The Hedonistic Pleasureseeker

It’s festival time and I shall be a serving wench! Story to follow . . .

Scorpio says he’s more wrecked from this weekend than I am but I don’t think that’s possible. It was the last weekend at the Jersey shore so we made the most out of it. Don’t expect much from me tomorrow . . .

God/dess willing I’ll be hittin’ the road in a few hours. While I’m away all comments will be held in moderation to discourage vandals but I should be home soon!

 (The car is a Mazda and the nice lady who lost her pants is a Mendoza)

I have a confession to make: I couldn’t wait for Hump Day to grab life by the ass. I was a very bad girl tonight, and I wasn’t home to blog, I’m sorry! Do I get a spanking?

As for you my dears, it’s Hump Day, and you know the drill:  Get away from your monitor and do something worth writing about!

Time for my beauty sleep . . .

Hurricane Barry, June 2007

The first part of the weekend was sunny and hot, but unfortunately Hurricane Barry chased us into the casinos on Sunday. I hate casino noises, but my posse likes to play with the slot machines, so I endured the dingdingding! and people-watched. Otherwise I very much enjoyed the eating, drinking, laughing and shopping. I found a little pair of white short shorts at the Pier, ON SALE!

Did you know you’re not supposed to take pictures in the casinos? I didn’t! I took only a few and then I got caught. OOPS! Since it was raining I couldn’t take a decent outdoor picture, so I filled in the blanks with photos other folks have taken in the past. This series pretty well describes my day!

(The party started at the beach club at a resort attached to a private airfield, but it didn’t end there!)

Sadie, if you’re reading this CALL ME because I’ve found our posse! Holy SHIT my ears were ringing from all the hootin’ and hollerin’ last night! Some were drinking, some were “smoking,” some were doing both . . . granted I was doing neither, choosing a spectator role for the evening, but I had more fun last night than I’ve had in a loonnnggg time.

We’ll be in AC soon, probably trying to see how many casinos we can get kicked out of, and if their favorite Cuban highroller is in town the entertainment will be on a level you don’t often see. So send your squeeze to HOB and join us!

(Private dining at the Atlantic City Foundation Room)

I know I’ve been awfully quiet about my dating life.  Sorry ’bout that.

Actually, I’ve met two very nice men and I’m dating them both.  For now. I haven’t slept with either one of them yet as we’re still in the getting-to-know-you phase.  Am I on fire for one of them?  No, not yet.

Will you hear more about them?  Maybe. There is nothing mock-able about either of them; both are earnest and sincere.  However, despite their individual worthiness overall I find nothing remarkable about them.   Certainly intellectual compatibility is important to me and I have this in spades with both of them but I need connection that goes beyond mental engagement. It’s a soul thing.
I need that fire.  I need that spark.

Maybe it’s me.

(Westminster Dog Show award-winning Vivi, reportedly worth between $20,000 and $35,000 bust loose from her cage at JFK airport and disappeared last February. A year later she’s still on the lam. To this day her royal hawt dawginess is still making the news and there are still search teams and prayer vigils dedicated to her safe return. This should be proof to all, just in case there were any question, that whether human or canine so long as you are hawt you matter! If you disappear, you will make the news! You are high-value because you are hawt! So unless you’re very rich, or a very white woman, the rest of y’all are screwed should YOU disappear, cause you’re not hawt. No 24-7 news coverage for y’all cause you’re all just folks. Just sayin.’)

All flights to Florida may be termed the Romper Room Flight, because the hulls are always teeming with screaming children. One of them kicked the back of my seat the whole way to West Palm Beach! I flipped through my issuse of the Economist, figuring all was just par for the course. It was a bumpy flight, also par for the course.

Doc Johnson was waiting for me in the same place he did before. “Look at you!” he exclaimed, as we embraced each other excitedly.

“No, look at you!” I countered. He was a little bit older and heavier, but then again so was I so no matter. He looked well. “You look good!”

“You look great! Look at you!!! Miss D.A.R.!!!!!”

Some little spring went boi-oi-oing in my head. DAR????? Daughters of the American Revolution? “I can’t believe that of all the things about me THAT’s the thing you remember.”

“Are you kidding?” That’s the FIRST thing I remember about you! Miss little ladylike DAR! You’re half southern! I love that about you! Your mother’s side, right? Descended from French royalty and George Washington’s family! So girly and feminine, yes suh, no suh, ooooh sexy!” He started to pinch my fleshy bits. “Look at you!”

I cringed from his tickles. “So what you’re saying is that what you like most about me is that I’m pedigreed, like a dog.”

“Definitely. That and you’re very feminine. I love it. Love it!”

This would probably have been the right time for me to make him carry my fancy Louis Vuitton suitcase, since I was such a Southern Layday. But they gave these things wheels for a reason, non? So I kept walking, wheeling my bag behind me. I let him load it into the Jag. I was hungry.

“Let me take you to Luigi’s to meet my attorney,” he said. “You like the food at Luigi’s right? He’s waiting for us. He’s gonna love you. Look at you!”

It’s still a MONTH OF CHOCOLATE!

more to come!

(Scene from Miami Vice, the movie)

What started out as a long weekend on a yacht in Key West just turned into a commercial film shoot in Miami. That’s the thing about adventure: You never know where it will take you . . .

Bottom line: Until I fall in love again I’ll give my time to the people who can give me the best stories. Let the games begin! See you next week!

. . . nights like this are the most fun you’ve had in months?

And what’s really pathetic: I have actually had worse dates than this, several in fact. Yes, they were worse dates than an evening spent in an emergency room getting stuck with needles because they couldn’t find a vein and couldn’t figure out what was wrong with me. Seriously!

I’ll explain later as it’s 2:00 and I need to write to my bosses and tell them I’ll be late in the morning.

Oh . . . and . . . Scorpio says hi. Believe it or not from the sound of things he’s had worse dates than tonight too. It’s a jungle out there I tell you!

(Paul McCartney at the 2006 Grammy’s. I touched his shirt that day and was healed!)

I’ve been corresponding with Andrew; he’s met a nice local woman and he seems happy! Unfortunately this means I won’t be going to the Grammy’s this year. Oh well! They say if you’ve been to one awards show you’ve been to them all, right? Actually, I’m very happy for him, and more than willing to close this chapter of my life.  Hollyweird is well . . . weird.  Not my style at all, but it was fun while it lasted!

(The red eyes make this photo extra special)

I am home from the witches’ masquerade! I brought Bunny and we had a lovely time. We did plenty of socializing and dancing but alas, I am sorry to report that there was no debauchery. Certainly I was propositioned, but with no one I particularly wanted to debauch. Better luck next time?

I was thrilled to be able to see my favorite people again after many months of being away. In particular I was able to catch up a little with someone near and dear to my heart. He’s been on my mind lately . . . more about that later . . . perhaps.

In the mean time, if you are interested in a Venetian-styled masquerade mask of your own, look what I found! Gypsy Renaissance has a few lovelies, and if you are on the other side of the pond you may try the Naughty Magpie. Then again, if money is no object and you are looking for an authentic paper mache Venetian mask made in Venice, go to Visions of Venice. Drooooooooool!!!!! That’s where I’m getting my mask for next year’s party!

(Bunny looking very grown up)

I walked through Madison Square Gardens feeling a little bit confused and bewildered. I’d only been in Manhattan for about two minutes and I was already lost. First order of business: Buy a map!

The tourists were plentiful and it was a beautiful day for holiday shopping. Unfortunately this meant I was unable to hail a cab to save my life, so I had no choice but to hoof it in my three-inch stilletto boots while carrying my heavy leather overnight bag. Now I know why Manhattanites are more fit than the rest of the nation: They walk everywhere!

My mission was simple: Make my once-in-a-lifetime pilgrimage to Manolo Blahnik! However, first I had to walk the gauntlet of protestors separating me from my goal: I was the whitest person caught up in the NAACP’s protest against the NYPD, PLUS I had to endure a shouty throng of PETA protestors while wearing a fox-trimmed cream coat and rabbit-trim boots! Twenty four (count-em, 24) blocks later I was starving and my feet were killing me, but my spirits were high. The doorman unlocked the door and welcomed me. I had arrived at my personal Mecca.

I was about to push a boundary of mine: Today I was prepared to pay $500 for a single pair of shoes! Crazy, I know. I even had the cash to pay for them. It was such a simple desire, this yearning for an absolutely perfect pair of plain black Manolo Blahnik pumps. I’d been drooling over these shoes for years, and it had always been my dream to buy them during my next trip to New York. Unfortunately it appears every woman in New York, not to mention every out-of-town visitor with an expensive shoe fetish, has had the same yearning for the exact same pair shoes because the store has been sold out for three months! None of the other Manolos “sang” to me (was I ill?) so I left the store empty handed. It’s a good thing I did, because my clothes dryer broke two days later and I had to buy a new one for exactly the price of a new pair of Manolo Blahniks!

While sitting alone at a Thai restaurant eating my chicken with mango and drinking my tea I thought about another boundary I needed to cross: Spending a Saturday night alone in a public place, such as a bar, all by myself. Perhaps I could pull it off in New York City! I wandered around 5th and Madison Avenues visiting my favorite shops (Chanel, Dior, Vuitton, Tiffany’s, didn’t buy anything) looking for a nice watering hole at which to order an espresso martini. I was in an upscale area of town, so surely there would be somewhere safe and pleasant, and hopefully not too crowded! I walked to the Plaza but unfortunately it had just gone condo. I settled on Murals on 54, the restaurant attached to the Warwick Hotel.

I’m fully aware of my social anxieties and gave myself a little pep talk on the way in: Surely I would not die. Certainly everyone in this place would be nice! I walked up to the bar and ordered my espresso martini. Unfortunately the bartender didn’t know how to make one so I chose my fallback: Ketel One, up with a twist. I was going to be very, very drunk, but it was a long train ride home so no matter! I chose a seat at the end of the bar, close to the television. I looked around: Everyone was in their late 40’s or older and very elegantly dressed. Apparently I’d chosen well.

“Hello pretty,” said the man standing next to me. He was a tall and distinguished gentleman, perhaps in his mid-70’s, with a woman who appeared to be his wife. They seemed like a very nice couple.

“Hello,” I said, and then leaned back to give the woman a smile. “Hello!”

The woman was too short to look down her nose at me, so she just gave me the once-over, pursed her lips and looked away. Ooookay. I turned my attention to the college football game on the television. A few moments later I felt someone touching my hand. It was the man, stroking my sapphire ring.

“Pretty,” he said, as I snatched my hand away. Perhaps he was daft? “Your ring is pretty.”

“Thank you.”

He started stroking my arm. “You’re pretty.”

I left my drink on the bar.

I was surprised and a little frustrated to discover that the reason it took so long for me to get to Manhattan had nothing to do with distance and everything to do with the backup at the Lincoln tunnel. All the same, I arrived to my blind date with almost an hour to spare.

Ah, but what was I wearing? I was still having body image issues, so I decided to bury the pontoons the best I could under a Spanx girdle. My other plan was to cover everything up with a pretty burgundy velvet jacket. Unfortunately for a November day it was awfully warm, almost seventy degrees, so I ended up carrying it.

Underneath my jacket I wore the same dress I wore on my first date with Tex, just this LBD I bought on the Victoria’s Secret website. I wore sheer black hose (despite the fact that no sensible New Yorker wears pantyhose anymore) because my own legs are too white in the winter to pull off that barelegged look. A pair of Donna Karan ankle-strap pumps, like these only in black, completed the ensemble.

After several hours in my car I needed to pee like a racehorse, so when I reached my destination I rushed into the hotel across the street from where I parked my car. It was the Helmsley Park Lane, very elegant and very crowded. Two doormen greeted me kindly and followed me with their eyes as I made my way to the lobby. I felt as though everyone were staring at me. I hunched my shoulders a little, held my bunched-up jacket close to my chest, and scuttled into the ladies room like a roach. So much for remaining inconspicuous . . .

When I passed the mirror I discovered the reason people were staring at me: After four hours of driving, my carefully straight-ironed hair had refashioned itself into something spectacular! Horrified, I fished out a comb and managed to get it to look a little bit better, something similar to what this fine woman is sporting here. Still way too boofy, but I knew that wetting it down would only make it curl and perhaps frizz. This was the best I would be able to do for tonight: 1980’s Big Mall Hair. I was the perfect suburban New Jersey ambassador!

I checked my cell phone: I still had 45 minutes to kill. Perhaps I could walk downstairs and have a drink at the bar? No; the very thought of it made me want to die. Perhaps I could just have a seat in the lobby? No, because someone might approach me and try to pick me up, and I might just die. Perhaps I could just go chat up the doormen? No no no no no; they might not like it, and I might die. So here’s something I’ve never told y’all before, except for that one time I wrote about being shy and a little socially retarded: Although I’m happy and comfortable when I’m around people I know and trust, send me alone into a social situation and I will suffer from anxiety bordering on the clinical.

Consequently, instead of taking the supposedly deadly risk of interacting with a complete stranger, I wandered around the conference rooms. They were completely deserted, which is another way of saying they were perfect. I found a sofa, made myself comfortable and stared at the clock on my cell phone. Then I waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Welcome to my private little Hell.

(to be continued . . .)