“Yes dear …
… he’s an Investment Banker!”
This is what I overheard a mother telling her 6-year old daughter on the train to my Southampton share in response to her daughter’s query “Mommy, do the so-and-so’s have a lot of money”? That should have maybe tipped me off that I was not in Kansas (or rather Muskoka) anymore. At 6 years old, the only thing I knew about money was that I needed it to buy Lik-M-Aid at the local Mac’s. The only thing I knew about investment banking was, well, ZERO! Regardless, someone should inform dear mummy about the credit crunch.
I guess it didn’t help that one of the first places we stumbled into that night (totally accidentally btw) was called Nello Summertime. To say it was EURO would be a total understatement. We ordered a round of drinks (a beer, a g’n't, and a martini) and it cost $83 before tax and tip. After that, the $47 lobster bisque soup seemed almost a deal. That pretty much sums up why the table next to us was filled with 18-year old Russian girls in basically see-through black tank dresses and hardcore black eyeliner, scanning the room and waiting for one of the 65-year-old men with slicked back hair, seersucker suits and a roving eye to join them … and pick up the tab, of course. In retrospect, that night was a deal for the entertainment value alone.
The thing that struck me as most odd though, was that many people don’t go to the beach. I mean, the place would not exist if it was not gorgeously situated at the very edge of America, but still, some people never go to the ocean!! Bi-zarre. Instead, they shop at the Saks on Main St., sit primly dressed at cafes and bars, or hang out by their pools. wtf? It’s the equivalent of going to cottage country in Ontario and never hanging out on the dock. Crazy talk, I say. But that also means natural selection at its best goes on beach-side: lips are less puffy and the guys wear shorts that go all the way to their knees.
I was also briefly privy to the gay scene in town. My friend somehow coerced me into a quick stop at a house owned by the top Corcoran real estate broker in Manhattan. It was me, 7 gay guys, and about 14 bottles of rosé wine covering the tabletop. (There was also the token hot import from Kazakhstan who got invited up by the owner for the weekend, only to find himself summarily discharged from the house the next day because he kept hitting on everyone he was being introduced to). Literally, Bentley to Bus in less than 24 hours. No mercy. Hilarious. Anyhow, I was already annoyed that they were all much prettier then me and far more smartly dressed, but the last straw was when they got up and decided to have a “walk off” to see who could do the better catwalk. I wasn’t even invited to join in. Needless to say, we left right after that.
Our house was more my speed … guys manning the BBQ, girls lighting the tikki torches, and everyone bringing back the college years with drinking games. It turns out that I am a born natural at Flip Cup! Who knew? I anchored like nobody’s business. And just in time for the World’s Largest Flip Cup Tournament being held at a bar in Tribeca in October.
Random Aside: Once you’ve been blogged, is reality TV the only next logical step? I suppose it’s ok to completely mis-quote someone, so long as you throw “cool” in front of their name?? As if that weren’t enough, I was stopped on my street and did an impromptu interview (on camera) about living in Tribeca … apparently, I rambled on about my favorite coffee shop and the opening of the Whole Foods on film for a PERSONAL project that is not going to show up ANYWHERE, “we promise”.
Since, I’ve been desperately trying to wash off the “Moron” tattoo stamped across my forehead.
