatal flaw. But semantics never get us anywhere.

My male version of me was exactly the same.

He tried to fight it. He covered me with compliments and carried on about himself and this crazy complex, his fears and past mistakes.

He wanted to be respectful. He wanted to be friends. He wanted to to leave the door open…

What he didn’t want was me.

I know hedging when I see it. His guilt was palpable when we sat in Washington Square Park squirming on a bench by the fountain.

I realized the path of his thoughts and predicted their next steps. I told him I knew exactly what had happened.  He admitted I was exactly right.

I may love most of myself, but I know all of myself and I’m a handful.

That said, I’m going to leave the self love in the bedroom ( and a couple other rooms maybe) for a while.

Red Hot

Yesterday was a good day for red.

Royal ginger representative Will secured his empire and his queen, and I had a momentary love affair with a razor-shorn redhead en route to Manhattan.

It began at the R train station at Union Street with his glance at my red heels, continued with a mutual removal of headphones during the Dekalb Avenue transfer, and climaxed with a huge smile from me when he entered the B train, and his in return as it disappeared into the tunnel.

Aim For the Stars.

I’ve never had a celebrity crush before, at least nothing this powerful.

My attraction to Kiefer Sutherland’s character on 24, Agent Jack Bauer, was aesthetically inexplicable - little blond tough guys have never been my type. 

When I started watching the show online (episode after episode in a fiendish frenzy), something ignited inside of me.

A fatal equation of great acting and great (story) writing burned this rogue-ninja-killer  character with a tender heart and a compassionate side into reality. A reality I wanted, NEEDED to meet.

I also wanted him to stroke my hair. Just once!

As if by destiny (destiny!) I learned he was coming to Broadway to star in a show. I would be a traitor to my own romantic revolution were I to pass up the opportunity to speak to him.

After all, star or no star, you never know until you try.

I bought my ticket and watched him onstage. My heart swelled with pride.

I waited outside the stage door with other fans who waved their programs and begged for signatures and photos.

When he approached me I called his name.  Once I had his eyes on mine, I told him I had a question but was a bit too shy to ask in front of everyone. I then stretched out my hand with yellow post-it note enclosed along with my card. I had written to him I thought it would be fun to have a drink together.

I’m still waiting for him to call, but I created a realm of possibility that did not previously exist.