Since my life has recently become too hectic to continue writing for Guest, I have returned to WordPress to resume Queen Samantha’s Weblog. I can’t say that I was happy to leave Guest; but there was a moment – which involved a squirrel, a cilantro plant, and a song – when I knew it was inevitable. I wish only the best for Rachelle, Guest, and the rest of the team and hold out high hopes of returning in the fall.

Squirrels and cilantro plants aside, my scheduled existence has been graced by a few good things. I’m talking LOTS of recession sales (70% off Marc Jacobs shoes WHAAAT???), Obagi skincare products, DIY tomato pollination, Hercules, lovesickness, and an old nemesis who’s broke, jobless, and pregnant with a Mongoloid’s child. I don’t mean to sound harsh. Rest assured, I love Mongoloids.

I do hope to resume writing at least once per day. I can do that here since, contrary to Guest, I don’t have to be cool to write on my own site. In fact, I can be the Pariah of social pariahs and I will STILL get hits, if for no other reason than because, months ago, I added a picture of an English Bulldog to a post. Since the country has been swept with English Bulldog fever, provenance yet unknown, I can type up the phone book and still get hundreds of hits per day from people seeking pictures of their favorite pooches. So here’s to English bulldogs. And manorexia doesn’t hurt, either (figuratively speaking).

(Fear not — the picture above is a photoshopped image submitted to Worth 1000 for it’s “Fasting Time 2” contest.  Worth 1000, by the way, is the coolest site I’ve been to in a while.)

Dear Readers,

Unfortunately, my life has become to hectic to maintain a healthy work/life/blogging balance. It is for that reason, that I will stop posting on Queen Samantha’s Weblog and post only on Guest of a Guest. I will be back in June, so don’t fret — my absence will be but temporary. Please enjoy Guest in the meantime — there are lots of talented writers there, writing about lots of interesting things. But don’t forget who sent you. ;o)

S

Wow. I thought that posting the lyrics to love songs on your profile and changing your relationship status were public enough. I had no idea. In today’s tech-savvy world, there really are countless ways to humiliate those you were once intimate with. And for us voyeurs, who needs reality shows when you have genuine, unscripted angst accessible from your desktop? Take, for example, the blogosphere. Or more specifically, this weblog, where an old flame confronted me on the specifics of our (not-so) romantic relationship, while another attempted to oust my identity on my “About Me” page (just as a FYI, us bloggers know where comments come from, despite any not-so-clever attempts to conceal it using pseudonyms and bogus email addresses). Oh, but my trivial encounters are the tip of a very large, emotionally-charged, electronic iceberg.

Enter actress and playwright Tricia Walsh-Smith, airing the dirty laundry of soon-to-be-ex-husband and Broadway bigwig, Philip Smith. And you thought your parents’ divorce was bad. Watch a teary Tricia discuss everything from her “evil” stepdaughter to the nitty-gritty of her prenup to her husband’s porn and Viagra use. The whole thing is sad, but Tricia does have a sense of humor, which makes the video EXTREMEMLY entertaining.

So how do we protect ourselves from public disgrace? The answer: DON’T TRUST ANYONE. Or maybe, don’t treat anyone SO badly and avoid involvement with crazies. And beef up on your knowledge of defamation laws in effect in your jurisdiction. Then sit back and enjoy the ride. And what a ride it could be (just ask Philip Smith)!

Things with Mr. Zegna have been progressing smoothly. We’re almost ready to plant tomatoes. Almost. We passed the exclusivity road mark a few miles back and I am happy to say that most of his women, save for one, have finally stopped calling. Stay tuned for brilliantly-hatched plans on how to put the kibosh on the calling from this Last Mohican — I promise lots of sadistic humor and political incorrectness. Until then, however, I need to figure out what to do with my Last Mohican. Or, rather, Mr. Valdez.

It’s not that Mr. Valdez is in the dark and/or holding out hope for a happy ending (take that literally or figuratively). No, he doesn’t keep calling (and calling, and calling), despite his knowledge of my new status. Mr. Valdez is drama-free — a man after my own heart. I needed only to tell him that Mr. Zegna and I are riding into the sunset and that there’s no room for him in the car. My problem with this is that Mr. Valdez is a cool, laid-back, attractive, tall, ambitious, successful, sophisticated, well-educated, and well-dressed 29-year-old with an accent. You don’t have to be long single in New York to know that men like Mr. Valdez are few and far between. And like any hot commodity, any delicacy, any designer dress that’s been hanging in your closet unworn because it just doesn’t fit right … it feels wrong to just throw it out. You MUST pass it on. Mr. Valdez is the gourmet, hand-made chocolate that I received as an Easter gift but which my waistline couldn’t handle. I gave the chocolates to Mr. Zegna’s mother; however, I think she would be an inappropriate repository for Mr. Valdez. Not sure, but it’s just a hunch. That and, like any good European mother, she fed the chocolate right back to me. We want Mr. Valdez permanently (or at least semi-permanently) placed — in a good home, of course, but a more enduring one than Zegna Mom’s fridge (although I’m not complaining. Nothing can heal the soul like a European mother and the food that she packs up for you in plastic shopping bags).

So, I’ve decided that I must pass him on to one of my single friends. Is that inappropriate? And if it’s not inappropriate in spirit, how do I close the transaction in a manner that doesn’t render it practically inappropriate? If I can clear the idea with Mr. Zegna (although, much to my surprise, I recently learned that I haven’t earned the same consideration from him in the past), I will invite Mr. Valdez to a gathering. Soon. Before the opportunity gets all white and tasteless. Or before moths eat holes in it. You get the point.

It’s 4:00 on a sunny Friday. Temperatures are in the low 70’s and you’ve managed to bullshit through your last assignment, put off the rest, and dodge your bosses on the way to the elevator. Yes, you’re free for the weekend – the beautiful, beautiful weekend. It’s time to meet your beau and head over to the parking garage. After all, rush hour is upon you, dinner reservations are at 7, and you would like to love up your beau and have a cocktail before then. More importantly, Borgata is roughly two and one-half hours away and the tables are calling both of your names. The car is packed up, your new Alice & Olivia dress hangs from the “oh shit” handles in the back, the Gucci sandals that you bought last spring and haven’t worn nearly enough are sitting at the foot of the back seat in eager anticipation of reacquainting. And then … you’re off. Sunglasses on, wind in your hair … and you’ve made it through the Lincoln Tunnel without incident. You can taste the free dirty martinis already. Beau takes the ramp onto the Garden State Parkway, and you are exuberant, dancing in your seat to some Eurotrash beats with all the excitement of youth and freedom. Then, “Fuck,” he says.

You see nothing but brake lights. And just like that, you’re back in the office — stressed, frustrated, and more than a tad disappointed. And when you’re feeling bad, everyone must know it: “Good work taking the Parkway. I told you the Turnpike would be a better bet.” Pouting and arguing ensues and like THAT, your fairytale of an afternoon goes sour. (Don’t worry, not too much time passes before you realize that you’re being a jackass, offer kind words, make some concessions and conciliatory gestures, and then all becomes a fairytale once again).

WELL, after Microsoft unveils it’s ClearFlow system, we will all be better able to avoid snafus like the one described above. ClearFlow uses complex technology, which I don’t understand, that enables it to vary your driving directions based on current conditions and congestion projections. Unfortunately, the software will be available only from a desktop via Microsoft’s Live.com site and there’s no word on whether ClearFlow will integrate live traffic conditions. Personally, we would like a mobile version, perhaps built into our GPS, that would be smart enough to know live traffic conditions and map accordingly. ClearFlow, however, is certainly a step in the right direction and we applaud Microsoft for taking the reigns in our epic quest to make modern life more enjoyable.

I have been spending a lot of time in Hoboken lately. Lots of great stuff in Hoboken, along with a high concentration of yuppies, baby carriages, and dogs. Coming from the Upper East Side, I’m beginning to wonder … Is this my inevitable fate? Yuppies, baby carriages, and dogs? And if so, the real question is: purebred or mutt?

Growing up, I never liked dogs. I felt that they were emotionally shallow animals. And really, who wants to invest all that time in an animal — all the training, playing, walking, feeding, poop-scooping — who will love up anyone and everyone? My thought was that if I’m going to do all of that, I want to be the undeniable favorite. In an ideal world, my pet would ignore, if not attack, anyone who wasn’t me (without incurring a lawsuit, of course, since we’re dealing with the ideal world). So, cats were my pet of choice. Then I went to therapy. Now I like dogs. They really are emotionally complex and super cute. Not to mention that as a single woman, I would like to avoid the stigma of owning cats. Oh, and there’s no good way to house a litter box in a 320 sq. ft. apartment. At least, not when you’re as lackadaisical (read: lazy and messy) as I am.

So, back to my inevitable fate. I have to believe that someday I will have a dog, since I am white, yuppie, and no longer harbor any principled objections to the canine disposition. Once I realized this, the question then became, “Which breed of dog should I get?”, which broke down into three inquiries: (1) Which breed is calm? After all, barking and jumping is unnecessary in the grand scheme of things and I would like a dog that shares this outlook. (2) Which breed is the least social? I work a lot and although I would hire a walker to hang out with the dog once or twice while I’m at work, I don’t want an excessively needy dog. There’s nothing more depressing than a depressed dog. (3) Which breed will complete my “look”? The small dogs that live in designer handbags are too prissy. Retrievers and labs are too … family. Boxers are too sporty. You get the idea.

Of course, I say all of this partly in jest, but I’d be lieing if I said that the thoughts didn’t cross my mind. Anyway, back in February, “I Love NYC Pets” month made me think, “Would I really opt for a purebred dog when there are so many homeless, unloved dogs right here in Manhattan?” In that moment I decided that a mutt would be the Right choice, despite the fact that the specific behavioral traits of these dogs may be harder to predict. I just can’t justify risking the life of a perfectly worthy, homeless dog just because everyone around me has carefully selected the perfect accessory canine. Or maybe a mutt is my perfect accessory canine, as I consider myself a non-conforming conformist. Regardless, I’ve decided that mutts are great and if I get a dog, a mutt it will be. Maybe even a large, black mutt, if I’m feeling particularly anti-establishment.

This past week, however, I’ve found myself shacking up in Hoboken with Mr. Zegna, who has had his heart set on an English bulldog since … ever. What is a mutt-lover to do? Not that we plan on getting a dog anytime so soon, but if things progress in the next year, how will I negotiate this impasse? Not to mention, does such a drastic difference in choice of dogs represent deeper, irreconcilable personality traits?

I guess I shouldn’t get ahead of myself. Before Mr. Zenga, I couldn’t see beyond planting tomatoes with someone. Now dogs? That’s a big step … perhaps I should just focus on convincing Mr. Zegna that planting big boy tomatoes would be a better idea than planting a strain of the lower-yeilding, yet trendier, heirloom tomatoes. Baby steps …

As a woman, it is so difficult to know when to be strong and when to be vulnerable. Even worse, confusing the two can spell relationship disaster. Like many women, I tend to put my guard up during the courtship. Subconsciously I think to myself, “Stay independent, stay in control, he won’t be able to hurt you.” If you tell yourself those things often enough, you will never fall. When it ends, you will feel no pain. Those mantras, however, are also likely to ensure that (1) there is an end; and (2) you will derive no emotional benefit from the relationship in the interim. How does that saying go? No risk no reward? Well, it applies to love and money alike. Ladies (and gentlemen, albeit in a different way), if only we could realize that in this context, our “strength” is nothing more than a manifestation of profound weakness. So when does the guard go down?

Like many other women, if I do allow myself to love someone despite my best subconscious efforts to the contrary, the guard goes down with the relationship. That is, I’ll be kinder and less “strong” as the relationship grinds to a halt. This is because regardless of emotional woes, I am a fighter. If I care about someone, I will fight for them, despite my personal dealings with trust and guards and abandonment and all of that. Unfortunately for me, this often ends with my morphing into a doormat, only to accumulate enough emotional baggage to ensure that I make the same mistakes the next time. That is why we women have this all wrong. It is during this phase that the guard should be up. When we get to this point, he may care but he has made up his mind about us. Efforts to fight it will only delay the inevitable and result in an entirely frustrating, emotionally draining breakup.

Therein lies my personal route to “relationship road kill” status. I guard myself, opting out of the traditional “hard to get”game in favor of a more austere and self-defeating “impossible to get” game. I’ve danced this dance with many and what I haven’t realized until recently is that men are more perceptive than we women give them credit for. They sense when we invest no emotional captial in therelationship. They know when we’re ready to leave if we have to. They know that we don’t need them (oh, we’ve made that clear enough). In the end, they know that on some level, they have nothing to lose.

If you’re like me and you play the “impossible to get” game, the worst isn’t over when you recognize this dynamic. The worst part is negotiating a comfortable yet functional line between “impossible to get” and “hard to get.” Or better yet, a line between safeguarding your heart and dignity and trusting someone not to mishandle them. To say that the guard should be up only if he mistreats you may be an oversimplification; but it’s close to the truth. Now, if only I could stop dating men with the same or similiar issues, maybe I could really make some progress.

Not too long ago I read an article reporting on the closing of Wolfie Cohen’s Rascal House Restaurant. Yes, after 54 years anchoring New York-style, Jewish-American culture into the bedrock of South Florida, the establishment has given way to South Beach’s premiere gourmet superstore, Epicure Market. Once independent businesses, both Epicure and Rascal House were acquired by the National Deli Corporation (or Jerry’s Famous Deli, Inc.?), whose bottom-line was ostensibly effected by Rascal’s diminishing clientèle. So, just as New York recently fortified its stronghold on South Florida with the opening of Gansevoort South, it has relinquished control of Miami Beach’s northern perimeter. Or has it? Jewish-American cultural icon replaced by gourmet groceries. Come to think of it, that sounds a lot like New York.

I am loathe to see Rascal House go. Not only will I never again have the opportunity to use the “secret door,” which opened at 4:00 and allowed patrons in-the-know to duck the ridiculously long dinner lines that wound around the property; lines full of shaky perfumed hands adorned with oversized, 1950’s dinner rings and bracing for the weight of oversized pastrami sandwiches served just beyond the glass doors; to sit among whimsical 6-ft. plaster statues of “rascals,” little white devils that watched over us from pedestals above and between our booths; and to wait anxiously, hungrily, for our bread basket, which would always come filled with small onion rolls, challah rolls, pumpernickel onion rolls, and other fresh-baked goodies that the waitress would bag and that my grandmother would slip into her “pocketbook” (along with some packets of Sweet’N Low). I will miss all of that, but I suppose those opportunities were lost long before Rascal House shut their doors.

No, what saddens me most about the end of Rascal House is that it represents the end of an era and the end of a generation, both in Florida and across the nation. In Florida, it signifies a shift in status from “God’s waiting room” to bastion of contemporary glamor and yuppie-dom. Long gone are the days when pastel-stucco hotel/motels lined the beaches, when traffic wasn’t congested, when small, blue-haired ladies would weed through roasted chickens and loaves of rye bread in Publix. South Florida has changed as the first wave of (largely Jewish) emigrating northerners came and left.

South Florida, however, isn’t the only place that has changed. The gentrification of the Lower East Side of Manhattan has resulted in a watering-down of the Jewish-American culture there, as well, resulting in a similar Rascal-House-come-Epicure-Market phenomenon. I suppose that the lives of cities are cyclical — just ask the inhabitants of Astoria, who have watched the Grecian character of their neighborhood give way to the tastes and demands of newly immigrating Middle Eastern residents . The fabric of our communities change as first-comers leave and newcomers arrive. In South Florida and on the Lower East side, newcomers are less interested in “chicken in the pot” than “tarragon-roasted organic chicken breasts.” Such is life. It would be nice if someone — maybe a historical society — would document the culture and vibrancy of these lost communities. I hope someone has. It’s too sad to think that a couple of generations are all it will take for them to be gone forever.

What twisted webs we weave. I can’t even begin to recount the recent weeks of drama with Mr. Zegna. Actually, I could, but I’ll spare you. Our current status is “technically together.” Translation: I’m on hold. And that’s not a cynical translation. Literally, we have agreed that he may reserve me for a couple of weeks while he gets his head together and decides whether he wants to continue our relationship. I agreed to this because 1) he is mourning the loss of his father; 2) I’ve fallen for him; 3) I have apparently become something of a pushover; and 4) I should be working, not dating, anyway. So, Mr. Zegna and I are “taking a break” from our one-week-old relationship, but have agreed not to date other people. And I am officially in the weirdest dating scenario this side of the Maury Show.

Anyway, like I said, doing my own thing … working on some stuff in Juan Valdez, Colombia’s answer to Starbucks. But instead of working, I’m really asking my friend across the table whether she really, really thinks I should take Mr. Lead Singer Man up on his month-old drink offer. When I initially turned him down, I said that I might need a raincheck; she thinks I should call, but I don’t want to do Mr. Zegna dirty. Sure, I feel a little taken for granted, a little rejected, a little “what the fuck,” but I know that he’s in a Hard Place. Still, how many guys am I going to pass up before Mr. Zegna finally settles on a decidedly indecisive, “I want this, but I’m not ready for it right now”? Because if he really wanted me, I’m not convinced that he’d be so conflicted.

But like I said, I’m not obsessing.

Back to Juan Valdez. Day turns to night, my friend leaves, and I’m tweaked out on large lattes. As a side note, I like that Juan Valdez still uses the unassuming “small-medium-large” system. Nothing makes me feel more like a trained poodle than ordering my drink size in a foreign language. This is especially so because the tall-grande-venti thing makes no sense; it’s essentially “large” (in English, Pac-NW vernacular), “large” (in Italian), and “20 oz” (also in Italian, also … large). But I digress. Anyway, there is a guy sitting at the table behind where my friend had been sitting. We’ll call him, “Mr. Valdez.” He’s wearing designer black frames (2 Points) and has been there as long as I have, studying something that looks business-y (4 Points). He’s definitely cute — medium brown hair, ice blue eyes, full lips (4 Points). We make eye contact. I break it. I always break it. He gets up to use the restroom. “Would you mind … looking at my things?” I assume this means he wants me to watch his stuff while he’s in the bathroom; another interpretation might be inappropriate. “Sure,” I said with a smile (always with a smile. It’s my excuse for being lazy about making conversation; at 1000 words per smile, you don’t have to talk too much.). I see that he is tall (3 Points) and well-dressed (4 Points). He stood on line for the bathroom, less than a foot from my table (near the bathroom + access to electrical outlet = prime coffeehouse real estate, in case you didn’t know) and proceeded to make a phone call. He spoke with an accent (1 Point). When he returned to his seat, he thanked me. “Your welcome,” I said, again with a smile. Our conversation ended there. I’m not an extrovert, not to mention Mr. Zegna and I are technically together until he figures out that he doesn’t want to be together, so I shouldn’t be striking up conversations with strange attractive men with accents.

The eye contact persists. I persist in breaking it. “It is cold in here, isn’t it?” he asks me from his table. “Yeah … it’s cold, then hot, then cold. I think they’re not using this as much as they should today,” I said, gesturing toward the heater that occupied the space between our tables and the floor-to-ceiling windows. He agreed and we exchanged awkward smiles. I continued working. And did I mention that it was awkward? Every now and then he looked up at me from his books as I thought, “I can feel you looking at me. I know you want to talk to me. Just start talking if you want to talk.” As I pretended to work unaffected, it dawned on me that I wanted him to talk to me, which I knew because the prolonged interruption didn’t annoy me. Fuck it. “What are you studying?” There, I said something. He looked relieved. He was studying for the CFA (7 Points), lives in Astoria (-5 Points), works for Bloomberg (5 Points — I’m sure the position is good), is from El Salvador (5 Points), and was just transferred to New York from Tokyo (500 Points — jetsetting is hot). More than all of that, though, he seemed like a normal, nice, cool guy (countless Points). “Will you watch my stuff for a minute while I …” I pointed toward the restroom and smiled. When I returned, he asked me out for coffee and we exchanged numbers.

At the end of the day, after all that non-obsessing about Mr. Zegna and whether or not to call Mr. Lead Singer Man (who I may call yet), Mr. Valdez falls into my lap. And my lap likes it (don’t be dirty). So that, my friends, is how I met Mr. Valdez, AKA Mr. Zegna from El Salvador. Which brings me to my question of the day: Do you ever feel like you’re living in a f’d up Taster’s Choice commercial? Because sometimes I feel like I am.

When I first moved to Manhattan, I was most enthusiastic about the variety of delivery options. I had grown up with access to museums, nightlife, etc., but I was deprived takeout of the non-pizzeria/Chinese variety. As an adult, that sucks when you are a busy person who works late hours. Just in case you didn’t know. So, I arrived, I unpacked, and I immediately canvassed my neighborhood and beyond, plucking take-out menus from the outdoor menu stacks whenever and wherever provided. When a friend told me about Fresh Direct, my enthusiasm for city life grew (it has since been tempered by an acute awareness of the environmental irresponsibility of Fresh Direct, which I completely ignore when my refrigerator is extra-empty and I’m extra-busy). When another friend told me about SeamlessWeb, I was down right ecstatic. Today, I would like to be the one to pass a torch and excite you with news of yet another innovation that will make your life even more convenient: Wakozi. For the record, I’m elated. Like SeamlessWeb, Wakozi links users to the inventories of nearby stores, which will deliver free of charge (save for tax, any applicable minimum amounts, and a negotiable tip).

The difference between Wakozi and SeamlessWeb, however, is that Wakozi links you to liquor stores and bodegas. Basically, you can now order certain items for immediate delivery that you could previously only request from FreshDirect with 24 hours notice, in addition to other items never before available through a comprehensive delivery service (read: booze). If only I had known that Eastview would deliver me Tylenol last week, when I was sequestered with the flu. And vodka, to put me out of my misery when the Tylenol failed to make me feel any better. Just kidding. There’s always vodka in the freezer.