Mr. Unavailable #113: Visions of Sundance

See The Phoenix Rises, Paper Perfect and More Nouveau, Please for the background on this one. 

Around 7 a.m., with plans to meet Eva for her birthday breakfast and then pack and head to my cousin’s in Boston for Christmas, I told him I had to go.

“Maybe I should stay an extra day,” he said as I started to get up.

“You should stay,” I said.

“When are you getting back?” he asked.

“The afternoon of the 26^th. When are you leaving?”

“My flight is at 6 p.m. on Christmas….Maybe I can stay another day.”

“You should.”

We went back and forth like that a few more times. Ultimately, he didn’t stay, but he did keep in touch while he was still in New York. For example, later on Christmas Eve, he texted me while I was on my bus to Boston from his bus to Jersey to see his parents. And then later that night in Boston, my cousin and I were in the kitchen giggling about the whole thing (“He came to New York to buy a grand piano?”…”How much is one of those things anyway?”…“He goes to Sundance every year? Every year?”) when he called.

I took my phone upstairs to talk. After complimenting me some more, he went on a neurotic Woody-Allen-like ramble (he is a Jewish doctor from New Jersey): “I should have called you earlier. We could have spent more time together…I don’t like the bus. It isn’t safe. I don’t think you should take the bus anymore. Take the Acela. I’ll chip in….You’re very passionate. You’re very affectionate…So am I? Well, why wouldn’t I be? I like you, you like me. Of course I’m going to be affectionate…”

I’m not sure if I mentioned it before, but I like it when people talk a lot. I find it soothing and entertaining. On some level, it doesn’t even matter what they’re saying.

He continued. “I don’t understand why so much is based on merit. It doesn’t mean anything. My family kept all these old awards and certificates of mine and I don’t know why. They’ve got them all up in my old room. That’s why I didn’t stay there. It’s just yucky. It really bothers me that these awards and things mean so much. I was teenager of the year when I was in high school. What does that mean to me now? Nothing. When I was a resident, none of it meant anything. We were all the same… I wish you were here. I have your necklace. That would have been the perfect way to get you back here tonight: ‘Oh, you left your necklace, now you have to come back.’ We could have gone somewhere and sat by a fire and had a glass of wine. But you’re in Boston.”

“I am,” I said, simultaneously soothed and entertained. “Are you leaving tomorrow? Don’t go,” I added, sounding uncharacteristically interested.

“Should I stay?”

“You should stay. I want you to stay.” There it was again.

“I’m working on Tuesday.”

“When do you think we’ll get to see each other again? Do you think you’ll come to New York soon?”

“I was thinking maybe we could meet somewhere,” he said.

 “That would be fun,” I said as visions of Sundance danced through my head.


On Christmas day, he sent one last text from New York: Merry christmas. On way to airport, happy I got to see you.

Signs of Hope: He texted and called and complimented me.

Red Flags: Things that start fast also die fast. Especially if they’re long distance.

Turning Point: After I left him that morning. I was happy when I left him, but my feelings only grew more sappy as the day wore on, as if my imagination were injecting reality with a hefty dose of fantasy, i.e., Sundance.

Diagnosis: For him: I know his dating record is pretty spotty. I know this because it looks a lot like mine.
For me: Never mind dating records. This is suddenly so exciting. 

Mr. Unavailable #113: More Nouveau, Please

See The Phoenix Rises... and Paper Perfect for the background on this one. 


With his arm still around me, #113 said, “I have something for you.” He let me go and reached into his pocket, pulling out a CD. It was his latest album. Confident.

“You talked about this when I saw you in Arizona,” I said.

“I did? When was that again?”

“Over a year ago,” I said.

“It’s been more than a year? I thought it was just a few months ago,” he said.

Confident and absentminded.

Now that #113 had seen that Kevin was not a girl, he let Kevin pay for our drinks and then #113 sprung for a cab. He sat close—to me, not Kevin. At the party, there were kids, which made me remember  #113’s earlier text. We looked at each other: “Everyone has kids.” 


The three of us mostly kept to ourselves in a conversation dominated by #113. He talked. And talked. And talked. About how he went to Sundance every year. About how he got his niece the same toys the kids at the party had. It didn’t seem like self-aggrandizement. Maybe he was nervous. I couldn’t remember how he was when I originally met him. Surely, he didn’t talk this much.

I’m a tiny bit ashamed to report that I succumbed to the urge to shush him—more than once. Things like, “Oh, we’re about to start the game, look…” and, even, “We should pay attention now.” He was mostly glued to me, which was 90% flattering and 10% annoying. And when he did talk to other people, I was glad to see that they were not attractive young women. (This sentence brought to you by…Jealousy: How you know you like someone.)

When we left the party, Kevin headed for the subway and #113 and I grabbed a cab and headed back to Manhattan. I wasn’t sure what I wanted to do. Go home? Stay out? I was kind of up for whatever.

“Do you want to go home? Do you want to get a drink at the hotel bar? Are you hungry? Do you want to go to Blue Ribbon Sushi?” he asked.

“I’m up for anything,” I said.

“Let’s go to Blue Ribbon Sushi,” he said.

When we walked into Blue Ribbon Sushi, the staff greeted him like he’d been there the night before—because he’d been there the night before. When our order arrived, he pointed to the two rolls he ordered and said, “I got this for you and I got this because I want you to try it.”

Confident, absentminded and thoughtful.

We talked about various things--our mutual friend, how I really don't like sushi, how one day I plan to live in the Domino Sugar factory, “I'll have one of the smokestacks.”

“You don’t want to live there. With all that sugar, it’s full of rats and mice and bugs. OK, if you really want to live there, you can live on one side of it and I’ll run a cracker factory on the other.”

He was silly. I liked that.

The next thing we knew, it was 3 a.m. The restaurant had closed at 2 a.m., but the staff, hanging out folding napkins in nearby booths, hadn’t kicked us out.

We went outside and hailed a cab.

“Who should get dropped off first?” I asked.

“Let’s go to my hotel first, it’s closer,” he said.

Still apparently up for whatever, I got into the cab before him. He closed the door and the cab turned onto Houston and then Varick. I don’t remember what was said because whatever was said was really just a transitional bridge that took us from friends who hang out at Blue Ribbon Sushi to more-than-friends who kiss in the back of cabs. Ergo, we started kissing in the back of the cab.

After about two long blocks of making out, I said, "It’s been a while since I made out in a cab."

“I never did.”

“But you had a girlfriend for in New York for three years,” I said. He looked at me. And then I remembered he’d told me about their passion deficiency. “Oh, right.”

We pulled up in front of the Mondrian. “I don’t want to be presumptuous…” I muttered.

“Just come up,” he said.

Confident, absentminded, thoughtful and decisive.

To walk into the Mondrian hotel at 3 a.m…. with #113’s arm around me…the door held open by one of these nouveau doormen….to the plush elevator bank…up to his suite (an upgrade, naturally)...felt decadent. Something I could get used to.

Fully clothed, we rolled around on the bed. I got to hear flattering things like, “I can’t believe you’re here.” and  “You’re cute. And hot. Cute and hot.”

Eventually, we fell asleep in that way you never really fall asleep the first time you try to fall asleep with someone.

Signs of Hope: I guess I like him more than I thought I did.

Red Flags: Do I like him, or do I like the attention and all the nouveau stuff around him?

Turning Point: When we kissed in the cab. I guess I really was up for anything.

Diagnosis: For him. He got me into bed with him. He must be smoother than I give him credit for.

For me: Um, apparently I’ve forgotten, but I’m currently working my way through a book called “Calling in the One.” I’m supposed to be taking a break from men—including having trysts in hotel rooms with them—so I can find that long-term, commitment relationship for which I long. Well done.

Mr. Unavailable #113: Paper Perfect

See The Phoenix Rises... for the background on this one.

Every few months, #113, the neurologist-pianist I’d been introduced to in Arizona in October 2010, would send me messages on Facebook with compliments (“You look stunning in that dress…”) and allusions to future visits (“I might be coming to New York to see my family in New Jersey… Do you like Tom Stoppard? Arcadia is playing in New York...”) This went on for more than a year. Every time I’d hear from him, I’d get excited and then hear…nothing.

In mid-December, he wrote again, “I’m coming to New York from the 23rd to the 26th. Are you around?” I already had things scheduled—parties, a trip to Boston, meeting Eva for a birthday breakfast. I wasn’t reworking my plans to accommodate a potential no-show, so I wrote back to say he was more than welcome to come to the party I was going to on Christmas Eve-Eve.

And then I forgot all about it.

Christmas Eve-Eve morning, I was readying myself to dive into the aforementioned plans when the phone rang. It was an Arizona number I didn’t recognize, so I let it go to voicemail. And then I listened to the message. It was #113 saying he was at his hotel in Soho, that he was going to get some culture and see the DeKooning exhibit and did I want to come with him?

Culture? I had no time for last-minute, unscheduled culture. Let me reiterate: I had plans. I called him back. He was friendly, engaging, talkative—someone who would do well in a party setting. I told him I had plans all day, but he was welcome to come to the party in Williamsburg that night.

“Oh, I’d love to go—if you want me to go. I don’t want to be in the way.”

“Oh. No, I want you to come. It will be fun. Another friend of mine is coming. We can all go.”

“I just want to spend some time with you... I haven’t seen you in a while, so I’ll go anywhere” he said. “And I haven’t been to Williamsburg in a long time.” I asked him when he’d arrived. Wednesday night, he said.

He’d waited until Friday morning to call me. “What have you done so far?” I asked.

“I went to the Steinway piano factory yesterday to get a piano. That’s actually why I came here.”

OK, that’s kind of sexy.

“I even found one I liked. I wasn’t sure that I would, but I did.”

He explained that they only make 150 grand pianos a year and each one takes a year and a half to make. Owning one had been his lifelong dream. He’d even bought the right-sized house the previous spring to have something to put it in. As someone who composes and plays his own music, it was necessity wrapped in luxury. A pianist and a neurologist. Paper perfect.

“Congratulations,” I said.

“Yeah, I told my family I was getting a piano and they said, ‘Be sure to get a good bench. You have to get a decent bench.’ Never mind the piano, it’s all about the bench to them.”

I laughed. He told me he was staying at the Mondrian on Crosby, so we made plans to meet around 8 p.m. at the bar before heading to Williamsburg.

Around 6 p.m., he texted: At friends uptown to see their kids…815?
Me: Sure. Sounds good.
#113: Everyone have kids.
Me: Not everyone.
#113: True
Me: You just have to hang in the right circles.

And by "right circles," I meant my circles—my childless, single circles.

Kevin and I reached the hotel around 8 p.m. The lofty bar area was nouveau Alice in Wonderland—an English garden decorated with oversized glasses, vases and pitchers. Mismatched chairs sat with wrought-iron-and-glass tables.

“You told him you were bringing me, right?” Kevin asked as we settled into stools by the bar.

“I said a friend was coming."

“He probably thinks I’m a girl,” he said.

“Maybe…Maybe not,” I said.

#113 texted that he was stuck in a cab coming down 5th Avenue. Then he called. “Hey. I’m really sorry I’m late. You guys can go ahead to the party if you don’t want to wait and I can meet you there. You’re at the bar? Charge the drinks to my room. I want to get your drinks. So sorry I’m late.”

I told him we weren’t in any hurry and would be at the bar when he got there. I hung up and turned to Kevin.

“Yup, he thinks you’re a girl,” I said. “He offered to buy our drinks.”

“I thought he might. No one ever thinks ‘opposite sex’ when a ‘friend’ is coming along,” he said.

“When he walks up, to give him some warning, I’ll yell, ‘It’s a boy!’” I said.

Over Kevin’s shoulder, I watched the door for #113. It wasn't just the bar, the entire Mondrian was nouveau—nouveau money. There wasn’t a suit in sight, but there was attitude everywhere. And then #113 walked through the door—in gray cords, a cream sweater and a scarf around his neck. Neurologist chic.

I walked up to him as he came down the steps, smiling. We hugged and he kissed me on the cheek, holding me. Even when I rolled my body away to introduce him to Kevin, he held me to him, almost claiming me as he reached out with his other arm to shake Kevin’s hand. (It’s a boy!)

Signs of Hope: When he held me to him.

Red Flags: The fact that it took him more than a year to get to New York and, in that time, he’d resurfaced and then disappeared several times.

Turning Point: When he walked into the bar.

Diagnosis: For him: He liked-me–liked-me a year ago and he still likes-me–likes-me today.
For me: I didn’t like-him–like-him a year ago, but I like-him–like-him today.

Me and Mister Unavailable: The Wedding Dress

See Me and Mister Unavailable Meets CITO for the background on this.

It was mid-December and the word on the street was that Filene’s Basement was going out of business. Actually, word had been on the street for a few weeks, I was just slow to pick it up. I’d only been to Filene’s Basement for the first time a couple of months before and kicked myself for not having gone before, mostly because the lingerie deals were amazing. Calvin Klein underwear, 3 for $12. It doesn’t get much better than that—unless The Basement is going out of business.

I made my way there on a fateful Saturday afternoon and went straight for the floor with the lingerie, diving into the racks of bras and panties. I emerged 45 minutes later with more than a dozen pairs of underwear, four slips, three camisoles and eight bras. Just for kicks, I decided to survey the rest of the floor, the whole of which was situated around an area of wedding dresses on sale for $99.

“It’s too bad I’m not getting married,” I thought.

I skirted its perimeter, picking up a piggy bank, a pink throw and a few more random items I probably didn't need. As I made my way toward the registers, I was passing the western edge of the wedding area when one dress caught my eye. It was hanging at the end of a rack, a plume of what I would guess was crepe on the bottom with a carefully beaded strapless bodice on top. I stopped and zipped it out of its clear plastic cover. It glowed. Originally $1,899, the Filene’s basement price was $899—and the going-out-of-business price? $99.

Thinking that maybe there was an even nicer one, I took a quick tour of the other dresses. Nope, that one was the one.

Standing in front of it so no one else could claim it, I called Eva. “OK, I have a weird question for you. I’m at Filene’s Basement and they have wedding dresses on sale for $99. I know this might sound crazy but I found one I like. It's maybe a tiny bit too big [nope, I wasn't even going to try it on], but it’s really pretty. I know I don’t even have a boyfriend or anything, but...should I get it?”

“Hey, that’s what CITO says to do. Act like what you want is already happening. So if you act like you’re getting married by buying a wedding dress, you’ll get married.”

We were maybe one-third of the way through “Calling in the One,” or CITO (chee-toh) as we liked to call it. One of the things it said to do was act as if what you wanted to happen were already happening…imagine what it would be like to be sitting next to your “one”…and create your life in such a way so that it was as if he was on his way but maybe just got stuck in traffic.

“I guess so. It seems so nuts, though. But it is only $99.”

“You could wear it on Halloween if it really came down to it.”

“Or made it into drapes.”

“Or drapes…buy it.”

I picked it off the rack and carried it to the checkout. I stood there feeling a tad crazy and considered putting it back. Maybe my wedding wouldn’t be so soon and then I’d have an out-of-style wedding dress. Maybe my next boyfriend would find out I had a wedding dress, freak out and bolt. I was looking for a sign. And then it arrived in the form of a frumpy Filene’s Basement worker who was, well, carrying signs. She slowly went around the wedding dress section taking out the $99 signs and replacing them with $79 ones.

Now I had to get it.

Three women from New Jersey in their mid 50s were in front of me. They turned.

“Oh, that’s a beautiful dress,” one of them said.

“Are you getting married?” another one said, sounding as if she knew she were asking a rhetorical question but wanted to ask anyway.

The three of them looked at me, smiling, imaging, I'm sure, that I was in the midst of planning my wedding—hiring a caterer, finding a venue, taste-testing cakes, auditioning bands—and this was just one exciting part of it that the three of them were lucky enough to witness..

I smiled back. “One day,” I said.

They laughed, not sounding disappointed at all. The third one leaned in. “Enjoy the ‘one day,’” she said. “I’m on my third and I’m happy, but it took a while to get there.”

She was right. Even though I didn’t seem to realize it half the time, I was doing a good job enjoying the ‘one day.’ I had good friends, a job I liked, a fluffy cat/alarm clock that I adored, an apartment in the East Village, all my limbs, no recent tragedies. Things were good. Great, really. My life was in Technicolor. It was as I worked on Calling in the One, though, where I realized the one last piece that would move the Technicolor movie of my life from a stadium screen to IMAX would be the ability to share the greatness with someone. Getting married might be the tangible end result, but what was really at the core of what I wanted was someone—just one man—to truly, deeply, madly love.

Me and Mister Unavailable Meets CITO

See The Telltale Garb, The Sit-Com Setup, The Lukewarm Fuzzies, Little Island..., Coffee=The End?, Well Done and "Recriminations Flared"... for the background on this one.

The day after the phone call from #133, I had an appointment with my new shrink—thankfully, the med-prescribing kind. I told her what happened and then put my head in my hand. “He just seemed so normal,” I said. But, clearly he was not. "This just keeps happening. I can’t do this again.”

All these guys looked different—some were cockier than others, some were more talkative than others, some were smarter than others, some were hairier than others—but, ultimately, they were the all the same. Unavailable.

“You seem like you’ve had enough,” she said. “Maybe this is your ‘I’ve had it.'”

And then, just like a bad infomercial, she recommended a book to solve my problems. Now, you may not like the sound of where this is going and I agree with you that developing what could be an ending based around a self-help-book solution is really weak, but, in my defense, I clearly needed help. I hadn’t had a relationship last longer than nine months in 15 years. There was no denying anymore that I was part of the problem.

“Have you heard of the book ‘Calling in the One?’” she asked. I had. “The woman who wrote it found herself in her early 40s, single and attracted to unavailable men. She was a psychotherapist, so she looked at what was keeping her back and wound up developing this kind of process that got her out of her relationship cycle. The book helps you get clear about what you’re looking for.”

I was clear about what I was looking for, wasn’t I? I was looking for marriage, wasn’t I? Then again, looking back, every single Mr. Unavailable from 2011—#118 through #133—had not been looking for anything resembling commitment, not from me, anyway. Somehow, deep inside, I was conflicted. I said I wanted one thing but kept finding myself attracted to men who wanted something else.

“The book takes seven weeks and I’ve known women who met someone right after they finished doing it.”

“Really?” I asked. I liked instant results.

It was time to do a little soul-searching. After my appointment, I went straight across Union Square Park to Barnes & Noble and bought the book. My shrink had also said that the book recommended going through it with one or a few other people, so I called Eva a few days later.

“I have kind of a weird question for you,” I said. “There’s this book that my shrink recommended and it’s meant to help you attract available men.

“You mean ‘Calling in the One?’” she asked. “I have it. I started reading it but never finished it.”

Eva herself had gotten out of a going-nowhere relationship a couple of months before, being the dumper, and then gone back only to experience a reverse-dump. Now she was obsessed—not with him but with her alternate-reality version of him.

“Do you want to work on the book together?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

That was easy.

The other thing I knew the book recommended was to make room in your home for another person. Coincidentally, after the apartment debacle with #126, it became clear that I was going to be in my apartment for at least a little while longer, so I’d already started on a home-improvement project that was now going to double as a making-room-in-my-apartment project.

Eva and I were only three weeks into "Calling in the One," which we nicknamed CITO (pronounced CHEE-toh) and I was in the midst of home improvements when I experienced the sudden return of Mr. Unavailable #113.

"Sometimes the right guy comes in before you even finish the book," said my shrink.

Like I said, I like instant results...