Telling someone I visited Cuba often provokes a surprised reaction akin to saying I vacationed at an all-inclusive resort on the moon. Inevitably, a series of rapid-fire questions ensue about this island cloaked in mystery.

At first glance Cuba seems like the aging starlet in Sunset Boulevard who proclaims to visitors, “I am big. It’s the pictures that got small.” Although the spotlight has faded, Cuba’s energetic spirit and timeless beauty still beguiles visitors. It’s easy to imagine what Cuba was like in her glitzy heyday, when Havana was the Paris of the Caribbean and the jet setting Hollywood elite, mobsters, and would be presidents frolicked on white sandy beaches and enjoyed Vegas style shows at the Tropicana.

Today, Cuba is a country full of contradictions. It is a country where the world’s most coveted cigars, too expensive for domestic consumption, are stockpiled; where the Bay of Pigs is now a beach resort; and where Dezi Arnaz, is unknown inside his native land. Mostly though, it is a place where in spite of life’s daily struggles, its gregarious and loquacious residents maintain a jovial, fun-loving approach towards life. After all this is a place where the local philosophy can be summarized by the popular toast, “salud y dinero, que belleza sobra” (“to health and money, we already have enough beauty”).

Offering a high concentration of unique museums, art galleries, picturesque colonial Spanish squares, and a vibrant nightlife makes Havana’s charms impossible to resist. The famous Malecón, a 4 km long seawall that snakes along an ocean front boulevard, is the hub of social activity. This is where children play chicken with the waves threatening to cascade over the wall and friends meet to drink rum and watch the sunset. At night the Malecón frequently turns into a makeshift stage as musicians congregate and impromptu salsa dancing breaks out.

The horse drawn wagon taxis trotting along side vintage pre-revolutionary American cars evoke feelings of nostalgia. It seems as if there’s always a “yank tank” turning the corner announcing its arrival with a roar to remind all that Cuba is the only place on earth where time travel is possible. That so many of these mobile museums are still running, without the assistance of proper spare parts, is a testament to the creative spirit and ingenuity of Cubans as replacement parts are cobbled together from Soviet era cars or are fashioned out of ordinary household items.

The absence of drugs and weapons combined with harsh penalties for theft translate into an almost non-existent crime rate. With a remarkably subtle police presence and seemingly relaxed access to the Internet, it’s easy to think that basic freedoms exist. However, the government controls nearly every aspect of life requiring permission before a citizen can purchase a car, sell a home, or even relocate!

With the collapse of the Soviet empire, small cracks in Cuba’s brand of socialism have begun to appear. Since the 1990s, Cuba has been slowly experimenting with private enterprise by allowing Cubans to operate private restaurants out of their homes, known as paladars. Casa particulares, the Cuban equivalent of a B&B, also have emerged permitting owners to rent up to two rooms in their house to tourists. In a country where the government has a history of limiting interaction between Cubans and tourists, a Casa stay provides an opportunity for a more meaningful interaction with locals while also supporting a family instead of a state owned hotel.

Despite the emergence of small private market, there is no need for Don Draper and his fellow Mad Men of the 60s as no visible commercial activity exists. Instead slogans proclaiming revolutionary virtues such as “Patria or muerte,” “Hasta La Victoria Siempre,” “Tu ejemplo vive, tus ideas perdan,” and “Fidel, estamos contigo,” are plastered on highway billboards and town walls.

Life in Cuba is about simple pleasures that center largely on music, dance, and drink. Music is the lifeblood of Cuba. The melodious sounds of the native bolero, rumba, son, and salsa, spill out onto the cobblestone streets as musicians wearing guayaberas and straw hats reminiscent of the Buena Vista Social Club play for tips. Cuba’s lively music scene compliments the rum cocktail culture. It is here that the Cuba Libre, Daiquirí, and Mojito were born. No one is more associated with Cuba’s cocktail culture than Papa Hemingway who once called Cuba home. Some of his favored haunts, still in operation today, include La Bodeguita del Medio, the birthplace of the mojito, and El Floridita where it is rumored that he once consumed 16 daiquirís in one sitting, no doubt lifting his glass in true Cuban spirit offering wishes of “salud y dinero.”

For those who want to experience a taste of Cuba in New York, the ¡Si Cuba! arts and cultural festival will be going on in New York from March 31-June 16th. For more information visit http://sicuba.org/en

Always one to try something new websites like Groupon, Buywithme and The Dealist are my crack cocaine constantly enticing me with activities that are on my “bucket list.” You see I want to be the person who dances with the stars, who makes the perfect maki roll, and who can discern the subtle tastes of chocolate and hints of blackberry in a wine without faking it. Essentially, I want to be Dos Equis “Most Interesting Woman in the World.”

Lately, due to the evil marketing geniuses behind these sites, I decided to enroll in several types of dance classes because even though I was on a dance team in high school, somewhere along the way I started to dance like a white girl. You know that girl in the bar who only has one or two moves? Well, I’m her, nice to meet you! And for the record normally she only appears on the dance floor after a few cocktails. When I saw a deal for what I call “stripper school,” also known as pole dancing classes, at NY Pole (www.nypole.com), I didn’t hesitate to throw down the plastic.

In referring to his daughter, Chris Rock once said “my only job in life is to keep her off the pole. I mean, they don’t grade fathers but if your daughter’s a stripper, you (bleep) up.” While that may be true, after tonight I have a new found respect for strippers. Those girls have some wicked upper body strength and they definitely have battle scars by the time they “go public!” Speaking for myself I am bruised and battered from the routine and constantly found myself thinking “yeah, that’s gonna leave a mark.” Next time I’m wearing hooker shoes (which appear to be available for purchase at the school). Note to self, buy the hooker shoes.

In the spirit of full disclosure I took one pole class before with friends. Ladies, you have not lived until you and your friends attempt to practice the art of seduction in front of each other. Until you abandon all inhibitions, the Yaya bond isn’t really complete. Acting like an absolute idiot, however, solidifies the bond. It’s the equivalent of becoming blood sisters.

I rolled solo this time around so I wasn’t quite sure what to expect. The class was filled with normal women looking to “work the pole.” Eavesdropping on the conversation, I learned that most attendees were mothers. There was even one pregnant woman there. At first I thought, oy veh is this what marriage life does to you? Are these women taking the class to add some spice? Or do we have an underground secret culture of wanna be strippers? As it turns out I was a de facto participant in a bachelorette party, a very shy bachelorette party that should’ve had a few pregame tequila shots. The ladies in my class were all scared of the poll, which meant more poll time for me to get jiggy with it. By the end of it I was rocking that pole (or so I thought anyway, which is all that mattered). I was twirling, I was spinning, I was climbing. Generally, I was having my own Flash Dance moment of empowerment. Although I’m not hanging upside down yet, give me a few more lessons and I will be. By the end of class I wanted a stage name and I wanted to tip myself.

The class provided a great workout! I’m adding stripper class to the exercise circuit. The class is so addictive that I nearly signed up for a membership on the spot, which includes a 20% discount for the pole-dancing virgins. I had to remind myself that I have instituted a moratorium on my credit card, which is on the verge of spontaneously combusting any moment, in part due to things like “stripper tuition.” Luckily, I have a few more prepaid classes remaining until I need to reenroll so I can continue to feed my female empowerment buzz for a little while longer while I think of my stage name!

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.

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.

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.

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!

After much hemhawing I decided to join match.com and chemistry.com even though I hate online dating as much as George Clooney hates Facebook. I nearly signed up for it last week after I had one too many drinks. What stopped me in my uninhibited state? Someone, and I won’t name names, couldn’t figure out how to pay before she passed out for the evening. That’s right folks, she was too tipsy to hand over the credit card information. I woke up next to my laptop screen that was open. In hindsight I could’ve woken up next to worse things than a laptop with match.com on the screen. I suppose it’s better than the time I woke up next to an empty food container that had previously housed a burger and fries. YOU think YOU’VE rolled over and seen some weird things next to you after a night on the town? Nothing beats rolling over and feeling cardboard and thinking “what the…” and then opening your eyes only to see a giant, industrial size take out box staring at you accusingly as if to say, “really lard can? Did you really need to bring me home at 4 in the morning,” and you look back as if to say, “better you than someone with a pulse!”

So I thought it was some form of cosmic intervention that prevented me from sealing the deal with match and that would be that. I thought that until I received an email from match.com informing me that my picture had been approved and was posted. MY WHAT? Evidently, “someone” could upload a picture, but couldn’t find the “subscribe” button in her altered state. An email sent to a friend that day stated, “Oh dear God. I just received an email from match telling me that my posted picture has been approved. Clearly, the question of do I remember doing that would be rhetorical at this point. ”

A week later I decided to give match another shot even though I’m convinced it’s the land of booty calls and fat bald old men who think they’re Brad Pitt hot and can date women 20 years younger than them. I also decided to give Chemistry.com a shot since it’s for a more serious dater. I decided to join Chemistry even though 1.6 million of its members got rejected from eharmony, a fact which one of my matches boasted about. Um, if an internet dating site rejects you, it’s nothing to brag about dude. I joined because 80% of people I know in New York are on one if not multiple dating sites. I thought it would make me feel like I’m doing something slightly productive regarding dating and that I might meet new people other than the pendejos I’ve been meeting out at bars and because a guy friend of mine said, “I’m conviced that you can find more than booty off match, look at me I’m living proof.” He got married off of match, however, he conveniently forgot that he got married only after having many match booty filled year, so whatever grain of salt and all.

In the three days since I have joined I’ve considered dumping them both 1,000 times during the “cancellation period.” And chemistry.com has about 2 more hours to make something happen or I’m pulling the plug on it. I’ll save the sucky profiles I’ve seen, of which there are many, for another post (or multiple posts-I have a feeling I’m going to have fun with other people’s profiles…not in a cruel way, but in a “could this guy be any more arrogant way”). Needless to say, I’ve been tempted to break up because it is a lot of guys looking for tail on match and let’s just say chemistry isn’t setting my bunsen burner on fire.

However, nothing tempted me to break up with match.com than the email I received today in which I was told “SHE’S interested in you.” You’re one of HER “Daily Fives.” Excuse me? Did I become a lesbian overnight? Is match.com suggesting that I broaden my horizons and go all new millenium New York lesbian chic? Truth be told I once accidentally joined match.com as a lesbian. How does one accidentally become a match.com lesbiana, you ask? Oh, I don’t know, I was probably half in the bag when I decided to join and marked the wrong button (either that or I was half in the bag and had a really, really bad date and Freud was slipping in there). I got an email from someone and I thought “wow, he’s cute…tall, masculine, 29, great job, he’s a blonde and I’m not usually into blondes, but he’s cute enoguh” which was quickly followed by “hey wait a second…this is a woman. What the….how the…” Then I realized that I had chosen women looking for a women. Woopsee. My lesbonic experimentation “phase” lasted all of 15 minutes and then I went straight again after figuring out how to make myself hetero again. However, not being a lesbian, I emailed match today and asked them what their deal was with matching me up with girls, hello aren’t you supposed to be looking out for me? Aren’t you supposed to be telling me what guys are interested in me? For the record, match has yet to respond back to me. I might have to drop a dime and get the AG in on this!

There are some artists who have such a great repertoire of songs that it’s impossible to pick their absolute best. If you had to pick just one song of some of the greats that we grew up, like say Madonna, could you? Evidently, City Winery couldn’t when it held its Madonna wine pairing of 30 songs, 30 wines.

In anticipation of the event people speculated what wines would be paired up with “Like a Virgin,” “Like a Prayer,” and “Justify My Love.” I suspected “Like a Virgin” would be a young never before touched beaujolais nouveau (even though it’s out of season), “Like a Prayer,” a Bordeaux from Saint Emillon, and “Justify My Love,” perhaps a White Zinfandel because it’s a wine people need to justify their love for. The only notable “wine”of the three songs, was the non-alcoholic “City Winery Kid’s Sauvignon Blanc” that City Winery chose for “Like a Virgin,” to which I have two comments a) why bother giving us a fake wine and b) are they actively encouraging kids to drink wine? That better appear as apple juice on the menu when bambinos are allowed in!

The event started when we heard a man off stage singing the lyrics to “Holiday.” We thought we might be treated to a female impersonator, but no such luck (although later we did see a famous drag Queen who has appeared on Project Runway named Acid Betty). However, our MC did not disappoint. He even came armed with a Geisha like fan which he used to fan himself. That man had some serious sexy Geisha fan moves. Note to self, buy a Geisha fan.

BTW, I have solidified myself as a hag as it was easier for me to get more numbers from gay men than it is for a dog to pick up fleas. I was honored when I was invited to come with them on their next adventure, but since it was straight love I was looking for, I politely declined.

I took notes during the different flights. I can read the earlier ones and I will admit on the second half of the sheet, I am unable to decipher the babble. The legible notes next to the corresponding number of wines are as follows:

3. La Isla Bonita = Sauvingon Blanc: “Are they seriously serving a white wine with a passionate song like this? I picture a fiery passionate red.”

4. Material Girl = Rose: “We are starting to do the camp fire sing along at this point and the line ‘Boys may come and boys may go and that’s all right you see’ was sung at a particularly high volume in unison.”

8. Papa Don’t Preach = a white wine I’ve never heard of, but I evidently liked because I starred it on the wine list: We are starting to sing while we toast at this point. We debated whether this was the video where Madonna wore the “Italians do it better” t-shirt. It was. I remembered it because when I was like 8 and I watched it on Friday Night Videos (we didn’t have cable), I thought it was a cool shirt. I wasn’t sure what “it” was, but it made me want to be Italian. I also laughed as I now recognized that she and her “baby” were riding the Staten Island Ferry on a date. Obviously Madge was slumming it in her pre-living in a material world days.

10. Rain = Muscadet: Our MC dramatically announced that rain was a metaphor for tears. I thought he was going to go deeper with this analysis to introduce the Muscadet, but he didn’t. Bummer.

12. Ray of Light = some random white wine: Me to a friend, “This tastes dry, does it taste dry to you?” My friend, “I think it’s as fruity as this whole room.” Clearly, my palate is having an off day.

A discussion ensues over why City Winery was only able to obtain 18 of the 30 videos (IP issues or availability-my friends in the music industry swear it’s b/c of IP issues, I take their word for it). So instead of 30 videos there is a “Moments of Madgeness” compilation of videos for the other 12 songs.

16. Borderline = we have now switched to red wine: “I wrote fashion glasses?” At first I have no idea what this means, but now I remember we were trying to figure out if our hipster and pseudo-pushy waiter’s glasses were fashion glasses or real glasses. Consensus, fashion glasses.

18. Express Yourself = Barbaresco: At this point we’re in FULL girl power mode as we all belted out as our toast, “DON’T GO FOR SECOND BEST BABY.” The rest of my note on this point is indecipherable.

22. Justify My Love = some red italian wine: MC sings “I want to kiss you in Paris, I want to hold your hand in Rome” and then he says “this wine makes me think of an Italian boy…it tastes like an Italian boy, it smells like an Italian boy and who doesn’t love Italian boys.” I must LOVE Italian boys as I starred this one.

23. Don’t Cry for Me Argentina = Malbec, obvi: Dear God, I’m not sure if it was my love for Argentina or Malbec or what, but I am now signing full blast “DON’T CRY FOR ME ARGENTINA, THE TRUTH IS I NEVER LEFT YOU, ALL THOUGH MY WILD DAYS, MY MAD EXISTENCE, I KEPT MY PROMISE,” while raising my glass to the MC who is acting very Evitaesque while Geisha fanning himself and looking at me and loving the Evita like adoration.

26. Beautiful Strangers = another new red wine: Disclaimer as my scratch paper has been highjacked because I’m on the dance floor at this point. The note says, “Madison is dancing with beautiful gay strangers.”

The rest of the night involved me getting called up to stage because it was my birthday at which point the MC spanked me with the microphone. Weird, but first official birthday spank. Next year, I’m asking for the Geisha fan.

There are days that make me love New York, and then there are days that make me LOVE New York. This past Saturday ranked as one of my top 5 all time favorite days in New York. The day was a bit touch go in the morning as a certain someone had only managed to catch about two hours of sleep from the prior night. The day was an extension of “birthday week,” which is my excuse to do one new thing a day every day of the week of my birthday. Basically, it’s my motivation to put the Netflix away, get off my tushy and explore all that New York has to offer. This year during the actual week of the big, ahem, “27,” (being 29 is so cliche so I’ve decided I’m going younger every year) I was too swamped to follow through so I made a deal with myself to do five new things in the month of August. Now, mind you I didn’t plan to do them all in one day, but I nearly accomplished my birthday week bucket list in one day.

We started the day off by taking advantage of the Summer Street Program, which Bloombie (that’s my nickname for our billionaire Mayor) introduced last year. For three Saturdays every August from 7 a.m. to 1 p.m. streets are closed off from traffic from the Brooklyn Bridge to Central Park. There are free bike and skate rentals along the route. My friend and I “rented” bikes and hit the open road and by open road I mean Park Avenue. A Park Avenue without any cars sort of gave it the I Am Legend and Vanilla Sky feeling (you know where Will Smith is driving around Park Avenue without any other cars on the road and Tom Cruise is running through a very empty Times Square). I feel like I should have a theme song for this portion of the day (Will and Tom would).

From there we headed to the upscale portion of the day and went for High Tea at Lady Mendl’s. Lady Mendl’s has a very French chic vibe. I am not going to lie, the favorite part of High Tea was seeing a sugar cube topped with a little pink flower on it. Oh so pretty and girlie! I secretly pretended that I was living at Lady Mendl’s and that we were in my salon and I was expecting various literary giant who all seemed to live in Paris at one time or the other circa the 1920 and 30s. Whatever big girls can play house too!

We then attempted to go to Pier 40 to do some free kayaking on the Hudson, but accidentally ended up in Brooklyn. The A train was on a covert black ops mission and jumped to the F track and next thing we know we’re in Brooklyn and we had to wait at a stifling hot train station. This would not deter us on our goal. Rather, it made the breeze off the Hudson that much more enjoyable when we finally made it to the pier.

Kayaking on the Hudson isn’t for everyone. First, you must be resolved that you’re not going to think about the fact that you will get soaking wet from the gross Hudson River. Second, you must forgo your fear of capsizing and/or accidentally falling out of the boat while trying to get into it (I actually thought I was going to miss the boat entirely and go head first into the Hudson). Third, you must be able to not freak out every time it appears like you’re going to have a head-on collision with inexperienced kayakers who have no navigational skills. There should be a boating test that people have to pass before they’re given an oar! The water was choppier than I expected and I couldn’t look at the boats that were anchored in the water since they were rocking side to side more than Elvis did on the Ed Sullivan show (not a good thing to look at if you’ve had a few too many the night before). P.S. there are changing rooms and a locker area on location, but word to the wise-if you bring a change of clothes don’t forget the most important thing, i.e., back up underwear because you will then be forced to choose which is the lesser of two evils. I’m just saying.

After our little Christopher Columbus sailing of the high seas expedition, we went for a walk up the West Side Highway and over to the High Line. For those who haven’t checked it out, it’s a must see as it is an example of urban planning at its finest. Believe it or not, we had intended to hit a few small museums, but thanks to our unexpected No Sleep Til Brooklyn detour we ran out of time. So, instead we headed to Chelsea Brewing Company for a free tour, which I highly recommend. Our beer sommelier was generous with the three pitcher pours of Checker Cab Blonde, Sunset Red Ale (my favorite), and a Stout beer the name of which escapes me. You also get discount beer tickets for pints at the bar. I wonder if anyone gets banned from coming back too many times. It was a motley crew on the tour though as I think we may have had a mail order bride and someone with daddy issues (seriously my friend and I couldn’t figure out if this girl was with her father or her boyfriend-it was ambiguously creepy).

We finally ended the evening at The Frying Pan and had a sunset cocktail of white sangria (a bit reminiscent of peach wine coolers) and garlic fries (evidently they’re famous for them). We could have stayed longer, however, I had dinner plans to meet a friend from out of town so where did I head to meet her? The Shake Shack because why not end the day with another New York institution!

You just never know where life is going to take you. I remember when he was born. I was a young girl. I remember watching him grow up in the public eye. We all watched him grow up, but if you ever told me I’d watch Prince Harry play polo at a charity match on Governors Island I would have told you that you were one sandwich short of a picnic, but that is exactly where life took me on Saturday. The fact that my favorite NY anchorman Pat Kiernan from NY1 was there interviewing the Polo announcer was just gravy. I have an oddly inexplicable crush on Pat Kiernan. For those of you who don’t know him, he’s the morning news anchor on NY1. I feel like if I’m not waking up with Pat then my day just isn’t the same.

CBS news was there and a reporter interviewed the group of girls next to us and asked why they were there. Although I hid behind my Guccis so as to not be picked up on camera, I did think to myself, if I were interviewed would it be too obnoxious to say, “to be with my people, to drink champagne, and to see his royal hotness and to land me a prince?” (BTW, I can’t take credit for HRH nickname as my friend came up with that one).

I have always loved Polo and Polo players. I cannot reiterate enough that we really blew it with respect to maintaining some of the best British traditions such as high tea, strawberries and cream and polo. I truly believe this is because we broke away from England too early and too violently to care about maintaining an interest in these lovely traditions (hello Boston Tea Party anyone?). Polo is where my people congregate. Who are my people? They’re your Vineyard Vines, Nantucket Reds with lobsters embroidered in them, popped collar polo boys (jury is still out on whether I think the time for the popped collar has passed and how I feel about the enlarged Polo pony on the new RL shirts…when I know, you’ll know) and your Lily Pulitzer dresses for the ladies (shockingly short in supply that day, but it was hard to select the proper attire when half of it is free and open to the public and half of it has attendees who dropped $50k for a table). Despite the fashion dilemmas, anywhere people gather in big fancy hats, wear oversized sunglasses, and where the sound of champagne corks popping off sounds like a symphony is where I want to be on a fantastically sunny day.

So, it was with perfect weather and with the backdrop of the Manhattan skyline that I saw the Prince enter the Polo grounds wearing white pants and a blue blazer. He walked in with an entourage and only mingled with the VIP section (lawn seats went for $500 and a seat at a table went for a cool $1K). Evidently 5-10 Benjamins got you complimentary Veuve and a private audience with one of the world’s most eligible bachelors. It was slightly annoying that he did not give any face time to the commoners camped out in the free section, which is where yours truly could be found (hey it’s a recession give me a break). Riddle me this, how is a girl supposed to land a prince if he’s surrounded by body guards and other people’s body guards? Hello Harry, it’s not like you’ll need to worry about abdicating the throne a la Edward VIII to marry an American. That’s William’s problem, pas vous!

Prince Harry breezed in and out of Manhattan. He was here for a grand total of 36 hours. They kept the wild child and international playboy on a tight leash. He was basically here to visit kids in Harlem, lay a wreath at ground zero, dedicate a garden, and look sexy in a polo outfit. I think the only bar he hit while in Manhattan was the hotel minibar at the St. Regis or Carlyle or the like.

We enjoyed a picnic lunch and some bubbly. The Veuve was refreshing on the warm sunny summer day. We clicked our glasses filled with heavenly nectar from the French gods and watched three of the four Chukkers. We didn’t stay for the fourth Chukker because we knew the ferry ride back to Manhattan, which comes only every half-hour, was going to be a nightmare if we stayed until the end and thus we missed PH getting sprayed with Veuve apres-polo. We did stay for the time honored tradition of divot stamping, which in addition to the fashion and the sound of the ponies rushing from one side of the pitch to the other is one of my favorite things about Polo. Divot stamping occurs at Polo’s equivalent of half time (evidently this happened in a scene in Pretty Woman, but I don’t remember it). Rumor has it that there was a VIP divot area where the well heeled including Madonna and kids, Marc Jacobs, Kate Hudson, Matt Lauer, David Lauren, Chloe Sevingny, and L.L. Cool J did a little divot stamping. After I did my own divot stamping I headed to the “stables” to do a little Prince stalking and caught some of these shots below.

Although I didn’t see Madge et co, I did see Nacho Figueras, famously hot Argentinean polo player and now face of Polo Black. Aye Dios Mio! Talk about muy guapo! Somebody get me a glass of champagne because I need to cool down. He’s outrageously gorgeous. He played opposite Prince Harry’s team. PH’s team was named Sentabale, in honor of the charity he and another prince started to benefit orphaned children suffering from AIDS in Lesotho. Nacho’s team was named Black Watch (or as I like to call it “Team Crazy Caliente”). I didn’t really care which team won, but it was Sentabale who won 6-5 after four abbreviated Chukkers.

Although I didn’t land me a prince (yet), I did pick up an adorable t-shirt that seduced me into buying it for a mere $22.