Plastered in the Bedroom

After a few weeks of living in a shroud of tarps, frog tape and clouds of dust, J. finished. The East Village has staked its claim on the Upper West Side, or on my side of the bedroom, at least. Painted in dark blue, the skyline is still masculine, but the dusty blue twilight above it softens the room. Done in a technique J. said was “Venetian Plaster,” the upper wall looks like marble and is smooth to the touch. At night, it bears a moonlit glow when we turn the lights down.

The focal point is the spiral church tower in the middle, a replica of the real thing that sits on E. 12th Street, a reminder of a defunct house of worship that now guards an NYU sky-rise dorm. We plan on putting pictures in the “windows” of the buildings, so we can act as peeping toms in our own bedroom.

What’s on his side? A rendering of Columbia’s sprawling campus and dome-shaped library…it’s coming along, just needs a more few hand-drawn touches.

It’s finally starting to feel like HOME.


The Booty Call Girl Never Wins

I share. Sometimes I overshare. I’m not a private person. What’s the point of this journey if I can’t help others overcome the same crap I’ve just gone through?

Ask me whatever you want and most of the time (unless it’s a really sensitive subject), I will give you a completely honest answer.

If you want to Google-stalk me and nitpick through the details of my life, feel free, I am flattered. Flattered that you find me interesting enough to obsess over my words and dissect my actions. There’s enough about me that’s public on the web. I am a digital strategist, so wouldn’t I suck at my job if I weren’t actively engaging on the platforms I promote every day?

I try not to judge you. I’ve been out there. We all have. Out there in the hooking up/dating/more than dating/totally together/go fuck yourself/drunk dialing/back together/off again/on again roller coaster. There is a reason why some couples stay together and some can’t stand each other. I’ve accepted my past relationship failures, why not try and accept yours?

Find someone that calls you before 1am. Find someone that calls you when they’re sober.  Find someone that doesn’t keep you a secret.

BUT DON’T EVER – put me down or underestimate me! I remember seeing your late-night texts pop up on his iPhone way back when. The booty call girl never wins. You lost a long time ago. Goodbye.


My Boyfriend is a Slob!


After he puts his contacts in, he leaves the disposable packets on the bathroom sink — every morning! “Do you need theeeeese?!” I holler, one hand in toss mode. I know the one time I don’t ask it will be his very last pair that he hadn’t had a chance to put in yet and he’ll be blind for the day and oh god, why didn’t I just ask…and so I do. EVERY MORNING.

“Nooooooo,” comes his response like clockwork. Sometimes, I feel like I’m living with the 13-year-old version of J., like he’s traveled back to the awesome 90s and is going to come strolling into the bathroom in his soccer jersey and mullet…well it wasn’t really a mullet, just some sort of hair tail growing off the back of his head. But anyway, “Why is it so hard to throw them away?!” I nag while I do an exaggerated step and arm swing towards the trash can like I’m pitching a softball in slow mo. “Watch me!”

He smirks. It also drives me crazy that he drops his dirty clothes right next to the hamper, right…next…to…the…hamper. And when he insists that making the bed is a futile effort, “We’re just going to crawl back in later.”

“It’s the focal point of the room,” my OCD snaps back.  I’m the type of girl that cannot get dressed unless the bed is made. Messy bed, messy head. Yeah, that’s me.

So I’ve taken on the role of cleaning lady and launderer (as in clothes, not money…at least not yet) and he’s the top chef in our kitchen. Fair trade, minus the nights he calls Papa Johns!

What drives you nuts about your man?

Real Intimacy is Wearing Face Masks Together


Before J. and I lived together and he used to crash at my studio, I would fall asleep with full makeup on. I might’ve even retouched my lipstick before prancing into bed. I never really slept for fear of a migrant snore. Did I snore? Who knows? But I wasn’t taking any chances. As he stirred next to me, I’d arrange my hair on the pillow so I looked like a princess when he awoke.

Fast forward to 18 months of cohabitation and I’m super-shiny when I come to bed now. Super-shiny as in slathered in an array of oils to moisturize, preserve and rejuvenate me during a night’s slumber. At first, I would wait until he fell asleep and tiptoe to the bathroom and smear some of the greasy stuff on to my face. Now he knows — if I ain’t shiny at 11pm, I may still be going out.  To make myself less self-conscious, I’ve begun to slather his face, too. Straight men never moisturize as much as they should!

On special nights, we’ll both expertly apply SK-II whitening/oxygenating face masks and breathe like Jason Voorhees from Friday the 13th while the miracle cream, Pitera, soaks in. While this may not sound super-sexy, neither are wrinkles or dry, flaky skin.

My mother taught me well, she has the skin of an 18-year-old. When I was a little girl, she used to tuck me in, and I’d be engulfed in waves of her perfume. Leaning over  in her nightie, she’d whisper in my ear, “Always go to bed smelling sweet.” So I continue her tradition and always dab some perfume or J.’s cologne on my neck before crawling under the sheets. I may be shiny, but I smell good — and you’ll never catch me in sweatpants or flannel granny PJs! Shiny is the new sexy.

You Can Take the Girl Out of the City, But…

The plan was to check out Overlook Point and have a nice picnic. I assumed we could just drive up and then walk the maybe 500 yards or so. Having never been on an “official” hike before, I thought 45 minutes on the elliptical every now and then had to count for something.

This morning I dressed in running shoes, shorts and tank top, but it was cold (65 degrees), so I threw on jeans, layered on a few tees and put on flip flops. The running shoes just didn’t go with the jeans, and then what if my feet got sweaty, I wanted to be able to breathe, and I did just get a nice pedicure…and J. was like “Come on already! If you change one more time!” So twenty minutes later, while walking up a dirt path which I assumed would lead right up to a beautiful vista, I found myself stuck in the middle of trail central looking like a prissy, clueless, city girl.

I cringed every time hikers passed us in full regalia — backpacks, tread-worthy boots, fanny pack/water belts. Not only was I wearing flip flops, but one hand was clutching an iced coffee and the other was toting along a beach bag filled with towels, my Kindle and a bottle of Riesling. To lighten the load, I took a swig from the bottle…and then another one.

At least I remembered to put my hair in a ponytail, but that was really because I didn’t feel like washing it. We’re in cabin country, outdoorsy, one-with-nature vacation mode. Besides insects love freshly shampooed hair, I wanted to disappoint them.

Overlook Point wound up being a 2.5 mile hike up a rocky, slippery mountain.  When we finally made it to the top I thought about Ziplining down, but unfortunately there was no Zipline to be found. So more Riesling it was.

Was the view worth the hike? Sure, but taking a tram up would have been so much cooler!  End Result: NO sprained ankles or serious injuries, just some stinky clothing. I also christened the “You’re 1/2 Way There!” rock by squatting behind it. When nature calls…


Back to Us


After a day spent wandering the woods, creek and little country town (one pizza place, one gas station and one video rental store), J. is setting up Battleship. Board games = Adult entertainment in the mountains. I would personally love some Hungry, Hungry Hippos action right about now, but my choices are limited. We got Scrabble (maybe after another glass of wine), Monopoly (nah, that will lead to real estate talk)…and Battleship, (looks like a ghetto laptop for children).

This getaway is good for us — crickets, cicadas, spiders and all. Gone for a few days is the noise of our city life.  We’re back to basics. J. + R., R. + J. and…the pooch!  Now, if I could just get him out of our bed– that big, furry third wheel!


When Your BF is Hosting a Party for Eva Mendes’ Twin Sister

Last night, after two glasses of champagne and a friendly debate with a close friend on the pros/cons of dating a younger man vs. an older man, I left to meet J. at an event he was bartending. Lost in the concrete and glass facade of Battery Park City, I stumbled upon Shake Shack. A Shake Shack in Battery Park City? It was empty according to Shake Shack’s mile-long standards. I kept glancing down at my phone trying to find the address of the party…wandering aimlessly. I felt like I was sucked into some futuristic city.

As I passed a storefront, I glanced in the window and saw a party hopping with ladies tilting back glasses, swaying on their six-inch heels and laughing their heads off. Was what that guy said really THAT FUNNY? A woman in a steel gray dress caught my eye as she had her butt practically plastered to the window and was surrounded by men on either side. I glanced down at my Tory Burch flip-flops not envious of the pain she was inflicting on herself to tower over everyone else. Manhattan nightlife was ticking on without me.

I walked back and forth for another few minutes, and then I realized — this is the party J. is at. As if reading my thoughts,  his face suddenly emerged in the window, a parting of the drunken faces around him. Straightening my skirt, I took a tentative step forward. The door opened and the woman in the gray dress — who I had just been checking out a few minutes earlier, smiled down at me,

“Come on in, this is my store…”  Of course, it was.

With my own buzz strong, but not quite matching hers, I admitted I had admired her dress from afar as I had scanned the canyon of shops stuck right in the middle of Battery Park City. She was a ringer for Eva Mendes — J.’s #1 celebrity crush/fantasy!  I scanned the room for Ryan Gosling. Apparently he had other plans for the night.

I watched her sashay and bump and grind around the crowded storefront. It was a great turnout and she was soaking up every ounce of the limelight, as she should. She was single and many of her potential suitors were late-night party hanger-ons from Goldman Sachs.

“So how do you know V.?” a handsome, suited man asked as he leaned into me.

“I don’t. I know the bartender…”

“Oh,” he quickly turned his head to the left to glance at J., looked back at me a little harder, a little deeper, making me gasp.

I don’t socialize as much as I used to, so any male attention now feels foreign and slightly forbidden. When the host’s sister sized me up and said,

“Oh, so this is your girl?” to J., I felt like a stalker-girlfriend.

But the truth is, I was nearby in Soho and J. had invited me, I wasn’t checking up on him. Besides a little playful jealously is good. It’s when you don’t care that someone should be worried.

In the cab ride home, we both broke into deep hysterics (fueled by Prosecco) when I said, “Soooooo…Eva Mendes…” J. had met the real one a few years ago and bravely gave her his number. No dice.

His dimple creases pushed his smile wide and he grabbed my thigh,

“You know me too well…”

No dice again. Just a Rainbow.

After 18 Months of Cohabitating, A Fresh Coat of Paint


It never really feels like “home” when you move into your boyfriend’s apartment. In more ideal circumstances, the newly cohabitating couple will devour Craigslist ads and eventually find new digs that are not a memorial to things past. But when you’re testing things out, as I was a year and a half ago, it was an easy way to dip my toes further into commitment.

18 months later, and with a revolving door of subletters at my studio downtown, I’m still here. Still on the foreign Upper West Side, populated with puppies of all shapes and sizes and those magical pixie dust fairies. So this is where they keep the children?

Yearning to get rid of the “I’m just crashing here for a bit” feeling, I talked/nagged/hypnotized J. into repainting our bedroom. It had been a super-masculine dark green and gold — stripes and remnants of bachelor pad days. The mirror above the bed is still there. It makes the room look bigger. I try not to think about the other images that reflected back before mine.

Of course, J. could never slap on one coat of paint in a solid color. Being the artistic, always-starting-something-never-finishing type he chose implementing frieze — whatever that is, and drawing a city skyline super imposed over the frieze…and 10 days later, there are still tarps and levels and brushes everywhere. It’s like living in the set of the movie, A Beautiful Mind. The walls cry out “Feed me, feed me” waiting for J.’s inspiration to strike. PLEASE strike.

Knowing how much I miss the East Village, he’s drawn and painted the skyline of my old block on my side of the room (yes, we have sides). It’s strangely comforting. Maybe he’ll work an image of the Staten Island Ferry somewhere in those blue shadows, too. I grew up there, but there was nothing more satisfying than running away.

I’ve never picked up a paintbrush in my life. Coming from a somewhat artistic family that’s surprising. But that’s how I’ll get him to finish. With paint roller in hand, I’ll mix in some pink and do a happy skip to HIS side and say sweetly, “I’m just going to touch this up a little bit…”