Broken

Greenpoint is not his scene. He would never pick such a restaurant- shabby, stylish, the size of a postage stamp- and yet there he was, sitting across from a pretty girl in her late 20s. I broke up with Tony after spending 4 years trying to build a life together, trying to will him into being someone he won't be, and trying to convince myself that this particular brand of love would be enough. The day before my 33rd birthday I told him we needed to move on, start fresh, find what we both need out of life. This would never be enough for me, even if I could never quite articulate why. My friends and family were very pleased with this decision; although I understand a person has to make her own choices, I am fascinated by outsiders' cool perspectives. They can see with clear eyes what I myself never acknowledge, the worst of which was that it was very apparent that Tony didn't love me enough. When my father told me this I wept, probably more because of my wounded ego, and not nearly enough because my love for him was unmatched. I told friends that I would take 6 months to be alone, ostensibly to "work on me" and "figure out what I want". The truth was that I couldn't imagine looking a man in the eye, couldn't fathom how a man could find me attractive. I cast myself back out to sea without floaties, fatter than I had ever been, less confident, wobbling in each step. I started a new job, which was a life raft and gave me a focus. I ran constantly; I didn't know if I was running away or running towards but I ran because I needed to go somewhere, and give all the voices in my head the air they required. I relished sleeping alone and setting my own schedule. I lived how I wanted to live, booked as many plays, saw as many friends, woke up hungover with half eaten BLTS. Life became my own again. So we return to the scene as it were....a romantically lit hipster restaurant in Greenpoint, with two of my best friends, impatiently waiting for a table and knocking back white wine with vigor. I see the bartender decant a red wine and can't help but ask what the wine is; I'm a bartender at heart. He says its not a great wine, but a young wine and they had nothing better to do than decant. We are finally seated, the three of us laughing loudly, talking shit as we are wont to do, shaking out our hair and coats and hats. I look around at our neighbors and quickly recognize the awful sweater, the humped back posture, then finally the man. Tony is sitting 4 feet away from me on a date. He is the orderer of said decanted wine, he is having a romantic dinner with a woman who is younger than me, he seems to be doing A-OK three months to the day after being dumped. None of us acknowledge each others' presence, as it would seem the window for such an introduction had passed. While my table nervously titters, imbibes heavily and does their best to avoid eye contact, he continues with his date, the girl blissfully unaware that strange shit is in fact occurring. Finally he pays, they leave and we breathe. I felt wrecked. I didn't miss him, I didn't want to wake up with him, I truly wanted nothing to do with him. But I failed to understand how he felt good enough to date, to boldly put himself out on the market as a complete package. I tried to explain to my friends that it had nothing to do with him, not even jealousy. The only way I could describe myself was "broken"; something had happened to me and I felt worthless for a man. I couldn't understand what a man would be attracted to, couldn't figure out what he might love and want. I never thought of myself as a sad case, but something had changed and corroded my value. The wrong love, the kind of love that is lesser, is like pouring acid down a pipe. You don't necessarily know what the damage is, but you know it did something terrible on the way down. I settled for an imitation of love and affection for so long that my heart was broken and it took my self worth down with the ship.

The end of the road

The proverbial straw broke the camel's back this morning. After 2 months of accomodating my boyfriend's hectic study schedule, and a total of 9 months of patiently interpreting the emotional hieroglyphics of a detached man, today was the first day he had a free moment. He woke up in my bed at 11:30, and left. I was stunned and hurt; I have never dated a man who seemed so averse to spending time with me. This has steadily chipped away at me, and today I felt like I had literally been smacked across the face. You stupid girl! Why would you think you ranked higher? He's busy, he has commitments, he has priorities. I alternated from being furious, to being hurt and gutted.
We had a heated discussion over the phone shortly after he left. It began with him explaining that things will change, that I am a priority, that it would be cheap to tell me he loves me over the phone, but in fact he does. In my mind, I knew that there is nothing cheaper than a man telling you he loves you only because he knows he is about to get dumped. I grew progressively more and more frustrated; for a man of so few words, he operated like a litigator. Before I knew it, the conversation had turned, and the man I was so devastated to see leave my arms went on the offensive, essentially painting me to be a needy girlfriend who demanded too much.
Do I demand too much? I have asked myself this question since this relationship, if it can be called that, really took off: am I too needy? These puppy dog boyfriends that I so enjoy, men who are delighted to be with me, say "Sure, love, wherever you want to go", who seem proud to hold my hand....did they spoil me? I told my father one night that I want a man who adores me; he said, "Buy a dog". So I am looking for a balance, someone with his own life and ambition and dreams, who thinks that I am worth having and sharing with.
As I walked home tonight my stomach kept lurching, and I resisted crying every few blocks. How little do I value myself? I express my unhappiness to my boyfriend, and he can't be bothered to call or write on the same evening to try and hold on to me. How little does he care? I think I will be much cooler with the next man I date; I have trained myself to be satisfied with so little affection and communication that I will be grateful when the next boyfriend says, "Shall we get breakfast?"
This frustration isn't the result of one morning; it is 9 months of slights and coldness. You can't make someone love you more, or see why you are valuable. It is beating your head against a brick wall, and the wall wins.
I can't do this again, can't knowingly settle into a relationship that will never work. I don't know how people survive divorce; silly break ups never get easier, no matter how many I go through.

Letter to my Katy

My dearest Katy,
I was thinking today about the cliches we have always been told, the many explanations of why we "blossomed" so much later than so many other girls. I guess the boys didn't come beating down our doors in high school, and it was very easy to chalk it up to being taller, louder, smarter. We never laughed quietly, and suffered no fools. As I wrap up another failed foray into the dating world, I naturally find myself wondering why this is so damned hard. Why did dating come so easily to some girls, and not to others? Its like a language we can't master; the same crippling anxieties come back over and over.
My father likes to comfort both of us, and though we dismiss him quickly because we love him and believe him to be biased, I think he is on to something. See, did you ever think what the most popular flavor of ice cream is? Vanilla. The most popular scented candle? Vanilla again! Most people don't want exotic flavors; they like safe, basic elements that mix and blend easily. Eggshell walls and white cotton sheets. Beloved Katy, we have never been vanilla girls. I don't know why people want vanilla when they could taste every color of the rainbow, but I guess its just easier and simpler. I don't understand it...but that's what it is. This is the same conversation we had when we were 16, and I didn't believe it then, that people are intimidated by big personalities. Experience, however, has changed my mind.
I looked at that brunch table and thought about the different paths we all took. We have each ended up where we wanted to be; some married, some with families of their own, and you and I, far from where we began our journey, and still anticipating big turns in the road. Big leaps don't have safety nets, and being alone can be terrifying. I have had more weeping breakdowns in the last 6 months than any other period in my life. But I believe, Katy, I really do, that he is out there for us. I am certain in my bones that our partners are out there, doing their own thing and going down their roads. I have tried both types of men, the ones (few and far between) who really embraced me with all my quirks and didn't mind the wackiness, and the ones who just didn't know what to do with it. I would prefer to be in my twin bed picking at my toenails than suffer the latter again. Its demoralizing to feel that someone doesn't accept you.
I don't think there is an easy to-do list for us, other than continuing to become the women we want to be and doing our best to stay in the game. We can't get bitter, Katy, and we can't lose hope. We'll keep facing our fears and knocking down roadblocks, and hopefully finding time to see each other more. Katy, I won't pretend that I am happy today, and I know you aren't either. Some days are worse than others. But I know for sure that we ain't stuck with the wrong man, and it can only get better from here. I love you desperately.
Love Always,
Corrie Megan

Roman Holiday

We hadn't been dating for more than three months when we went to Istanbul together; waiters asked us how long we had been married, and we said, "We finally left the kids at home with their grandparents". They smiled and nodded; other than wedding rings, we looked from the outside world as a happy unit, such was our affection and ease with each other. In Istanbul we were equals, both lost in the language and trying to navigate maps and heat. To work as a team was one of the most exhilarating experiences, and we both enjoyed the challenge of traveling in an unknown culture. After Istanbul, we went to Rome for a few days, a last hurrah before we would be separated for 6 months, by visa regulations too strict to breech.
I went to Rome as a 17 year old girl, fresh from high school and inexperienced in nearly every way of the world. I threw my coins in the Fontana di Trevi, and returned 8 years later, this time with my Italian love. He was always at a disadvantage in the United States; he barely spoke the language, and the customs were not his own, made worse by his shyness. He preferred for me to negotiate taxis and order food. But Rome was his oyster, his language, his history, his people. He pranced around in his tight jeans and designer sunglasses and looked as Italian as Michelangelo's Davide; in my eyes, he was even more beautiful. It was my first experience traveling with a boyfriend; although the girlfriends I had traveled with in the past were troopers, this was entirely different. This was a strong hand catching me before I stumbled over cobblestones, a tourist who charmed his countrymen into taking pictures of him with his American girl, a lover telling me we could be happy living in a little sun-filled apartment in Trastevere. We walked across the Tiber at midnight, holding hands and breathing in the heat. For the first time in my life, I understood why poets write sonnets and musicians write love songs; this was such bliss, and I had never loved a man who embraced me so fully and loved me so purely, for every oddity and quirk. The night before he left, he made me promise to wake him up if he fell asleep; we didn't want to miss a moment together. I walked him to the train station at dawn, boarded the train with him, and kissed with force until we felt the engines rumbling as it prepared for departure. This man who always seemed so cold before our romance, stood between train cars as it pulled away, blowing me kisses with tears in his eyes. As the train pulled away, I put on the beautiful sunglasses he had bought me to match his own, and I wept. When finally the train was out of view, I walked back to a cafe and bought a cappucino to take to my hotel, but couldn't drink it. I couldn't watch RAI on tv, and I had no desire to try and speak Italian. I finally summoned my strength and wandered about the city, but saw nothing. For me, Italy was over. When would I see him again? What is the purpose of finding a love so exhilarating, but so impossible? For the first time I realized I didn't want to be alone; I knew how to take care of myself, but unexpectedly, truly when I was looking the other direction, I found a man who wanted to take care of me.
We stayed together for two years, and shortly before we broke up he had to go back to Italy again for his visa. I was tormented, nearly destroyed by being separated once more. The night before he left, like that night 2 years before, he asked me to wake him up if he fell asleep. He held me tightly and said,"I'll be back soon, and then we will be happy, won't we? Then we will be happy." The desperation in his voice haunted me, because I knew what he wanted, and worse, I knew what he deserved. He should have had a girl who squeezed him back and said, "Don't worry! Nothing will hurt us! We can make it!" His terrible girlfriend could do nothing but weep; I knew our end was near, and couldn't bear the grief.

International Man of Mystery

A friend and I were discussing the importance of mystery in dating. When I reflect on my dating history, the men I have really slayed were always the ones I couldn't have cared less about. I didn't check my cell phone endlessly praying for a text, a little crumb of affection to peck and restore my self worth. I didn't care what they were doing or where they were going; consequently, they beat down my door. So the problem is of course, when you actually like a man and are attracted to him, how do you affect this sort of distance? A couple weeks ago I went out with a man I have been casually dating, and he said I was "glowing" because of my affection for him. This same man previously made comments that he was absolutely certain before we began dating that he "had" me; he could tell that I was attracted to him. This clearly rankled me, but the irony is that I felt the same way about him! I was certain he would be an effortless conquest, a ready made, endlessly devoted boyfriend. I couldn't have been more wrong! He has confounded me at every turn!
I ask myself how differently this might have progressed had I seemed unavailable and uninterested, but the truth is that at the end of the day, I AM hard to get! Just ask those withered corpses in my closet! Its much more fun to be the object of desire on the pedestal; I find the view from below to be far less appealing.

Bed bugs

He has officially moved on. Well, not exactly officially, and I'm not sure one could really call it "moving on", but my beloved ex-boyfriend who I dumped, then mourned, is sleeping with a woman who is not me. I have business to do with both of these people, my ex-boyfriend and the new woman, and see them both on a regular basis. She is the type of woman who befriends and seduces everyone: men, women, goats, whomever. She is not particularly discriminate. Over the last several months we became closer acquaintances, and I made the grievous error of sharing too much personal information with her. She is the type of woman who will empathize with a man out of the kindness of her heart, then hops into his bed. Now I am fairly certain that she has hopped into my former beloved's bed; my woman's intuition screams it loud.
I suppose I knew this was inevitable, that eventually he would move on (in my own snail-paced way, I have), but witnessing it is one of the unusually cruel experiences of life. Hypocritically, I want to rip her head off, then tear off all of his limbs for good measure. The irony of this is that I have been dating...real old-fashioned dating, and not just screwing around for lonely, alcohol-induced sport. I know I am being unreasonable, but the night all these revelations really came to a head for me, I laid in bed and wept. The mental images, thinking of them being intimate, laughing, waking up in the same room made me want to light someone's, ANYONE'S, roof on fire. I sobbed and I heaved until I had nothing left, then nodded off to sleep. I woke up the next day, still disgusted by what I was sure was happening, but peaceful. My burning desire for arson having subsided, I felt foolish and tired of missing someone I rejected.

Sailing to Byzantium

Chanel recently showed pre-fall Métiers d’Arts collection, with the theme "Paris-Byzance". Did you ever see such a fantasy of messy bouffants, flat jeweled sandals, and easy shapes? The models look like child empresses who escaped from either harems or ivory towers. Love the slouchy trousers and long dresses with sandals; that louche sensibility epitomizes today's luxury. I went to Istanbul a few years ago with a boyfriend, and in my rose-tinted memories, this was how I looked at dinner every night; in reality, it was 115 degrees outside and I dripped make up while picking fishbones out of my teeth beside the Bosphorus. This collection does what I so desperately want fashion to do: make me dream!

This thing of ours

I have never really written directly about the fashion industry before, as an "insider" so to speak, even though I have worked in the thick of it for almost 3 years. I prefer to write rhapsodically and in a circumspect manner; I seem to prefer the outside vantage point even though I fought to get in and work in the trenches. Its a bizarre business, where sex appeal, good taste and "style" are quantifiable. I work in women's contemporary designer wholesale (and salespeople like myself are truly on the outer edges of this industry), mostly with specialty stores. This is not a time in the world I would choose to own a store, as they will never really compete fairly with the behemoth department stores. This particular level of fashion, fairly expensive but not wildly artistic in the manner of the Lanvins and Rodartes, is often a rich girl's idle hobby. And yet, it is interesting to see how commerce and art mix, to varying degrees of success and happiness, to build companies, brands, and legacies. I think in particular of one designer who has such a distinctive perspective and is absolutely sure of her style and vision, and has managed to brand herself extraordinarily well, through artful celebrity placement and the sleekest website and branding. She aggressively looks ahead, works obsessively, and sucks everyone into her little creative vortex; she is so damned intriguing that you have to drink the Kool-Aid.

Opening Up

A girlfriend and I went to the Halloween parade last night. We actually had a very adult Halloween, starting with pasta and Valpolicella at Le Zie, before we hurtled ourselves into the masses of beasts out for Halloween. In the mad crush at the corner of 14th and 5th Avenue, in the sort of crowd that is packed like sardines and surges suddenly, I was pickpocketed. My Blackberry Tour and my Ipod were stolen. Ignoring the fact that combined these were worth $800, there was an enormous amount of sentimental value attached to both. The Ipod case had a picture of the Virgin Mary on it. More devastating, my Blackberry had an enormous amount of pictures saved. The most important of these were dozens of pictures that my former boyfriend and I had taken of ourselves to send to each other when he was an ocean away. They weren't dirty or salacious, but silly and sweet. Sometimes sleepy, sometimes sunburned, sometimes displaying new shoes...they were the sort of pictures you take when the other person is so totally involved with you that they really care what you ate for lunch. They were sweet, each picture a tiny love letter that showed in that moment we could barely stand to be away from each other. Like the relationship, the pictures are now gone. After an emotional weekend, where my future doesn't seem to be outrunning my past, I was so overwhelmed that I came home last night, sat down and wept. I cried, really sobbed and heaved for about 10 minutes. When will I dig myself out of this hole and move on?

Back in the Saddle Again

For the first time since the big break up, I dipped my toes into the dating pool again. I find myself having neurotic conversations while poring over tiny little emails...in an instant, I become the girl I can't bear! I lose perspective in an instant, and beg for a Xanax to numb me. I keep saying, "I hate dating! I don't want to date! I want to wake up married again!" The wound, the hole left in my heart by the last relationship has scabbed over, but the scar tissue hasn't closed in yet. I want a man to jump right in and fix everything, to fix me before I even figure out what my problem is.
How long will it take to get Philippe out of my system?

Scorched Earth

Naomi Campbell always gets the juicy gigs. Photos from the Interview spread remind me of why I loved editorial fashion in the first place: fantastical, perverted, dark fantasies from dark corners of the brain, 2 dimensional theatre and most importantly...Naomi. The "Eastern Promises" reference is titillating.
Photos by Marcus Piggott and Mert Alas for Interview Magazine.

Aigo Buido

It has been said that the greatest food has come out of poverty's kitchen, and I believe I continued the tradition tonight. Last weekend I read the most glorious, inspiring book: "My Life in France" by Julia Child. Mdm. Cheeld is very en vogue right now, but her actual autobiography was so charming, it wiped away even memories of Meryl Streep. She described violent winds coming off the waters of Marseille, and making a particular garlic soup to warm their battered bodies. Reading her description of this garlic soup prompted me to go online and purchase the great volumes of "Mastering the Art of French Cooking".
As we are in the middle of a brutal fashion week, I didn't leave the office until 8pm tonight...and came home to look at a truly depressed refrigerator. Cottage cheese? Crackers? Jalapenos? YES, those could make a decent dinner, its true! But a few cloves of garlic hiding in a forgotten corner called my name, hollered "Corrie, we are about to sprout! Throw us in a pot, and voila! BOOOOON APPETIT!" So I whipped out my beautiful brand new cookbook and put together a rather low-brow version of Mdm. Cheeld's aigo buido. It was quite good, but I suspect if I had some really grown up accoutrement such as a soup tureen or proper strainer...or food products that weren't on the very cusp of undesirable....I could really whip up a gorgeous soup. Either way, I washed the soup down with a glass of Villa Antinori, in honor of my big girl effort in the kitchen.

I Don't Understand Why No One Likes Hedge Funders

A couple years ago, I briefly dated a hedge funder. This seemed like a coup for me at the time, as I was an unhappy waitress and he was a prerecession Master of the Universe. As with so many Masters and Conquerors and Napoleon Shih Tzus, he was lacking in many aspects. He wasn't particularly warm or kind, he was appropriately intelligent but obnoxiously wont to name-drop, and was just...off. I felt as though I met him when he was flying a bit too high, and I was cruising too low. I finally stopped returning his calls when I fell desperately in love with a man who adored me, and didn't feel the need to constantly brag about meetings on private jets with beseeching CEOs. Almost 2 years after our initial relationship, I reconnected with Hedge Fund for drinks, perhaps to see if I could handle him more adeptly at this new stage in life. Within 10 minutes of meeting ("God, you look great. So basically I got laid off but you wouldn't believe the size of my severance package.") I was immediately reminded that my first impression of him as a creep was correct. The recession hadn't been kind to him, and I privately reveled in his miseries. The night ended with him drunk and begging me to take him to my apartment; instead I kicked him out of the cab at a Path train station to go back to his Trump Tower abode in...Jersey City.
So another nine months after this meeting, imagine my surprise last night, as the hour neared midnight, when I received a text message from him:

"I hate fashion week."
I took the bait, out of champagne-infused curiosity.
"Why, Jimmy, why?"
"These bitches...there (sic) not even close to being as hot as you. What are the odds of me taking you out on Friday or Saturday night?"

I mean, honestly.
This morning I woke to a flurry of messages apologizing and explaining. Obviously I never returned his messages, because I was right from the beginning, but I love being right. A jerk is a jerk is a jerk. Even when his suits are tailored in Hong Kong and his sweaters are cashmere and his hair is handsomely peppered. That just don't make him right.

Cositas Ricas

We certainly had a close view of Colombian bounty tonight. If I could understand why I feel so much more myself in a place like Friends Tavern, I would likely have the secret to life. Friends, for homeboys not in the know, is a glorious gay bar located on Roosevelt Avenue, in Jackson Heights, Queens. Within 10 blocks, you can hit Little Colombia, Little Mexico, Little Ecuador, then round it all off with Little India. There are moments on this street that remind me of Tijuana: the color, the smell, the pandemonium.
Rach and I headed to Jackson Heights to get Mexican food, ate phenomenal corn on the cob (you have the option of slathering butter or mayonesa on the corn...Rach chose butter, with cheese and lime), tamales and tacos. Truth be told, I am really over white kids hitting these neighborhoods and glorifying their "obscure authenticity". The truth is that either these neighborhoods are a) too frightening, b) like a quick vacation across the border, or c) a brief whiff of home. The best part of the night by far was Friends Tavern. I have had the good fortune of visiting Friends before, with gay Colombians, and dancing until the wee hours. Fortunately, Rach and I hit the "Viernes a las siete STREEEPPER!" ("Fridays at 7pm, STRIPPER!") who quite literally mounted each of us then "dick-slapped" us. Was this phrase in my vocabulary before the experience? Not really. Do I fully understand what it means now? And plan to have my clothes sterilized? YES.
Then we cumbia-ed until we couldn't cumbia no more.
But what makes Jackson Heights special? Like any ethnic enclave, there is the flavor of home. The shopkeepers speak Spanish, the bars play salsa, the fryers are cooking samosas. There is something that speaks of that faraway home...in the past, but still in the present.
And did notice that Rach is wearing an ikat Etoile by Isabel Marant jumpsuit? With white Adidas? Bet you didn't.......

My Guy

Guy Bourdin is a juicy, bitter grapefruit with a delicate sprinkling of Splenda. He makes you think of moist sensuality...and lip gloss. His distinctive style smacks of sadism, and objectified sexuality. Nothing looks quite so delicious and ripe as Guy Bourdin girl, with her fan-blown hair and nekkid buttocks.

My Funny Valentine

Mr. Alexander McQueen RIP

Vogue Editor-in-Chief Anna Wintour called McQueen "one of the greatest talents of his generation."

I call him "One of the greatest talents...period" His edgy pieces were coveted and treasured by fashion junkies across the globe. Dramatic and perfectly tailored. His garments are art. His garments are sex.

Mr McQueen we bid you farewell. RIP.

This Little Piggy...

This little piggy took one Frenchman down to Maialino last Sunday afternoon, seeking robust wine and salty pork. I saw press photos of a raviolo oozing egg yolk the previous week and felt positively drawn to the restaurant; the Danny Meyer (of Union Square Cafe, Gramercy Tavern, Shake Shack, One Eleven Madison, and many other fantastically successful eateries) pedigree called my name. Danny Meyer and his undergraduate fantasy of Roman cuisine? I was enthralled.
Of course when expectations are so high, something is sure to fall short. But blame it on the diner: I should have known to only order the really Roman, offal-based dishes. Leave bruschetta to the Balenciaga babes. The oxtail was transcendent, and the cotechino was fantastic. However, as much as I enjoyed these two dishes, I still walked out into the glacially cold evening wanting more. The restaurant itself just didn't feel as dusty and sensuous as I wanted it to be; it didn't match my romantic memories of being a 17 year old, away from home for the first time. (Disregard the fact that I had never even been kissed....ever...so I'm not entirely certain where this torridly sensuous impression comes from.) I went back to the little armpit I call home and tootled about on the internet, before stumbling on to a picture of the most delectable, juicy, mayonnaisey lobster roll I have ever seen. I felt like the girl who went on her first post-break up date; although the new guy was satisfactory, I went home to look at old photos of that naughty ex-boyfriend.
- C