The Substitution Method

N is a fancy lad. He makes a good amount of coin, so yesterday I tagged along with him as he scoured Madison Avenue looking for the perfect pair of black loafers. For the first time in my life, I entered Gucci. I entered Tod's. I entered Prada. I followed N around Barney's and sat with him and tried to look nonchalant as he tried on $375 leather shoes.

During our shopping trip, I could feel him pulling back. As usual.

When I get that vibe from him, I try to fade back myself. It's hard, though, because all I want to do is wrap him up in my arms and kiss his soft right cheek and make sure he's not cold.

After our foray into luxury retail goods, he left me in the rain at the 59th Street subway stop so I could catch an uptown train.

"I want to go home with you," I told him between goodbye kisses.

"I...," he said when his mouth wasn't on mine. "No...I have so much to do."

"I'm a good muse," I said. Another kiss.

"I won't get anything done," he said.

We parted, and I felt lost.

As if on cue, Sunny called my cell within roughly two minutes of when I stepped into the subway turnstile and interrupted my emotional paralysis. I went over to her place for red wine and mac and cheese.

Sunny and I ended up going downtown ostensibly to see a band with our friends but actually to get out of our respective love funks. I invited along a cute 23-year-old screenwriting student from L.A. that I met on Christmas Eve and had instant chemistry with, mostly to forget about N and have some fun for once.

Roughly four Bud Lights later, I was in tucked into one of the bar's red leather booths, deep into conversation with the Screenwriter. We had seen the same movie recently, we both love Mad Men, we both have the same favorite stand-up routines, and then the Screenwriter's fingers were interlaced with mine and he was looking into my eyes and kissing me hard.... Before I knew it, I was hurtling uptown with him, in a cab bound for the Upper East Side. It all happened so quickly.

The Screenwriter and I are hanging out again tonight -- packing a picnic and watching the fireworks in Central Park. I don't really want to go. I already miss N terribly and feel guilty about the Screenwriter, and, if we're being honest, I'd rather take a Xanax tonight and zone out alone, cradling a bottle of red and watching HBO OnDemand.

But I know I have to get over N. I have to at least fill my life with non-N things so the entirety of my thoughts don't become N, with all of his hangups and half-promises and glimmers of hope and letdowns and mood swings.

I wish we could choose whom we love.

The Fantasy is Better than the Reality

Somewhat ironically, I was drinking with my coworkers at a bar in Midtown when an ad for the season finale of Mad Men appeared on the bar's TV screen. One of the higher-ups lightly slapped me on the shoulder and said, "Look! It's our show!" We gazed, transfixed, at the television, even though we couldn't hear any dialogue. When Pete Campbell, Vincent Kartheiser's character, appeared, I said, steadily, "I'm going to marry him." "I thought you were going to marry Zac Efron," my boss said. "Well, him too," I said, "if he's not gay."

Tonight, I watched said season finale of Mad Men and...wow. Just wow. I won't ruin it for those who haven't seen it, but even though I think the writers sort of phoned it in with a couple of plot twists, I am still hooked. And my obsession with Vincent Kartheiser somehow continues, despite his character Pete being the ultimate smarmy silver-spoon weasel he is.

So, um, I decided to do some research on Mr. Kartheiser. In an effort to learn more about my second future ex-husband I went to a cute VK (in the parlance of the Web) fansite, The Ultimate Charm. (Ultimate charm, indeed!)

And now I know why I stopped reading anything superfan-related after my obsession with New Kids on the Block and Kirk Cameron ended. Facts ruin the illusion.

Five facts about Vincent Kartheiser that totally make me want to break our fake fantasy engagement:

-He dated Rachael Leigh Cook. Something about that is just so...late-'90s and ew to me.

-He failed the ninth grade. *UPDATE: But graduated from UCLA with a history degree! Let's not forget that! (See comments.)

-This was an actual quote he gave an actual publication: ''I think learning is such a great thing. I just want to learn and really just want to go out see the world.'' Totally, man.

-He is a big fan of the band Phish. (Though I might be able to overlook this, because he also likes Tool.)

-He smokes. Normally this would not be a dealbreaker for my fake boyfriends, but I quit almost two years ago, and I ain't never going back. *UPDATE: Apparently, I stand corrected on this point. My sources (and by "sources" I mean "a commenter") tell me that he quit right before the pilot of Mad Men, which in my opinion seems like the opposite way to go, considering how much they all smoke in the show. Wish I worked on the show -- then I'd have an excuse to start smoking again. Mmmm...smoking.... Ahem. But, seriously, who really knows if he's quit or not?

So, forget it, Vincent! No matter how much you beg, there's no way we're going to get married and move to the suburbs now. You blew it. No-- no crying. No pleading. Get off your knees and just accept it.

Uh, but if you happen to be in New York for, say, a night...for business...or, you know, pleasure...let's talk. I'll wear my best pencil skirt and take you to the Flatiron Lounge. And I'll let you call me Peggy.

Happy Hour

I went to the Bar that Shall Not Be Named last night after work in order to down a couple of Miller Lite drafts and promptly fall into my bed. It's tricky, though, going to the Bar that Shall Not Be Named by myself, namely because I tend to attract lonely, well-meaning old-timers.

I had a beer all on my own, in blissful silence, and then a well-dressed, silver-haired man carrying a glass of Chardonnay stepped into the bar from the patio, stumbling, drunk, into the doorjamb as he crossed the threshold.

I immediately said to myself, "This is going to be my drinking buddy for the night." And, sure enough, he sat down right next to me, and before I knew it, we were deep into a discussion about 20th-century novelists. I like to think that under my neuroses, there's something calm about me that makes older men gravitate to barstools near me. Or, you know, maybe they just aren't that picky and are attracted to my shiny blond hair. But I prefer the former explanation.

His name was Tom. He said he was 55, but I would have pegged him for 62. It felt very Mad Men, our smooth cameraderie and talk about work and careers and goals. (If this were the show, and not a dive bar in Midtown, I would have been Joan, easy.) Our conversation veered toward relationships, because all conversations had at a bar past 11 p.m. veer toward relationships. He filed for divorce from his wife after 29 years together, he said. They had a happy 11 years, and then they had kids. Eighteen years later, they looked at each other and said, "Who the hell are you?" (His words.)

Maybe I looked like a deer in headlights, frightened of this thing that could easily happen to any couple, or maybe I just nodded at him to go on, but this is the next thing he said to me: "Here's my advice for keeping a marriage together: Have sex all the time. Fuck the kids." It was a poor choice of words on his part, but I got the point. He continued. "Not just sex, but movies, walks. You forget those things when you're raising kids."

We talked more, but that was the salient part of the conversation: the urgency he felt in telling me -- telling anyone -- how to avoid what had happened to him.

He then told me about his German girlfriend, 15 years his junior. He told me he buys her things -- jewelry, clothes, dinners, whatever she wants. I was suspicious of that -- his watch didn't look expensive enough. But he said the one thing she won't do is have sex in their car, in the parking garage, after he buys her jewelry. Should I have been offended? Maybe. But I got the sense that this genuinely bothered him. And, after all, it was sort of a quid pro quo: I buy you a $12,000 necklace, and you give me...what? So I took him seriously. Maybe I shouldn't have. But here's what I told him:

If you want a woman to do something for you, make her think she's working for it. Over dinner, tell her, "There's something I've been wanting to do and -- no, I'm sorry. I can't tell you." She'll then try and pry it out of you. Resist as long as possible. Use the bread basket as distraction. Refuse to tell her, and act embarrassed if she presses. Then, finally, after a good half-hour, hour, or half-day, relent. After you tell her your fantasy, say, "And the strange part is, I've only thought about doing this with you. The thought didn't cross my mind until we were together." Sold. Close the deal. She's yours. Aaaaand you're welcome.

Tom paid for all of my drinks, even the ones I had had before he got there; he also made a drunken yet valiant attempt to pick up the cute 23-year-old British bartender for me (no thanks, Tom -- been there and done that at the Bar that Shall Not Be Named); and then, before I left, he slurred, "So, do you want to fuck?" Again, I know that most women would have been offended. Maybe I should have been. But part of me knew that for this guy, it was most likely something he felt he should do -- something old-school that's required of you when you buy dames drinks. I declined. Of course I did. He knew I would, and he seemed relieved when I laughed and said no. We hugged goodbye.

After I left, I thought, "This is what bars can be in New York. Two strangers from opposite ends of the social/financial spectrum, sharing drinks and good -- if not slightly racy -- conversation instead of sitting in their apartments alone."

Obsession without Pity

I enjoy rediscovering Television Without Pity when I get obsessed with a new TV show. If I recall, the only shows that have inspired me to scour the well-written and funny TWOP recaps and near-obsessive message boards are Lost and Mad Men.

And, oh, do I love me some Mad Men. That's what I spent my downtime at work doing today: Reading the TWOP recap and message boards of my favorite episode: "The Hobo Code." The opening scene is the hottest sex scene I've seen on television, um, ever...especially since watching the characters of Pete and Peggy interact is occasionally so relatable it's creepy. (Slimy ad exec Pete bears not a passing resemblance to a certain ex of mine, both in looks and disposition.)

Mad Men was created by brilliant Sopranos writer/executive producer Matthew Weiner, and one of the things I most appreciate about the show is its attention to detail -- how a cigarette dispenser can take on an almost lifelike quality (there was a good Times article about this) or how a certain hairdo or dress on a character can reveal so much about her. They even mentioned one of my favorite books (and the indirect source of my photo up top), The Best of Everything, in one episode. You can find a bunch of fun trivia about the show and the inspiration for some of the locations, furniture, clothing, etc. on AMC's website. And that the storyline and characters are nuanced and well-thought-out goes without saying. When this season ends, I am going to feel the void.

I like to joke, sometimes, that the show is taking over my life: I recently ordered my very first dirty martini, because I was inspired by a restaurant scene in the show; I'm ogling this vintage-feel J. Crew dress; and up next in my Netflix queue is the classic flick The Apartment, which was just mentioned on a recent MM episode. As Ace Ventura said, "Obsess much?" Eh, maybe. But when a show's this good, sometimes you have to let yourself get swept away.

Off the Wagon

Here in the city, there's actually a bar named Off the Wagon, so maybe I should have gone there for my inaugural drink last weekend. Instead, I celebrated seven days of sobriety at a new Irish pub in my 'hood (not my usual hangout, the Bar that Shall Not Be Named) that has karaoke on Sundays. I sipped my Bud Light draft(s), chatted up some interesting fellows at the bar, including a fabulously good-looking chef, and sang the following songs:

"Black Velvet," by Alannah Myles
"My Favorite Mistake," by Sheryl Crow
"Why," by Annie Lennox (kind of a downer, but the crowd was sweet and attentive nonetheless)
"Don't Stop Believin'," by Journey

I felt my night was a rousing success and a fantastic entree back into the world of booze. It's my goal to respect the drink -- to harness its power and keep the abuse to a minimum. In the week that I've returned to drinking, I've only done a couple of dumb things -- namely frequenting the Bar that Shall Not Be Named a couple of times and sending some ill-advised text messages to a certain Brazilian bartender who's not having any of it.

But I'm working at getting past this awkward life stage.

I am trying -- as hard as possible, after this breakup and during this new life that I'm carving out for myself -- to be normal, which, for me, Jane, is sometimes hard. Much like the drink, I'm learning to respect my individuality and my quirkiness -- to understand when it works for me and cut it off when I go into overdrive. It's exciting, being single: I have new interests and new likes that I'm not sure would have been possible had life not been stripped down to its barest: just me.

So (because I'm such a huge fan of lists) here is what I'm digging right now -- what I've discovered now that I'm on my own and learning to get along with that:

New favorite bar: the Russian Vodka Room
- Stepping inside is like transporting yourself into the 1940s -- or the 1950s, at the very latest. They have a piano player who sings songs in Russian and a sweet veteran female bartender who will bring you a new drink, no questions asked, if you accidentally spill yours. (Not that I would know this firsthand.)

New favorite musician: Feist
- Check her out on iTunes. I'm listening to her newest album for the first time as I type this, and it's fantastic.

Old favorite musician who's going to blow up huge in no time flat: Sara Bareilles
- I saw her at the Bowery Ballroom a couple of weeks ago, and she's rapidly developing a fanbase that will preclude her from appearing at any more small venues for the rest of her career. I'm happy for her, but I'm sad that she's not my obscure little piano gal anymore. She's opening for Maroon 5 this summer, and I consider that a nail in the indie coffin.

New favorite vacation destination: Miami
- Can't remember the last time I took a vacation that didn't involve going to see relatives. A girlfriend from work and I are buying our tickets tomorrow for a trip to a place I've only fantasized about going. And the hotel looks beautiful and inviting.

New favorite TV show: Mad Men
- There are so many amazing things about this show that I can't enumerate them all here. This is AMC's original series about Madison Avenue ad execs in 1960, and it leaves nothing untouched, including the rampant sexism and racism of the period. Love the costumes, love the actors, love everything about it. It reminds me a little of one of my favorite books, The Best of Everything.

What fun things are you guys obsessed with right now? Do share if you feel so inclined.


And, of course, listen to Blogstein and me keep on rockin' in the free world Tuesday night at 9 on Blog Talk Radio. We'll be expecting you, so show up on time, pen and paper in hand, ready to take notes.