Rom-Com

I often look at my love life as if it were a romantic comedy. Girl meets boy, the course of true love doesn’t run smooth, and the heroine and hero must go through much travail before love conquers in the end.

Right now, I’m in the part of the romantic comedy that shows our heroine in a montage of mediocre dates.

When the Marine Turned Business Guy asked me to meet him for drinks at the Four Seasons, I thought things were looking up. I could (almost) overlook the fact that he took his Macallan on the rocks, but I couldn’t ignore the distinct feeling that if I didn’t ask he wouldn’t tell.

Sensitive Social Worker was a wine connoisseur and I dug his taste in tapas. But he was a bit of a lightweight for an oenophile and quite possibly the worst kisser since, well, ever. When he kissed me on the corner of 78^th Street and 2^nd Avenue, I’d wobbled a bit. He thought it was because the kiss was so potent. I was actually trying to squirm away from the tight, hard lips and darting, lizard-like tongue. The boy who kissed me on the school playground after my eighth grade graduation had more game, quite frankly.

Too Cute was, obviously, way too cookie cutter cute and quite a player at that. Indie Rock Star I was not very sophisticated and kind of a cold fish. And Indie Rock Star II had exclaimed, “I’m a raging heterosexual” one too many times. Well, he said it once and that was really enough for me to think it untrue. (What is it, by the way, with so many 40-something NYC men and the closet? You can come out now. It’s really nice out here.)

Then last week, after leaving a tasting event at Sons of Essex on the Lower East Side with a PSM (he added a few drops of water to an otherwise neat Balvenie Single Barrel 25-Year Old – respect), I noticed that I’d received a text. I was surprised, as much as I can be with my ghosts of boyfriends past track record, to find that it was from Jack.

Hopping in a taxi, I wondered if this was a testing of the waters. I did know this: according to the rules of romantic comedy, it takes a lot more than a text message to get the girl.

Highland Toddy

Deep in the January doldrums, I met my friend Remy last night at Highlands, a Scottish gastropub in the West Village. Their Highland Toddy, made with Famous Grouse, maple bitters, brown sugar, Compass Box Orangerie and clove, and the thick fluffy snowflakes that began to fall outside, got me back into the winter spirit.

For Auld Lang Syne, Part Two

Back home in New York City, the winter had not been so magical, featuring dates with the likes of the Freelance Artist, who at 41 still shared a 2-bedroom in the East Village with 3 roommates because he “doesn’t like to live alone” (translation: “I’m an unemployed codependent”), and the Lumberjack. While quite sexy with his plaid flannel shirt and facial hair (I came of age during the era of grunge, what can I say?), the Lumberjack’s dating skills hadn’t evolved since the death of Kurt Cobain.

Over the winter, I’d also experienced a bizarre emotional hit and run by an ancient history boyfriend. I’ve known Tad ever since we dated for a few months in college. On the night in question, I’d dragged good sport Sandrine to a party he was having at his apartment on the Upper West Side. It started out innocently enough, with Tad and I waxing nostalgic about our past with various party guests. As the night went on, however, the nostalgia express jumped the track. I’d been chatting with Sandrine and random others when Tad suddenly joined our group, and, severely intoxicated, began ranting about the “hot Italian boyfriend” I’d started dating after our break up. As the other guests we’d been speaking with awkwardly dispersed, I confirmed with Sandrine, “You just heard that right?” Sandrine replied, always the psychologist, “Looks like someone’s been harboring some feelings for a very long time.” I should note that Tad had broken up with me and I hadn’t started dating Mario until almost a year after the Tad split. Mario had been super hot though. Tad did get that bit right.

After a short-lived early spring fling, I’d found myself nursing a bit of a broken heart by midsummer. My heart wasn’t broken because I’d been so desperately in love; it was more in the way Michael Corleone’s heart was broken by Fredo’s betrayal in The Godfather II. It had come at the hands of one of my dearest guy friends. Josh and I had been super close since meeting through work five years ago. We spoke the same language and shared a love of Eddie Izzard, pub grub and Scotch. Through the years, Josh had always lobbied for more, but I’d always been concerned about our age difference (he was five years younger than I) and potentially upsetting one of my closest friendships.

Then one night in May, Josh passionately declared his feelings on a rainy and foggy 59^th Street and sent me reeling with an amazing kiss. I could no longer deny our connection, and given the chemistry of that kiss, I didn’t want to. I’d realized that I’d been keeping this great guy at bay out of fear. Weeks of dates and drams had followed. I’d even opened and shared the Crested Ten I’d carried back from Dublin the previous summer (you know that you rate if I actually share my stash). And then at that crucial six-week mark, just as it started to get serious, Josh flipped out. I knew it was because he was afraid, but I also knew that I couldn’t continue to date someone who scares so easily. I needed that man who’d so boldly told me how he’d felt and kissed me that night on the street. I had no choice but to cut and run, ending our relationship and our friendship.

In the aftermath, I kept wondering why it happened. Why did something so seemingly great come crashing down into a million awful pieces? Had this just been a practice drill for when the real thing comes along? “This is a test of the emergency relationship system. This is only a test.” Followed by a beeping tone the equivalent of nails on a chalkboard. Had this been proof for myself that I could take a chance on love, that I could go out on a limb, that I could fall, and that I could get back up again? But I already knew the answers to these questions was yes.

Post pushing my broken heart aside and filling my fall with dating, my year now ends with this: kissing my drunken friend Ned in the back of a taxi. While it felt very nice and comfortable, I felt fairly certain that this wasn’t fate or true love, and that the next day we’d recant this backseat interlude. Dropping Ned off at his Midtown hotel, I thought about the specter of boyfriends past, present and future. Maybe the lesson of Ned and Josh was that I didn’t have to go 3,000 miles to Arctic Norway for a perfect kiss. A perfect kiss could be found with my most familiar friends and in my well-traveled paths.

As the taxi dashed toward the Upper East Side, I couldn’t help feeling that regardless of the ups and downs that the New Year would surely bring, I was racing toward another year filled with magic, surprise and possibility.

For Auld Lang Syne, Part One

It all started this weekend with a kiss in a taxi on the way home from a holiday party.

Under the influence of eggnog, Christmas lights and carols, I was sharing the cab ride home with my long-time friend Ned who was visiting from California. We’d just crossed 14th Street when Ned turned to me and started stroking my hair and whispering romantic sentiments in my ear. It could’ve been all the eggnog he’d consumed or the inevitable moment in a ten-year friendship in which there’d always been a “will they/won’t they?” factor. But it was Ned’s wistful tone and words that made me think this could very well be the result of Yuletide sentimentality.

Looking out the taxi window, which was now fogging up as Ned nuzzled my neck, I had to admit that I’m often sentimental around the holidays. I choke up at that first drawn out “I…m” of White Christmas sung by Bing Crosby. By the time his voice warbles at “sleigh,” I’m usually sobbing. I’m not so sentimental when it comes to relationships though. Like Clara of Nutcracker fame, I generally banish with the throw of my slipper the hideous and insidious Mouse King ex to the past. But this night, with the year drawing to a close and Ned’s hands closing in on my drawers, I couldn’t help but think back on this year’s romantic travails, and how the ghosts of boyfriends past had come into my present, and the boy friends in my present were apparitions of boyfriends yet to come.

The past boy specter is not an unfamiliar sight to me. Periodically it makes its presence known, appearing at odd times, often when I’m really happy with another guy. It’s like it just knows. Last year had actually ended on this theme: with a flirtation with an old crush, initiated by said crush just as I’d finally met a guy I rather liked. Both had become ghosts by Christmas.

This year, however, had started on a promising new note: with the kiss of a handsome Englishman at midnight on New Year’s Eve in Tromso, Norway as fireworks lit the night all around us.

It had been unexpected. Just the night before, while freezing out in the countryside looking for the Northern Lights, I’d mused to Cassidy and Sandrine, my best friends and travel companions, that gob-smacking attraction felt about as elusive as the Lights (which did elude us that night). Then the next day, there I am waiting at a bus stop in Tromso and I turn around to find inviting hazel eyes looking back at me. In this magical place, with long, bitter winter nights and barely breaking days that easily inspire fireside snogs, this sometimes cynical city girl met a charming, soft-spoken and independent man who was good with his hands and goes on holidays alone. I guess you never know when or where romantic things will happen. It’s just a question of how far you’re willing to go. Sometimes it’s 200 miles above the Arctic Circle far.

Tromso and the Englishman had set the bar high for the New Year. I’d wondered what the year would hold back home in New York City.

Scotch Snapshot

Today. 6pm. Lillie’s, Union Square, NYC. Ducking into this Victorian-inspired establishment, which was decked out in bows, bells and bulbs for the holidays, I found reprieve from the biting cold outside in the sweet, smoky taste and warming sensation of Bowmore 12 year old single malt.