Like many a foreigner, I was first seduced by the Argentine Tango while sitting at a café in the colorful working class barrio of La Boca in Buenos Aires. It was here, at a non-descript café on the Calle Caminito, while sipping a glass of Malbec that was as vibrant as La Boca itself that my introduction to the tango began. As I turned to see if I could locate where the mellifluous mélange of live Afro-Cuban and Spanish music was emanating from I spotted a pair of street performers dancing the most sensual dance I had ever seen.

The couple’s movements mesmerized me and for the next few minutes these anonymous dancers were the only two beings that existed for me. I was captivated by the graceful style exhibited by the female dancer. She gave the illusion of floating when she danced as she glided across the floor. Her feet rarely touched the ground when she would perform such moves as the “gancho,” a move in which she would hook her leg around her partner’s leg or a “boleo” where she would perform small quick back kicks as she sashayed from side to side. Her moves were often quick, yet elegant and poised. At other times, she would dance slowly and tantalizingly by performing such moves as sliding her foot down her partner’s body or arching her back as he dipped her.

Watching this couple, it was not hard to imagine a time when the tango was a forbidden dance. Although there is nothing vulgar about it, the Argentine Tango is danced in a close embrace or “abrazo.” It is for this reason when there is chemistry between partners, such as the couple I was watching, that I feel as though I am watching an immensely private moment between two lovers. The couple’s dance conveyed several emotions over the course of a few minutes allowing a voyeuristic glimpse into their relationship. Through their dance steps viewers could catch conflicting moments of flirtation, foreplay, seduction, resistance, passion, rejection and reconciliation. The emotions that we all have in human relationships were summed up in one simple, yet emotionally intricate and complicated dance.

It is said that tango is essentially walking with a partner to music, but such a description misses the essence of tango. To me, the tango is a dance where a couple makes love while fully clothed. It is the most passionate dance I have ever seen performed and it is a dance I knew then I had to learn. It is for this reason that I enrolled in Group Dance classes at “Dance with Me Soho.” I was hoping that I could relive my time in Buenos Aires and learn to dance like the porteña I saw dance so beautifully. Secretly, I was also hoping I would be paired up with an Antonio Banderas type, preferably the Antonio Banderas from “Take the Lead” since that version already knew how to dance the tango, but any iteration of Antonio would do.

When I arrived at the dance studio, I realized that not only would Antonio would not be in attendance, but I would be lucky to dance with a man at all. The ratio of men to women was disappointing as there were eleven women to three men in the class. I tried to overcome this chromosomal imbalance through imagination. When the instructor turned the music on, I transported myself back to Buenos Aires by imagining I was six thousand miles away at a milonga in Palermo Soho, a fashionable neighborhood of Buenos Aires. I imagined Carlos Gardel was signing one of his legendary tango songs, Por Una Cabeza, a song in which he compares his love for gambling on the ponies to his obsession for a particular lady. I pretended that I was the graceful, sensual porteña on Calle Caminito instead of the frustrated woman on Broome Street dancing with an equally frustrated woman where one of us would inevitably stop every so often to ask, “who is leading? Are you leading? Are you pretending to be the boy? Am I the boy? Who is the boy?” The gender confusion was exhausting! After awhile I felt like I was on a bad reality TV show that was experimenting with gender identity.

That night I would learn that at a milonga, a tango dance hall, couples dance counter-clockwise. This was a concept my classmates and I seemed to have had problems grasping as there were several collisions. As someone who would have rallied against banning the tango in its heyday, I would fully support the City of New York outlawing my class ever dancing the tango en masse. What we, as a collective, did to such a graceful dance, should be illegal. While there is a thriving milonga scene in New York City, which I hope to visit one day, I will only do so after I have engaged a private dance instructor to learn the tango. Although I have three more classes left, I have banned myself from taking group tango lessons. For the next three weeks, this gringa can be found dancing salsa in Soho.

New Yorkers are a special subgroup of Americans. We’re busy, we’re demanding and we’re spoiled. Approximately one million of us live in high rise enclaves that are guarded by our beloved doormen. I have always had a love/hate relationship with doormen buildings. I like the convenience they offer, but there is a certain loss of anonymity that goes along with living in a doorman building. For example, it is very possible that my evening doorman thinks I’m a promiscuous lesbian as he’s only ever seen women entering my apartment (he always seems to be on break when I’ve had male friends over). I’m even more certain that my night time doorman thinks I’m a raging drunk based on the hours I keep. And even when I come rolling in after 11 on a school night from say a Broadway show or a date, I get the feeling he thinks I’ve been bellied up to a bar since Happy Hour. He’ll say things like “home early tonight, I see.” Um, do you get paid to say those things to me? Strike that-evidently you do.

Despite the loss of privacy, I find myself breaking out into a mild sweat with the possibility of a doorman/porter strike looming overhead should “labor” not reach an agreement with “the man” by the 20th. And I’m not even one of the more high maintenance residents who treat their doormen like their own personal Benson. I do, however, admit to having the porters come to my apartment on occasion to remove unwanted creepy crawly “house guests.” So with 30,000 workers threatening to walk off the job at midnight, I think many New Yorkers are a little on edge.

About a week ago the management company of my building sent out an ominous memo entitled “Procedures to follow in the event of a Building Workers Strike.” Sacre bleu! “Should a strike be called, identification cards for residents and domestic help must be displayed to security personnel upon entering the building.” Is it wrong that the first thought that popped into my head was envy of those who have “domestic help”? While we’re on the topic of domestic chores, the memo also said that although not officially barred from using the laundry rooms, residents are supposed to “keep their use of the laundry facilities to a minimum.” What does that mean? Does using the laundry room only when I have 4 or 5 loads and my portable hamper is so heavy that I feel as though my arm might break constitute “minimal” use?

Also, in the event of emergency repairs, it is possible that “outside contractors and repair personnel may not cross a picket line to service the building.” Listen I’m supportive of their cause, but you better believe if I have some major emergency you can bet your bottom dollar that I’m going to find some scab who WILL cross the picket line in a New York minute!

My favorite tidbit from the memo is that during the strike we are not allowed to use the trash shoots, but instead we must throw our bags out in the dumpster. I’m OK with that, but what I am not OK with is that “it is possible that New York City Sanitation Workers may refuse to cross the picket line to collect garbage until a health emergency is declared.” Wonderful! What is this going to become the Cirque du Soleil for the City’s vermin? If that happens guess who will be have Bloomberg’s office on speed dial?

The last time apartment workers walked out was in 1991 and the strike lasted nearly two weeks. Here’s to hoping we don’t have a repeat.

Please excuse me, but I must attend to some “minimal” laundry duties.

P.S. The city has established a website in the event of a strike. For more information, please visit

http://www.pubadvocate.nyc.gov/pages/TenantAlert.html

And so my current stalking of stars via Broadway plays continues as I caught a matinee performance of A View from the Bridge staring Liev Schreiber and Scarlett Johansson. I splurged on the “good seats” and I had a front row of the mezzanine. Ssome may consider Orchestra seats to be the premium, but depending upon the theater often I prefer the front row of the mezzanine as a way to ensure that I am not forced to crook my neck around the giant lemon of a head of the person in front of me. The theater was such that I felt like I was close enough to sit on Liev’s lap, a proposition that I do not find all together unappealing.

A View from the Bridge is set in Red Hook during the wave of immigration in the 1900s. It is a dark play, yet there were several moments for laughter, which helped to keep the play a bit lighter. Liev plays Eddie Carbone an Italian American longshoreman who lives with his wife Beatrice and his niece Catherine (Scarlett) for whom he is the guardian. I found Beatrice to be an annoying character, but I suppose that was the point of her. She is threatened by Eddie’s feelings for Catherine, perhaps rightfully so, but at times she throws Catherine under the bus a bit too much for my liking. Eddie is very protective of Catherine and he becomes increasingly uncomfortable with seeing her turn into a woman. At times it is suggested that he might be falling in love with her (como se dice “creepy” in Italian). These feelings become more apparent once Beatrice’s two cousins Marco and Rudolpho come to America illegally and stay with the Carbone family. Chaos ensues when Catherine and Rudolpho fall in love. To say that Eddie is not a fan of Rudy is an understatement. Eddie is convinced that Rudolpho sees Catherine as a ticket to a Green Card. Eddie also insinuates that Rudolpho is “just not right,” in other words, that he’s a little light in the loafers because he sings, dances, cooks, makes dresses. Maybe it is because I am a woman of a certain age but color me Oscar Wilde because Rudolpho sounds like an ideal husband. Bonus points if he can do an updo and accessorize me.

Although I joke about stalking celebrities at plays, I’m generally disappointed when I see them on Broadway. It is very rare that I am impressed by their performances. God of Carnage comes to mind as one of the only times where the cast’s performance impressed me. However, A View from the Bridge is also one of those rare occasions where it was worth the price of admission. Scarlett was a delight to watch on stage and I was able to think of her as Catherine rather than Scarlett Johnasson, Hollywood star and muse to Woody Allen. I also loved seeing a woman with curves on stage rather than some ambiguous stick figure. As for Liev, I kinda fell a little bit in love with him during the performance. I’ve seen him before at a private Shakespeare in the Park garden party a few years ago. He was there with his paramour Naomi Watts. I wasn’t overly concerned by his presence there. However, he gave such a powerful performance as Eddie, that I see him in a different light and now I am excited to see him in his next project.

Although time is running out, if you get a chance to see A View from the Bridge, you should jump at it.

I saw A Little Night Music the other night, which was perfect timing since I have tickets to attend Sondheim on Sondheim in a few weeks at Studio 54 and Stephen Sondheim did the score for A Little Night Music now starring Dame Angela Lansbury and Catherine Zeta Jones. Listen if Judi Dench can be a Dame then so can Jessica Fletcher. Incidentally, a Google search revealed that there is a Facebook page with 190 members devoted to making “Angela Lansbury a Dame of the Order of the British Empire.” The authors of the page scolded the Queen by stating, “Knighthoods (or their female equivalent) are in the hands of the Queen. She SHOULD know better. It is probable that the Queen has enjoyed ‘Bedknobs and Broomsticks’ more than once during her reign. One suspects that the Queen made time in her Royal schedule to watch ‘Murder, She Wrote’ every day when it was on after ‘Neighbours’”. I wonder if anyone has ever chastised the Queen by telling her Highness that “she SHOULD know better.”

As for the quality of the show, using Neil Rosen’s Big Apple Rating Scale I’d give it 2 1/2 apples. It’s a dark play and at times creepy when the audience realizes one of the main characters (Frederik) is married to an 18 year old girl (Anne) who is young enough to be his daughter and that Frederik’s teenage son is in love with Anne. The play also started out slow and I could hear my friends talking to each other as we all painfully trudged through the first half of Act I. The pace of the play was part of the reason we considered leaving at intermission or what I like to call theater halftime. I also found the location of the actor’s microphones to be distracting. Cathy Z’s was on her forehead and it was all we could look at and talk about when we watched her performance. Note to the wardrobe department maybe you could conceal it in the bird’s nest of a wig you have her wearing, just a suggestion.

As for the actual performances, I thought Angela Lansbury shined as Madame Armfeldt and her song “Liaisons” was one of the highlights of the show. Madame Armfeldt is an old woman nearing the end of her life who is confined largely to her wheel chair and it is from there while playing a game of solitaire she recounts the adventures she has had with her past paramours. The song is bitter sweet and there’s a ruefulness to her moment as a raconteur. She informs us that she has spent time at the villa of a Baron, the palace of a Duke, and has taken Kings for lovers. As she was reminiscing about her liaisons and lamenting the death of the romance associated with them, I couldn’t help but think how technology has destroyed the art of seduction as would be suitors resort to text messaging and emails as the preferred method of communication. When Madame Armfelt asks to no one in particular, “Where is style? Where is skill? Where is forethought? Where’s discretion of the heart? Where’s passion in the art?,” I found myself wondering the same thing. I wanted to sing along with her when she sang:

Liaisons! What’s happened to them?
Liaisons today.
Disgraceful! What’s become of them?
Some of them
Hardly pay their shoddy way.

Liaisons! What’s happened to them?
Liaisons today.
To see them–indiscriminate
Women, it
Pains me more than I can say,
The lack of taste that they display!

You sing it Jessica Fletcher!

Not to be outdone, Cathy Z gave a great rendition of “You Must Meet My Wife,” which involves a scene when she is reunited with Frederik, her former lover who is telling her how fantastic Anne is and like any ex-amour would, Cathy Z’s character Desiree was facetiously enthusiastic about meeting her rival since the idea of actually doing so is revolting to her. In Act II, Cathy Z gets to sing one of the most famous Broadway tunes, Send in the Clowns. Oddly, it didn’t dawn on me that song was in the show even though I had to settle a dispute between a couple who was arguing over the lyrics prior to the curtain going up. The husband was adamant that the song was “bring in the clowns” while the wife was holding her ground that it was “send in the clowns.” I was unable to refrain from interfering, in particular, because I have almost a turrets like compulsion to interject the right answer when people are wrong, and also because I used to have to sing that song in voice lessons as a child. Incidentally, that song is as close to clowns as I want to get. I still think the damn things are scary depressed closet alcoholics (well except maybe Fizbo the clown).

For those who want to save their money or for those wanting a preview, please check out the youtube link below. It includes all three of the songs I’ve mentioned (the singing doesn’t start until 53 seconds into the clip).

For months a friend of mine has wanted me to attend a speed dating event, which is something I tried once and swore I would never do again. Call me Jade for jaded, but I have a theory that “normal” guys don’t pay to attend singles events because it’s easy enough for them to meet women in the usual settings in this city where women outnumber men. I’ve run my hypothesis past some of my guy friends and the general consensus is one of agreement, but there were a few guys who said that they would do it or have done it because they don’t want to spend time cruising through profiles online and/or don’t have the time to go on the prowl. So, it was with that in mind that I agreed to join two of my friends for the “financially secure professionals age 33-44″ SD event. After all, I am a financially secure professional at the lower age range of that group, so what did I have to lose other than $40 and 2 hours of my life? And who knew, maybe I’d become an urban legend, you know one of those people who are offered up as proof that these events really do work. Maybe I’d be the person who is anonymously sourced in casual conversation as the “friend who met her fiance” there so as to give inspiration to the singletons of New York that we can date successfully in the most unlikely of places. Then again, maybe not.

I went to an SD event when I first moved to the city after the encouragement of a friend who dated several people from these events. It was only after I attended an event that she confessed that she frequently encountered non-native speakers, which sounds great at first because who doesn’t love a foreign accent and a well-travelled man. What she neglected to tell me was that some of the guys were still in ESL classes and to overcome the language barrier she had to engage in pantomime. Although I had an ESL guy at my event, who didn’t understand the rules of SD and ended our “date” by asking me “we go out again, yes, no?,” he was the most normal of them all. Highlights of my first SD event included a guy who reminded me of Screech from Saved by the Bell, whose first words out of his mouth was “I’m not going to ask you what you do or where you’re from, those will be questions 2 and 3, but if you had to own one, which one would you own, cat or dog and why?” Sweet mother of Allah, aidez-moi! Another guy hid his name tag and made me guess his first name. Seriously guy? We have 5 minutes to talk and you’re making me play “My name is.” The night was salvaged though when I became friends with the girl seated next to me. She has become one of my closest friends and it never gets old telling people that I picked her up at a SD event when we’re asked how we met.

So, it was with memories of Messrs. Screech and Guess My Name in mind that I arrived to the event. My skepticism was evident as my friend remarked, “the look of cynicism on your face right now is priceless.” I apologized and vowed to look like I was happy to be there. Here’s the review:

First up was the “Professional.” It started off with the Professional asking me if I had ever gone to a SD event before and I admitted that I had on one occasion. He then spent the next few minutes giving me his review of all the events he has attended. According to him the events held at the Trump World Bar are the best. He also kept trying to weasel it out of me which company’s SD event I had attended despite my protests that I didn’t remember. The Professional was the best looking out of the lot, but on boring side and I can’t help but wonder if he’s attended so many events then shouldn’t he have met someone by now?

Next up was the “Boob Starer,” who told me I looked like a “sexy robot.” Que? Sexy Robot? Is that a compliment? After two minutes, I have never had such an overwhelming compulsion to snap my fingers to break his trance and say “eyes up here buddy, EYES UP HERE!”). I compared notes with my friends and we all noticed that he was a little too into everyone’s “girls” as we all experienced the same lack of eye contact to boob ratio.

Then I met My Cousin Vinny, who was pushing 50. However, My Cousin Vinny was not the oldest gentleman of the group. That honor was reserved for a man we called Grandpa. Now you might think I’m being mean, but one of the guys gave him the nickname (and here I thought girls were catty). Grandpa was somewhere in his late 60s/early 70s and had children that were our age. Remember the age range was 33-44 not 33 + 44! Hello where is the SD bouncer when you need him? We agreed that if a woman showed up who was so clearly out of the dating age range of the group they wouldn’t let her attend. I thought to myself, I just speed dated a 70 year old, I feel dirty. Although I held my own with him, it was an uncomfortable round and we all intended to write a note to the organizers about the fact that he was in our group.

There were two nice guys, but I found myself wondering what friends I knew to set up with them….not a good sign for a romantic connection. My last date ended with the crowd’s favorite. I felt more of a friend connection with him than a Chuck Woolery Love Connection. Hopefully, one of my girls got matched up with “crowd’s favorite.” Because there weren’t 8 people there, we get to attend another event for free. I may go to another one to try to end on a high note and to prove my theory wrong. I’ll have to take a Chuck Woolery “two and two” break and get back to you.

On Friday night after a prolonged and much needed Happy Hour of cheap Margaritas and what seemed like a bottomless pit of chips and salsa at a local watering hole, I made it home just in time to watch Conan’s last show on NBC. At the end of the show, Conan made a classy and sentimental speech about how NBC had been his home for all of his adult life. That struck me as I realized that I’d been watching Conan all of my adult life as he had first debuted on Late Night during my freshman year of college. It was a very surreal realization and I suspect many of my peers who grew up watching him felt a bit nostalgic as well (or it may very well have been the earlier Margies making me a bit of a sentimental old fool, one can never discount the booze factor in situations like this).

I remember moving into the dorm freshman year and staying up later than I should have to watch Conan. I had an odd crush on this dorky redheaded comedian and loved the dynamic between Conan and Andy. However, I knew that Conan wasn’t everyone’s cup of tea. I remember the days when Conan wasn’t catching on and he was always at risk of getting a pink slip. So, I guess you could say I was part of “Team Coco, The Early Years.”

I love Jay, but I never thought Jay at 10 p.m. would work. I did, however, think Conan as the host of the Tonight Show would. With that being said, what never worked for me was Conan in LA. Conan has a self-deprecating style and has built a career out of molding himself as an outsider. Conan seemed like someone who never expected to get invited to the party, which is why his fans loved him. Leno, on the other hand, seemed to be part of the LA establishment and was at home with the celebrities he interviewed.

In fact, I associate Conan with New York so much so that on Friday there was a part of me that forgot that Conan wasn’t in New York. It was when I was walking to the subway stop after work that for a brief moment I thought, “I should’ve taken today off and tried to get tickets to see Conan’s last show.” And then it hit me! Conan’s no longer here and as a result even if I wanted to help him “steal every single item in this studio,” I couldn’t because he was no longer at 30 Rock.

I thought Freebird was a great way to go out and the lyrics were appropriate. When I listen to that song, it reminds me of a bittersweet breakup. It’s like a relationship you don’t want to end because you still love each other and have had some great times, but you’ve reached a point where there’s too much water under the bridge. But with this divorce Conan can take his 30-40 million severance and join the ranks of the Park Avenue Divorcee. We will welcome him with open arms!

The day started off with the alarm going off at 5:15 a.m. after having gone to bed around 1:00 a.m. due to a pre-Thanksgiving crisis. Our turkey was bad, not as in “naughty bad,” but as in “sleeps with the fishes and smells like fishes” bad. So, the Thanksgiving Eve hunt to find thawed out Turkey breast began (or as I kept calling it, much to my mother’s horror, “Turkey boob”). Needless to say I was incoherent at 5:15 a.m. And for the record, I don’t get up that early on a work day, let alone the most gluttonous day of the year after we embarked on a late night “You saved Thanksgiving Charlie Brown escapade.” The first thought that popped into my groggy head was “I can hit snooze, it’s not time to make the turkey” like I was in some warped Thanksgiving Version of the old Dunkin’ Donuts commercial with Fred who would get up mumbling to himself “It’s time to make the donuts.”

Then I thought, “why would I have to make a turkey? I have a wedding to go to.” Wedding? What wedding?

Despite my initial sleepy ramblings to myself, I was up and at em. This year, the role of the grumpy early morning riser was played by my understudy, none other than my very own mother. I was in an oddly chipper mood as I tried to rally the troops by bribing them with a trip to Dunkin Donuts. It was with pumpkin donuts and munchkins in hand that we headed crosstown to a little place I like to call tourist hell to watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade.

We maneuvered ourselves to a near front row spot on Central Park West and 63rd Street. Prime real estate! The only people in front of us were tourists who had gotten there at 4:30 and 5:30 respectively and were seated so no one blocked our views. All was going well until some jerk from LI tried to push his kid to the front of the line in front of the tourists who had been there since 4:30 (didn’t anyone tell Long Island that the early bird gets the worm?). LI lifted his kid over the police barricade and plopped him in one of the tourist’s chairs. Insanity ensued…the cops were called…nothing says “Happy Thanksgiving, welcome to New York” like some aggressive local trying to bully his way into the spotlight. Thanks for helping our image buddy! Not to fear, New York’s finest arrived and 86′d Long Island. (Send him back, the crowd cried).

It wasn’t too long after Officer Friendly left the scene, that the parade started. I don’t watch the parade when I’m in the States. I once watched it in Quito while waiting for a flight back to the US later that day, but otherwise I boycott the TV version. The TV version does NOT do it justice. I am now a life long fan of the Macy’s Day Parade in the live version! It is now my secret mission to be in it next year.

We’ve established my childlike love of Sesame Street that continues to this day. My mom shares this love with me since she was forced to watch multiple episodes of the Street back in the day. You would’ve thought the Sesame Street float was full of rock stars the way I carried on. I guess to me they are rock stars and Big Bird might as well have been a taller feathery version of Bono for all I cared. I went crazy when I saw Bob, Gordon, and Maria (she waved to me, btw). Sure, I’ve seen them at various Sesame Street events when it went on tour, but that was back in the day. It was cool to see them still going strong. There was Big Bird and his nest, Oscar and his can, Bert & Ernie, Count and Cookie, Grover and a few other new friends. Although I’ve also seen some of them on tour, it was uber cool to see the real ones in New York rather than the Sesame on Ice posers. It felt like I was at a family reunion with family that I actually liked. All that was missing was Mr. Hooper and Snuffy.

The floats were also uber cool. My favorites were Snoopy, Kermit, Buzz Light Year, and The Doughboy (it was his first flight and he did a good job). We saw Santa’s sleigh around 10:30 a.m. When I saw Santa I might as well have been Natalie Wood in Miracle on 34th Street. I wanted to sit on Santa’s lap and tell him I’ve been good and ask him for something special for Christmas and not of an official Red Ryder, carbine action, two-hundred shot range model air rifle, but more something along the lines of tall, dark, handsome, single, and straight. Somebody needs to tell the fat man I’ve been more than patient!

I thought seeing it once would be enough and I could check it off my New York Bucket List, but after being there live, I want to start a tradition. However, I wish it could include Bloody Marys and Mimosas. Note to self, milk my connections to people I know who live on Central Park West. Then I can incorporate a little Holiday Cheer in my cup without judgment from the tourists.

I had to drop a dime on eharmony. Our marriage has been on the rocks lately, i.e., it’s made promises it hasn’t lived up to, I’ve said things I didn’t mean. I’ve filed for dissolution so we’ll be going our separate ways soon.

I fully recognize that dating can be awkward. Who hasn’t had the long pause on a phone conversation with someone you barely know or wondered how to handle the whole “are we going to kiss thing” at the end of a date or how to have the “I’m not you it’s me” conversation. So, while I fully expect dating to have its fair share of uncomfortable moments, what I do not expect is for the awkward phase to begin before I ever communicate with my would be gentleman caller.

I woke up on Saturday and decided to check my matches. I saw an uncommon name and thought “please don’t let that be the guy I think it is.” It’s happened to me twice before that eharmony has matched me up with people I knew. The first time it was with someone that a close friend wanted to set me up with for years. She thought we’d be perfect for each other. It turns out we weren’t. Two weeks before we met, Dr. Warren introduced us. The fact that neither one of us chose to initiate communication should’ve been our first clue. The second time it happened, it was with a former best-male friend who has a common name and oddly before I ever even opened up the match and saw a picture I had a sinking feeling that it was him. It was. I thought we were perfect together, he thought that three of my friends were perfect for him even though he didn’t treat them very nicely. So, I “friend broke up” with him. He tried to get back in, but he was on the deep freeze list.

However, nothing compared to the awkwardness of what I experienced on Saturday when I was matched with a co-worker who described himself as a “full time dreamer, part time lawyer.” I’ve actually run into Senor Suenos at a restaurant while he was on a date. To say that I do not think we’re compatible is an understatement. I can barely stand to be in a meeting with him because he annoys me so much. So, I called Dr. Warren’s minions and Lucy did some “splaining” to them and told them that I needed them to unmatch us. I was reassured that they would remove us and it would be “as if you were never there.” Although that sounded a little too G-Men/Men In Black covert ops to me, I was happy to have eharmony “disappear me.” Unfortunately, it took two days and I know he knew because I ran into him in the hall and for the first time ever neither one of us said anything to each other. And there was that split second silent recognition were we acknowledged that we knew that the other person knew. Thanks Neil!

As a side note, has anyone else noticed that eharmony uses the same couples for its “success stories?” If there are that many marriages off of eharmony then why aren’t there more couples willing to brag about their successful lovey dovey stories to all of us lonely hearts out there. If I met my match off of eharmony, you can believe that the first thing I’d do after updating my facebook status to “M.Madison plus one,” would be to call them and tell me to book some serious studio time for my beloved and me as I’d be shouting it from the roof tops how great it was that I met my perfect match and how the 29 dimensions of compatibility really isn’t just a bunch of psycho babble. So, I can only reach one of two conclusions…either eharmony has only successfully married, say, 5 couples, or those that have gotten married are ugly and not-T.V. worthy.

Prove me wrong Neil! I double dog dare you!

It was duing the evening rush hour while walking to the Wall Street train station via Wall Street itself when I saw a massive group of people armed with cameras who were all too happy to snap away. This was more than the usual sprawl of tourists who frequent downtown and clog up the foot traffice to snap some pictures of the NYSE, stand upon the steps of Federal Hall to get their picture taken next to a statute of George Washington, or to take pictures of Trinity Church. This motley crew gave the Brangelina Papparazzi a serious run for their money. Snap, snap, click, click, followed by an “OMG there he is.” This could only mean one thing…Wall Street was lined with stars and not the kind that glitter in the sky, but the kind that line the Walk of Fame. I knew they were filming the sequel to Wall Street because on my way to work I had seen a camera crew filming background crowd shots with extras. As an aside, I get a kick out of how authentic it looks when there is a crowd of walking down the streets of New York when in reality it is a carefully orchestrated staged shot of extras.

When I got into the office, I googled to see who was in the sequeln Wall Street: Money Never Sleeps. I read a few articles that stated that Gordon Gekko would be played by Michael Douglass and Javier Bardem would be playing a sinister Hedge Fund Manager (is there any other kind?). So, I was hoping for a sighting of Javier because ever since Vicky Cristina Barcelona, I’ve had a thing for him. I can’t decide if I think Javier is caliente or if it’s just his interesting look coupled with his sexy accent that has me swooning. Officially, he’s in my category of “sexy-ugly.” I’ve put Benicio del Toro in there as well (a man who has great bone structure, but some tired looking eyes). I later learned that Javier had to back out due to scheduling conflicts and intead of Javey, we’ll be treated to Josh Brolin (wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers).

I get the original casting of Gordon Gekko, after all, no one else could play that role…who else could utter, “greed is good,” if not MD as Gekko? But Shia Labeouf as the equivalent of Bud Fox’s character? I’m not feeling it. My feelings were comfirmed when I saw Shia and MD filming a scene on Wall Street in front of the NYSC. Oliver Stone was there as well. First, let me say that I can see why Catherine Zeta Jones is drawn to MD. He is one good looking older man. However, Shia is like a man-boy. He looks like he should be starring in High School Musical. Although Charlie and Shia were roughly the same age when their characters went under the tutelage of Gekko, Charile looked more like the finance guys I have known and dated. Shia looks like their kid brother who still lives with his parents back in Jersey. But what do I know? I’m not Oliver Stone and perhaps Bud Fox was right when he said, “life all comes down to a few moments. This is one of them.”

And action! Try as I might to deny it, I’m a celebrity stalking whore. I’ve come to that realization after I pimped out my dogs to stalk the set of Nurse Jackie. Ok, maybe “pimped out” is a bit of a misnomer, but let’s just say I decided to take them on an extended walk to watch Nurse Jackie being filmed at “All Saint’s Hospital,” aka Baruch College. I figured a walk with the ladies could justify my leisurely pace and basic refusal to move and I knew that they would love making friends. My ladies became best-friends with the extras. Note to self become an extra, it seems fun! Scratch that, become a star!

I admit I became a fan of Nurse Jackie via a free Netflix preview, but because I don’t have cable I decided that sadly I would have to wait until the series came out on DVD. That is until I learned how to watch it online for free. Talk about feeling like a kid in the candy store. I may have watched the entire first season on a rainy Saturday. Ok, I confess, I did watch it all in one day. I was almost as addicted to the show as Jackie is to pain pills and infidelity. I can’t quite figure out why I like the show, but maybe it’s because it’s full of misfits and shows how complicated life can become and how flawed we all really are. Or it could be because I’m a not so closeted TV junkie. Whatever its draw, I was like a strung out junkie in desperate need of her next fix, I couldn’t stop hitting the play button on my laptop after each episode ended. And don’t even get me started on Jackie’s husband (who btw is uber hot in real life, much hotter than he is on TV).

After watching a few episodes, I could tell that Nurse Jackie was filmed near me because of the outdoor shoots that they do. Matter of fact, I could also tell that they messed with a subway sign in one episode, which really got my goat because I knew that there was no possible way there could be an N/R train station based on where they were standing. I wanted to go all Joe Wilson and shout “YOU LIE” to the TV for all of America to hear. Yes, I can be that anal. Inaccurate depictions stick in my craw!

Imagine my delight when my street was plastered with signs indicating that it was verboten to park on my street today due to the fact that Nurse Jackie was filming in the area, which to me, instantly meant the trailers would be parked on my street. Sure enough, all the cast’s trailers are parked right outside my front door (now if only I could find the catering truck). I’m not sure if Jackie’s trailer is incorrectly marked since there’s no “Jackie” trailer, but there is one trailer that says “Wackie’s trailer” and another that says “God,” not sure if “God” is code for the leading lady or what. If MJ could be Whacko Jacko, then maybe she’s Wackie Jackie?

One last thing about the shoot. In a few episodes there’s a guy who lives across the street from “All Saint’s” and he’ll stand in front of an open window in his robe and yell out crazy things. Well crazy guy’s apartment is located in this dumpy building, which I refused to enter to look at what looked like an amazing apartment from the NYT website, because the building is such a dump. Small world.

As they say in showbiz, I think this is the point where someone yells “cut, that’s a wrap!” Applause , applause, fade to black!