“Just kidding.”
Suddenly a message popped up onto the BlackBerry’s screen. It read, Your search—G. Monterey—did not match any documents. No pages were found containing “G. Monterey.”
“That’s annoying,” I said.
Lauren looked over my shoulder at the message and frowned. She took the BlackBerry from me and tapped at the little machine a few times, trying several different versions of the name. Nothing came up.
“The UnGoogle-able man. God, how attractive,” she said finally. “I must hunt him down in Moscow.”
“What’s happened to the Make Out plan?” I asked.
“Maybe Monterey can be Number Two,” said Lauren.
“What if he’s seventy-nine years old?” I asked.
“Of course he’s not,” declared Lauren. “I can feel the vibe. I’m madly in love with him already.”
10
Gorgeous West Village Wives
G orgeous West Village Wives, as an indigenous tribe, are pretty much at the top of the New York food chain right now. Their natural habitat—specifically, the terrace at Pastis, the doorway of the Marc Jacobs store on Bleecker Street, and the stone steps outside their own West Ninth Street town-house—seems like a little Manhattan paradise all its own. No wonder it’s jammed with tourists all weekend now. The out-of-towners just stand there, open-mouthed, gazing at the G.W.V.W.’s blinding white teeth and wonderful hair, which is always shiny and swinging back and forth with the regularity of a metronome.
Liv Tyler, Olatz Schnabel, SJP—you can barely get a lunchtime table anymore at Saint Ambroeus on Perry Street for all the glamorous mommies and their buggies. These girls have fantasy careers (movie star being a fav), wear vintage Spanish ponchos to get coffee at Jack’s on West Tenth Street in the mornings, andnever seem to leave the house without their epidermis glowing in the manner of a girl who has just had spectacular sex. They ooze happiness and contentment even while pushing a Bugaboo Frog on six-inch Roger Vivier heels.
I can honestly say there is nothing quite as demoralizing for a newlywed than bumping into one of these extraordinary creatures at seven o’clock on a cold night on your way home from work. It hurts, it really does.
A few days after Hunter had gotten back, I’d decided to cook dinner at home. We were both exhausted from work and needed a cozy night in. Thack and I had been working long hours finalizing our spring order book, and Hunter had been locked in script meetings till late at night. I popped into Citarella on the corner of Ninth Street and Sixth Avenue to pick up some delicious Italian food for the evening. Just as I left the meat counter, I remembered that we had run out of Drano, so headed toward the back of the store to get some. As I was scanning the shelves, I started adding some more household items to my cart—Soft Scrub, toothpaste—all the domestic products that seem to be required in ever-increasing quantities once you are married. It was depressing actually, I thought, as I piled detergents and dishwasher powder into the cart.
The fact is, marriage comes with an awful lot of non-sexy, non-romantic projects. Like Drano shopping. However cute my new husband was, he went throughway more toilet paper than I did. For every six-pack of Charmin I lugged home, I felt a kilo of energy, that, pre-marriage, would have been allocated to love or sex, dissipate into the void of the supermarket checkout. New wives are never allowed to admit it, but being wed is, sometimes, a grind. Even a few weeks after your wedding. Sorry, but it’s the truth.
Last night, for example, I had found myself, against my own free will and better judgment, discussing how to deal with Hunter’s laundry over dinner with him. Prior to marriage, the only reason to discuss the washer-dryer over dinner was if you were intending to have sex on it. Then, later on, just as we were falling asleep in bed, Hunter had said to me, “Darling, I love you very much. Where are those
Suddenly a message popped up onto the BlackBerry’s screen. It read, Your search—G. Monterey—did not match any documents. No pages were found containing “G. Monterey.”
“That’s annoying,” I said.
Lauren looked over my shoulder at the message and frowned. She took the BlackBerry from me and tapped at the little machine a few times, trying several different versions of the name. Nothing came up.
“The UnGoogle-able man. God, how attractive,” she said finally. “I must hunt him down in Moscow.”
“What’s happened to the Make Out plan?” I asked.
“Maybe Monterey can be Number Two,” said Lauren.
“What if he’s seventy-nine years old?” I asked.
“Of course he’s not,” declared Lauren. “I can feel the vibe. I’m madly in love with him already.”
10
Gorgeous West Village Wives
G orgeous West Village Wives, as an indigenous tribe, are pretty much at the top of the New York food chain right now. Their natural habitat—specifically, the terrace at Pastis, the doorway of the Marc Jacobs store on Bleecker Street, and the stone steps outside their own West Ninth Street town-house—seems like a little Manhattan paradise all its own. No wonder it’s jammed with tourists all weekend now. The out-of-towners just stand there, open-mouthed, gazing at the G.W.V.W.’s blinding white teeth and wonderful hair, which is always shiny and swinging back and forth with the regularity of a metronome.
Liv Tyler, Olatz Schnabel, SJP—you can barely get a lunchtime table anymore at Saint Ambroeus on Perry Street for all the glamorous mommies and their buggies. These girls have fantasy careers (movie star being a fav), wear vintage Spanish ponchos to get coffee at Jack’s on West Tenth Street in the mornings, andnever seem to leave the house without their epidermis glowing in the manner of a girl who has just had spectacular sex. They ooze happiness and contentment even while pushing a Bugaboo Frog on six-inch Roger Vivier heels.
I can honestly say there is nothing quite as demoralizing for a newlywed than bumping into one of these extraordinary creatures at seven o’clock on a cold night on your way home from work. It hurts, it really does.
A few days after Hunter had gotten back, I’d decided to cook dinner at home. We were both exhausted from work and needed a cozy night in. Thack and I had been working long hours finalizing our spring order book, and Hunter had been locked in script meetings till late at night. I popped into Citarella on the corner of Ninth Street and Sixth Avenue to pick up some delicious Italian food for the evening. Just as I left the meat counter, I remembered that we had run out of Drano, so headed toward the back of the store to get some. As I was scanning the shelves, I started adding some more household items to my cart—Soft Scrub, toothpaste—all the domestic products that seem to be required in ever-increasing quantities once you are married. It was depressing actually, I thought, as I piled detergents and dishwasher powder into the cart.
The fact is, marriage comes with an awful lot of non-sexy, non-romantic projects. Like Drano shopping. However cute my new husband was, he went throughway more toilet paper than I did. For every six-pack of Charmin I lugged home, I felt a kilo of energy, that, pre-marriage, would have been allocated to love or sex, dissipate into the void of the supermarket checkout. New wives are never allowed to admit it, but being wed is, sometimes, a grind. Even a few weeks after your wedding. Sorry, but it’s the truth.
Last night, for example, I had found myself, against my own free will and better judgment, discussing how to deal with Hunter’s laundry over dinner with him. Prior to marriage, the only reason to discuss the washer-dryer over dinner was if you were intending to have sex on it. Then, later on, just as we were falling asleep in bed, Hunter had said to me, “Darling, I love you very much. Where are those
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