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Oct 16, 10 10:16pm
FASHION WEEK: TALES FROM THE FRONTLINESTHE GUARDIAN UKSEPTEMBER 22, 2010BY JULIA ALLISON Six years ago, when the now-storied New York Fashion Week was still held under huge white tents covering Bryant Park on the chaotic, touristy intersection of 42nd Street & 6th Avenue, I attended my inaugural fashion show.  Just twenty-three then, I sat fourth or fifth row and gaped, slack-jawed, at the models parading the clothing of a designer I’ve forgotten.   My first impression was the ultimate industry cliché: “Goddamn, these models are REALLY freaking SKINNY.”Four years later, as the editor-at-large of Star magazine, my boss asked me to cover Fashion Week.  I had never reported on fashion before, and I had absolutely no idea what or how to do so.  I got there with my videographer and my press pass and expected it would be no trouble. And it was quite a bit of trouble indeed.Unless your last name is Wintour or Roitfeld, Fashion Week requires – if nothing else – stamina, fortitude, old-fashioned wiles and a substantial amount of (preferably unassailable) of self-esteem, because it will be rocked heartily by the jockeying and politics of the FW pecking order.  You think you’re important?  You’re not.  You think you’re thin or attractive?  You’re not. You think anyone cares whether you get your interview? They don’t.Many Fashion Week regulars fight this paradox: they adore it, they understand why it is what it is, why it has become what is has become. And they also count down the days until it is over and congratulate each other on “making it through,” as if it were some sort of physical therapy or painful experiment with dark green vegetables.It’s been seven long seasons since I stumbled with my microphone into the tents for the first time, and there are certainly stages to the Fashion Week experience.  First, uncomprehending wide-eyed wonder as the glamorous chaos swirls around you coupled with a palpable fear at the mayhem – doing the wrong thing, saying the wrong thing, sitting in the wrong seat, arousing the attention or ire of the ubiquitously lean, black-clad PR girls.  Then a gradual onset of confidence begins, oh yes, *this * is how it works: Only the neophytes ask Anna Wintour for a photograph.  Make your press requests early, but remember, there is no such thing as a confirmed interview.  Ever.  Accept you’ll be body-checking people - literally - to get that soundbite. That’s just part of the job.  Prepare for bruises, blisters, even blood (my camera guy once started bleeding after he was shoved in the giant pit of photographers that stand at the base of the runway).Become a liminal figure – too aggressive and you piss people off, too passive and you won’t get any coverage whatsoever.  Dress in subtle designer frocks, but never jeans (unless you’re an editor) and always unconscionably expensive, outrageously high heels, preferably YSL, Jimmy Choo, Manolos or Louboutins (they are studied with some regularity, especially if you’re sitting front row). Too showy and you’ll attract attention as an outsider – only front row celebs & total newbies dress like it’s a red carpet – too casual and unless you’re a well-known editor or buyer, you’ll look (and feel) out of place.Fashion Week – to the uninitiated outsider – sounds so … frothy.  In reality, it is anything but. This is a multi-billion dollar global business, but it’s also an enormous art presentation, bigger and more elaborate than all of the Basels put together.  The best comparison I’ve come up with – and one I use with some frequency – is that of 90 weddings, with 18-30 brides each.   All in the span of eight days.I’ve never been in combat, but I’ve seen GI Jane, and from the looks of it, fashion week bears more than a passing resemblance to a regimented boot camp, completed in 6-inch YSLs and Herve Leger bandage dresses, in the middle of a highly organized, unrelenting mosh pit of well-dressed editors, reporters, buyers, models, photographers, press and flaks with competing agendas. It’s this mix that makes Fashion Week so defiantly brilliant, so exhaustingly frustrating.What began, in essence, as a trade event has been co-opted, at least in part, by the changing fixtures of the tents: the celebrities (mainly reality “stars” – Housewives, Project Runway alums, America’s Next Top Models – oddly sitting front row instead of walking in the shows – and their CW starlet professional counterparts), the celeb-stylists, the celeb-editors, the celeb-bloggers (an oxymoron?) and the inevitable hangers-on that come with all these.This season, I asked designers, “Do you consider fashion to be an art – or a business?”  It is both of course, but it’s also entertainment. It isn’t, after all, a Fashion Tell.  It’s a Fashion Show.And that show isn’t limited to what walks down the catwalk or the lighting or the thumping music.  The shows are really installation art, and the installation is the tents and the art is the people and their arrangements and their interactions and the way they react to the clothing (a standing ovation?  I’ve seen it before), and the way a beautifully constructed dress can actually make a crowd gasp.To a certain extent, it’s also an incredibly nuanced, unbelievably complicated multi-layered competition – who will get the most press, the choicest front row seats, the hottest celebs & most powerful editors in attendance?  What results is sometimes a battle of egos, sometimes a celebration of craftsmanship.Astounding creative visions are realized here.  But sometimes you’re cold and you’re bored and you’ve seen clothes like that before and you’d rather be in sweats and sneakers and your ego is wounded because some PR lady put you in the third row and you couldn’t think of anything else to ask Diane von Furstenberg other than “What was your inspiration?” and you absolutely hate hate hate that question and if you did make it into the first row by some chance, isn’t it true that your thighs are simply too big to be there and everyone will be judging you against the backdrop of 0% body fat and oh, god why are you here anyway?  You’re a fraud.  You just want to go home and eat a chocolate bunny from last Easter.And I’ve done that, too.

FASHION WEEK: TALES FROM THE FRONTLINES
THE GUARDIAN UK
SEPTEMBER 22, 2010
BY JULIA ALLISON

Six years ago, when the now-storied New York Fashion Week was still held under huge white tents covering Bryant Park on the chaotic, touristy intersection of 42nd Street & 6th Avenue, I attended my inaugural fashion show.  Just twenty-three then, I sat fourth or fifth row and gaped, slack-jawed, at the models parading the clothing of a designer I’ve forgotten.   My first impression was the ultimate industry cliché: “Goddamn, these models are REALLY freaking SKINNY.”

Four years later, as the editor-at-large of Star magazine, my boss asked me to cover Fashion Week.  I had never reported on fashion before, and I had absolutely no idea what or how to do so.  I got there with my videographer and my press pass and expected it would be no trouble. And it was quite a bit of trouble indeed.

Unless your last name is Wintour or Roitfeld, Fashion Week requires – if nothing else – stamina, fortitude, old-fashioned wiles and a substantial amount of (preferably unassailable) of self-esteem, because it will be rocked heartily by the jockeying and politics of the FW pecking order.  You think you’re important?  You’re not.  You think you’re thin or attractive?  You’re not. You think anyone cares whether you get your interview? They don’t.

Many Fashion Week regulars fight this paradox: they adore it, they understand why it is what it is, why it has become what is has become. And they also count down the days until it is over and congratulate each other on “making it through,” as if it were some sort of physical therapy or painful experiment with dark green vegetables.

It’s been seven long seasons since I stumbled with my microphone into the tents for the first time, and there are certainly stages to the Fashion Week experience.  First, uncomprehending wide-eyed wonder as the glamorous chaos swirls around you coupled with a palpable fear at the mayhem – doing the wrong thing, saying the wrong thing, sitting in the wrong seat, arousing the attention or ire of the ubiquitously lean, black-clad PR girls.  Then a gradual onset of confidence begins, oh yes, *this * is how it works: Only the neophytes ask Anna Wintour for a photograph.  Make your press requests early, but remember, there is no such thing as a confirmed interview.  Ever.  Accept you’ll be body-checking people - literally - to get that soundbite. That’s just part of the job.  Prepare for bruises, blisters, even blood (my camera guy once started bleeding after he was shoved in the giant pit of photographers that stand at the base of the runway).

Become a liminal figure – too aggressive and you piss people off, too passive and you won’t get any coverage whatsoever.  Dress in subtle designer frocks, but never jeans (unless you’re an editor) and always unconscionably expensive, outrageously high heels, preferably YSL, Jimmy Choo, Manolos or Louboutins (they are studied with some regularity, especially if you’re sitting front row). Too showy and you’ll attract attention as an outsider – only front row celebs & total newbies dress like it’s a red carpet – too casual and unless you’re a well-known editor or buyer, you’ll look (and feel) out of place.

Fashion Week – to the uninitiated outsider – sounds so … frothy.  In reality, it is anything but. This is a multi-billion dollar global business, but it’s also an enormous art presentation, bigger and more elaborate than all of the Basels put together.  The best comparison I’ve come up with – and one I use with some frequency – is that of 90 weddings, with 18-30 brides each.   All in the span of eight days.

I’ve never been in combat, but I’ve seen GI Jane, and from the looks of it, fashion week bears more than a passing resemblance to a regimented boot camp, completed in 6-inch YSLs and Herve Leger bandage dresses, in the middle of a highly organized, unrelenting mosh pit of well-dressed editors, reporters, buyers, models, photographers, press and flaks with competing agendas.

It’s this mix that makes Fashion Week so defiantly brilliant, so exhaustingly frustrating.

What began, in essence, as a trade event has been co-opted, at least in part, by the changing fixtures of the tents: the celebrities (mainly reality “stars” – Housewives, Project Runway alums, America’s Next Top Models – oddly sitting front row instead of walking in the shows – and their CW starlet professional counterparts), the celeb-stylists, the celeb-editors, the celeb-bloggers (an oxymoron?) and the inevitable hangers-on that come with all these.

This season, I asked designers, “Do you consider fashion to be an art – or a business?”  It is both of course, but it’s also entertainment. It isn’t, after all, a Fashion Tell.  It’s a Fashion Show.

And that show isn’t limited to what walks down the catwalk or the lighting or the thumping music.  The shows are really installation art, and the installation is the tents and the art is the people and their arrangements and their interactions and the way they react to the clothing (a standing ovation?  I’ve seen it before), and the way a beautifully constructed dress can actually make a crowd gasp.

To a certain extent, it’s also an incredibly nuanced, unbelievably complicated multi-layered competition – who will get the most press, the choicest front row seats, the hottest celebs & most powerful editors in attendance?  What results is sometimes a battle of egos, sometimes a celebration of craftsmanship.

Astounding creative visions are realized here.  But sometimes you’re cold and you’re bored and you’ve seen clothes like that before and you’d rather be in sweats and sneakers and your ego is wounded because some PR lady put you in the third row and you couldn’t think of anything else to ask Diane von Furstenberg other than “What was your inspiration?” and you absolutely hate hate hate that question and if you did make it into the first row by some chance, isn’t it true that your thighs are simply too big to be there and everyone will be judging you against the backdrop of 0% body fat and oh, god why are you here anyway?  You’re a fraud.  You just want to go home and eat a chocolate bunny from last Easter.

And I’ve done that, too.

Jan 04, 10 3:53am
THE WIFE FLUFFERCOSMOPOLITANJANUARY 2010BY JULIA ALLISONLast week, I got a call from an ex of mine, a man I truly believed I would one day find in a tux at the end of the aisle on my wedding day.  He’s been dating the same girl since we broke up two years ago, and although I knew it was a theoretical possibility, I had (delusionally) hoped the moment which came next I could somehow avoid: “Julia,” he said, “I’m going to marry her.”I promptly burst into hysterical tears.  This news officially made me a Wife Fluffer - and the worst part?  It wasn’t my First Time.Wife Fluffer, n. - The last girlfriend before The Wife.In fact, I’ve been a Wife Fluffer upwards of SEVEN times.  There was Jason and Steven and Tom and John and Mike and Tim and Paul and now Andrew*.  That is insane.  That is ridiculous.  That is … what IS that??Was there something I did that primed these guys for the long-term relationships and marriages to come?  Had I sparked their desire for a Wife?  Or was I such a disaster of a girlfriend that they wanted out of the game altogether, and the next girl was the last stop on the Dating Express, before he reaches Wifeville, Population 1: her.As I examined the situation, I found that I wasn’t the only girl whose Dating Resume boasted extensive experience prepping men for the big day … with someone else.  One fellow Wife Fluffer calls it “walking them down the aisle,” and some of us do everything but!Either way, the truth must be told: behind every Great Man with a Wife is a Great Wife Fluffer.Wife Fluffing, however, isn’t a “One Size fits All Potential Husbands” proposition.  What drives them to marry the next girl in line?  Some need perspective (#5), while others require extensive coaching (#2), some still others just want a Last Hurrah (#1) before they settle down into martial bliss.Below, the Top Five Wife Fluffers of all time:1) The Last HurrahShe’s “the Marilyn” - the quintessential over the top, hedonist, fun, sexy nymphet.  He says: “Let’s go to Vegas,” she says: “I don’t even need to pack a bag, I’ll just wear my g-string and go topless at the pool.”  This doesn’t exactly scream Take Her Home to Your Folks, and so, he doesn’t. “This type,” says my friend Ben, 30, an entrepreneur, “Is wildly undatable - in which case Guy says, ok, been there, that whole exciting/crazy/unrealistic thing isn’t going to work but at least I tried it.  And promptly marries the next (stable) woman he finds.”Like a two-year-old, he thinks he wants freedom, but he really wants limits, and he’ll marry the woman who tells him “no.”  “It’s the Legally Blond curse,” says Tiffany W, 27, an actress, “Guys want the Jackie, and not the Marilyn. Sad but true, some guys love when a girl embraces her sex appeal when they are dating, but all of a sudden when things get too serious, they freak out and decide they want someone more conservative.”“Compared to the wives these men take on, I’m more fun,”  says Tyler R, 23, in artist management and a self-described “damn wife fluffer” 4 times in the past 2 years.  “We ‘wife fluffers’ must give off a ‘here for a goodtime’ vibe, and might scare them to the more stable women, obviously looking for commitment. I’m clearly a work in progress.”2) Coach WedlockIn the 2007 movie Knocked Up, Seth Rogen and Paul Rudd discuss the always controversial “Trainer Girlfriend” (that is, the girl who puts in the hard work of shaping her man into the boyfriend he ought to be):Seth: She thinks she could train ME?Paul: Yeah, like you’re running the Triple Crown.Seth: She can’t train THIS! Oh, but she can.  The only problem is, she might be training him for his next jockey (the one who will win the race).“I can imagine a guy who’s not quite ready for marriage,” my dad said thoughtfully (perhaps reminiscing?), “and the girl works really hard to whip him into shape, but in the process destroys the relationship.”  He’s not the only one who can imagine that, because many of us - in our overzealous quest to have the Perfect Relationship with the Perfect Guy - have attacked our boyfriends with the overactive enthusiasm of a paint-can, drill wielding Paige Davis of Trading Spaces or the bacon bits and whistles of The Dog Whisperer.  Come boy! Sit! Stay! Marry!I’ve done this on at least two prior occasions, resulting in a devoted boyfriend - now-devoted to the next woman. “Perhaps the problem is,” says a guy friend of mine, “you conduct too intense a training program, and in doing so turn the man away?” Exactly. Just like a particularly difficult professor, the student grows and learns a lot, but it’s painful, and pain - shockingly! - does not incite a man to get on one knee.  With you, that is.That said, every man needs a Trainer Girlfriend, and for every man you train well, your dating karma will reward you (maybe with a pre-Trained boyfriend?? please?)3) Breaking the Seal (of Holy Matrimony)Awards should be given to the special Fluffers who begin the long, arduous process of him considering marriage as a “real thing” that might, one day, be applicable to his life.  Here’s the script:You: Have you ever thought about the next level?Him: Huh?You: Marriage.  M.A.R.R.I.A.G.E.Him: Huh?Repeat - for months - until he shows some sign of recognition that it could be “that thing he’s gonna do.”The whole process is like getting a horse used to a saddle for the first time.  They’re not huge fans of it at first, but then they calm down - and after a while? They actually enjoy it.  (Or so married men privately admit.  Turns out it’s so bad to have someone love and cherish you forever and ever, eh?)In that time, you can get fed up and move on, while he may realize, a few months after your breakup, having become acclimated to the idea of marriage (THANKS TO YOU), it isn’t THAT scary, after all.  So when the next girl he dates brings up the “M” word, he no longer goes into the Fetal Bachelor position.His Wife should send YOU a wedding gift.4) His Cab Light is On - But Yours Isn’tMen aren’t exactly known for their biological clocks - and, with the notable exception of Brad Pitt - they rarely talk about their desire to settle down and have a family.  That is not to say, however, that issues of timing don’t affect them.  They just happen to be less like elaborate timepieces and more like, well, taxicabs.To wit: for most of their life, they’re driving around with their light off, unwilling to take on passengers, but - as their friends pair up, their hairline begins receding (yeah, that can start in his late 20s, believe it or not), and they’ve reached career cruising altitude, all of a sudden they want a dog and a house and a grill and a … oh god.  A wife.  And boom, just like that, their cab light goes on.  The next girl they see standing on the corner hailing them?  They’re gonna (try to) marry her.But maybe your cab light isn’t on (yes, ladies, there are many times in our lives when we’re not ready for marriage!), in which case, you’re still a mismatch.  “Most men reach a certain point in their life where they’re ready to settle down.  It usually has very little to do with the girl he’s dating at the time, and more to do with job security, emotional maturity, biological clock, etc,” says Shanna D, 23, in public relations, “If a guy is ready, he’s ready, and if you as his girlfriend aren’t ready and for some reason it doesn’t work out between you, he’s still going to be ready after you break up. Most likely, the next girl he dates will be ready and then bam - you’re the Wife Fluffer.”So for once, the traditional roles are reversed: he’s pushing for commitment, you’re resisting (which usually makes him want it even more).  Eventually, you both decide your timing is off.  But his increased desire - thanks to your refusal - certainly trickles down to his next lady.  Nothing primes a guy for marriage like a girl telling him she doesn’t want it - even if that girl isn’t the one he marries!5) Perspective is 20/20These are the fluffers who give their boyfriends an existential lesson in what’s important, who get them to reconsider their priorities, who push them to grow as people.“I’ve been a wife fluffer three of four major relationships in my life,” says Elizabeth B, “and I think fluffers are just plain good, fun, entertaining, smart, provocative girlfriends who helped those we were in relationships with to grow the f—k up and realize that there’s more to it. To relationships. To life. That sometimes, when you find the right person, staying in and making pasta then doing it on the kitchen counter is more fun than going out and getting sloshed and going home with a random.”And from a guy’s perspective?  “So, I date girls A, B, and C,” says Ben. “If I marry C, I might have learned something about about myself while dating B that better set me up for C.”Exactly.  And sometimes it’s the breakup itself which lends that perspective.“When a guy breaks up with a catch, he realizes what he’s given up and goes into marriage mode,” explains Michelle G, “‘She was a great girlfriend!  Why didn’t it work out?!  I’ll make the next one work! And we’ll get married too!!’  Somewhere in their brains must be a little clock ticking, waiting for them to settle down. I think, sadly, this kind of perspective inducing break up is needed form them to figure out it’s time to settle down.” ——-Someone’s Got to Do It“It’s an important job, that of a wife fluffer,” Elizabeth says.  “Someone’s got to do the dirty work. Besides, the way I see it, one day, the guy some other girl fluffed will be knocking on my door, and I’ll be ready.”In the meantime, Wives?  Add an additional thank you note to your after the wedding checklist … Dear Fluffer, How can I ever express my gratitude? I wouldn’t be here without you.  Thank you, thank you, thank you. Love, The Wife. * Names have been changed to protect the Fluffees, bless their married-to-someone-else souls. ;)

THE WIFE FLUFFER
COSMOPOLITAN
JANUARY 2010
BY JULIA ALLISON

Last week, I got a call from an ex of mine, a man I truly believed I would one day find in a tux at the end of the aisle on my wedding day.  He’s been dating the same girl since we broke up two years ago, and although I knew it was a theoretical possibility, I had (delusionally) hoped the moment which came next I could somehow avoid: “Julia,” he said, “I’m going to marry her.”

I promptly burst into hysterical tears.  This news officially made me a Wife Fluffer - and the worst part?  It wasn’t my First Time.

Wife Fluffer, n. - The last girlfriend before The Wife.

In fact, I’ve been a Wife Fluffer upwards of SEVEN times.  There was Jason and Steven and Tom and John and Mike and Tim and Paul and now Andrew*.  That is insane.  That is ridiculous.  That is … what IS that??

Was there something I did that primed these guys for the long-term relationships and marriages to come?  Had I sparked their desire for a Wife?  Or was I such a disaster of a girlfriend that they wanted out of the game altogether, and the next girl was the last stop on the Dating Express, before he reaches Wifeville, Population 1: her.

As I examined the situation, I found that I wasn’t the only girl whose Dating Resume boasted extensive experience prepping men for the big day … with someone else.  One fellow Wife Fluffer calls it “walking them down the aisle,” and some of us do everything but!

Either way, the truth must be told: behind every Great Man with a Wife is a Great Wife Fluffer.

Wife Fluffing, however, isn’t a “One Size fits All Potential Husbands” proposition.  What drives them to marry the next girl in line?  Some need perspective (#5), while others require extensive coaching (#2), some still others just want a Last Hurrah (#1) before they settle down into martial bliss.

Below, the Top Five Wife Fluffers of all time:

1) The Last Hurrah

She’s “the Marilyn” - the quintessential over the top, hedonist, fun, sexy nymphet.  He says: “Let’s go to Vegas,” she says: “I don’t even need to pack a bag, I’ll just wear my g-string and go topless at the pool.”  This doesn’t exactly scream Take Her Home to Your Folks, and so, he doesn’t.

“This type,” says my friend Ben, 30, an entrepreneur, “Is wildly undatable - in which case Guy says, ok, been there, that whole exciting/crazy/unrealistic thing isn’t going to work but at least I tried it.  And promptly marries the next (stable) woman he finds.”

Like a two-year-old, he thinks he wants freedom, but he really wants limits, and he’ll marry the woman who tells him “no.” 

“It’s the Legally Blond curse,” says Tiffany W, 27, an actress, “Guys want the Jackie, and not the Marilyn. Sad but true, some guys love when a girl embraces her sex appeal when they are dating, but all of a sudden when things get too serious, they freak out and decide they want someone more conservative.”

“Compared to the wives these men take on, I’m more fun,”  says Tyler R, 23, in artist management and a self-described “damn wife fluffer” 4 times in the past 2 years.  “We ‘wife fluffers’ must give off a ‘here for a goodtime’ vibe, and might scare them to the more stable women, obviously looking for commitment. I’m clearly a work in progress.”

2) Coach Wedlock

In the 2007 movie Knocked Up, Seth Rogen and Paul Rudd discuss the always controversial “Trainer Girlfriend” (that is, the girl who puts in the hard work of shaping her man into the boyfriend he ought to be):

Seth: She thinks she could train ME?
Paul: Yeah, like you’re running the Triple Crown.
Seth: She can’t train THIS!

Oh, but she can.  The only problem is, she might be training him for his next jockey (the one who will win the race).

“I can imagine a guy who’s not quite ready for marriage,” my dad said thoughtfully (perhaps reminiscing?), “and the girl works really hard to whip him into shape, but in the process destroys the relationship.”  He’s not the only one who can imagine that, because many of us - in our overzealous quest to have the Perfect Relationship with the Perfect Guy - have attacked our boyfriends with the overactive enthusiasm of a paint-can, drill wielding Paige Davis of Trading Spaces or the bacon bits and whistles of The Dog Whisperer.  Come boy! Sit! Stay! Marry!

I’ve done this on at least two prior occasions, resulting in a devoted boyfriend - now-devoted to the next woman. “Perhaps the problem is,” says a guy friend of mine, “you conduct too intense a training program, and in doing so turn the man away?”

Exactly. Just like a particularly difficult professor, the student grows and learns a lot, but it’s painful, and pain - shockingly! - does not incite a man to get on one knee.  With you, that is.

That said, every man needs a Trainer Girlfriend, and for every man you train well, your dating karma will reward you (maybe with a pre-Trained boyfriend?? please?)

3) Breaking the Seal (of Holy Matrimony)

Awards should be given to the special Fluffers who begin the long, arduous process of him considering marriage as a “real thing” that might, one day, be applicable to his life.  Here’s the script:

You: Have you ever thought about the next level?
Him: Huh?
You: Marriage.  M.A.R.R.I.A.G.E.
Him: Huh?

Repeat - for months - until he shows some sign of recognition that it could be “that thing he’s gonna do.”

The whole process is like getting a horse used to a saddle for the first time.  They’re not huge fans of it at first, but then they calm down - and after a while? They actually enjoy it.  (Or so married men privately admit.  Turns out it’s so bad to have someone love and cherish you forever and ever, eh?)

In that time, you can get fed up and move on, while he may realize, a few months after your breakup, having become acclimated to the idea of marriage (THANKS TO YOU), it isn’t THAT scary, after all.  So when the next girl he dates brings up the “M” word, he no longer goes into the Fetal Bachelor position.

His Wife should send YOU a wedding gift.

4) His Cab Light is On - But Yours Isn’t

Men aren’t exactly known for their biological clocks - and, with the notable exception of Brad Pitt - they rarely talk about their desire to settle down and have a family.  That is not to say, however, that issues of timing don’t affect them.  They just happen to be less like elaborate timepieces and more like, well, taxicabs.

To wit: for most of their life, they’re driving around with their light off, unwilling to take on passengers, but - as their friends pair up, their hairline begins receding (yeah, that can start in his late 20s, believe it or not), and they’ve reached career cruising altitude, all of a sudden they want a dog and a house and a grill and a … oh god.  A wife.  And boom, just like that, their cab light goes on.  The next girl they see standing on the corner hailing them?  They’re gonna (try to) marry her.

But maybe your cab light isn’t on (yes, ladies, there are many times in our lives when we’re not ready for marriage!), in which case, you’re still a mismatch.  “Most men reach a certain point in their life where they’re ready to settle down.  It usually has very little to do with the girl he’s dating at the time, and more to do with job security, emotional maturity, biological clock, etc,” says Shanna D, 23, in public relations, “If a guy is ready, he’s ready, and if you as his girlfriend aren’t ready and for some reason it doesn’t work out between you, he’s still going to be ready after you break up. Most likely, the next girl he dates will be ready and then bam - you’re the Wife Fluffer.”

So for once, the traditional roles are reversed: he’s pushing for commitment, you’re resisting (which usually makes him want it even more).  Eventually, you both decide your timing is off.  But his increased desire - thanks to your refusal - certainly trickles down to his next lady.  Nothing primes a guy for marriage like a girl telling him she doesn’t want it - even if that girl isn’t the one he marries!

5) Perspective is 20/20

These are the fluffers who give their boyfriends an existential lesson in what’s important, who get them to reconsider their priorities, who push them to grow as people.

“I’ve been a wife fluffer three of four major relationships in my life,” says Elizabeth B, “and I think fluffers are just plain good, fun, entertaining, smart, provocative girlfriends who helped those we were in relationships with to grow the f—k up and realize that there’s more to it. To relationships. To life. That sometimes, when you find the right person, staying in and making pasta then doing it on the kitchen counter is more fun than going out and getting sloshed and going home with a random.”

And from a guy’s perspective?  “So, I date girls A, B, and C,” says Ben. “If I marry C, I might have learned something about about myself while dating B that better set me up for C.”

Exactly.  And sometimes it’s the breakup itself which lends that perspective.

“When a guy breaks up with a catch, he realizes what he’s given up and goes into marriage mode,” explains Michelle G, “‘She was a great girlfriend!  Why didn’t it work out?!  I’ll make the next one work! And we’ll get married too!!’  Somewhere in their brains must be a little clock ticking, waiting for them to settle down. I think, sadly, this kind of perspective inducing break up is needed form them to figure out it’s time to settle down.”

——-
Someone’s Got to Do It

“It’s an important job, that of a wife fluffer,” Elizabeth says.  “Someone’s got to do the dirty work. Besides, the way I see it, one day, the guy some other girl fluffed will be knocking on my door, and I’ll be ready.”

In the meantime, Wives?  Add an additional thank you note to your after the wedding checklist …

Dear Fluffer,

How can I ever express my gratitude? I wouldn’t be here without you.  Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Love, The Wife.

* Names have been changed to protect the Fluffees, bless their married-to-someone-else souls. ;)

Jan 03, 10 9:15pm
END OF THE DECADE PROJECT: Obama GirlNEWSWEEK December 3, 2009By Julia Allison“You seem to float onto the floorDemocratic Convention 2004I never wanted anybody more …cause I got a crush on Obama!”June of 2007: the Democratic presidential nominee hadn’t yet been decided, even by the most precocious of pundits.  It was a slow news day (month, really) when a not-quite-professional YouTube music video featuring a sexy young girl singing about her love for a certain politician broke out.  Before the end of the week, over five million people had seen “Obama Girl” gyrate in a bikini next to a superimposed shot of “relatively unknown” democratic contender Barack Obama, bare-chested in the waves.No campaign video then – or since – has made it so clear: Hillary Clinton or John Kerry, he wasn’t.“So I put down my Kerry sign / So black and sexy, you’re so fine.”Presidential candidate as sex symbol?  This was a new era, indeed.This was no Swift boat, no cranky senior citizens complaining about health care.  Instead we had model/actress Amber Lee Ettinger, then 25, with long flowing black hair and curves that could make gay Republicans straight – plus an undeniably catchy tune, some arguably amusing lyrics (“You’re into border security/Let’s break this border between you and me/You can love but you can fight/You can Barack me tonight”), and, oh yeah, a bright red pair of booty … uh …  “shorts” – with OBAMA in white letters on the butt.Such iconic sexual-political imagery is the stuff of pop culture legend. “It’s safe to say the original video was more memorable than any of Barack Obama’s own TV ads,” says former ad-exec Ben Relles, who co-created Obama Girl with vocalist Leah Kaufmann, shooting it in a single weekend. That it looked slightly homemade – no slick videography, with a budget of just $2k, only fanned the flames of grassroots views & media love.  More important, the message perfectly articulated – in a cheeky (figuratively & literally) manner – the cult-like almost adolescent adulation Obama fanaticism that had been building in pop culture.   “It was a metaphor for how young people were head over heels for him for the wrong reasons,” says co-creator Ben Relles.Well … maybe not the “wrong” reasons, per se, but certainly reasons not frequently ascribed to politicians, like, for example, uh … “hotness.”But it wasn’t just sex appeal that made Obama Girl (now viewed almost 50 million times worldwide) the defining viral video of the 2008 election.  For the first time it became possible for an individual to create and disseminate a video to an enormous audience.  “A video created in a weekend for a few hundred dollars could impact a national election,” explains Relles, “That represents a real shift in the way people can participate in politics.”And so Obama Girl stands – clad in a tight white tee with Obama’s face – at the intersection of sex, politics and the internet, harkening a new era where elections are young and sexy and fun and underwear doesn’t just sport boring lettering like “Juicy Couture” but instead politicians’ monikers.“Obama Girl’s in textbooks, in museums, referenced on SNL and in Michael Moore’s book,” marvels Relles.  Oh, and one more thing … “Obama’s seen it.  He emailed me.”

END OF THE DECADE PROJECT: Obama Girl
NEWSWEEK
December 3, 2009
By Julia Allison

“You seem to float onto the floor
Democratic Convention 2004
I never wanted anybody more …
cause I got a crush on Obama!”

June of 2007: the Democratic presidential nominee hadn’t yet been decided, even by the most precocious of pundits.  It was a slow news day (month, really) when a not-quite-professional YouTube music video featuring a sexy young girl singing about her love for a certain politician broke out.  Before the end of the week, over five million people had seen “Obama Girl” gyrate in a bikini next to a superimposed shot of “relatively unknown” democratic contender Barack Obama, bare-chested in the waves.

No campaign video then – or since – has made it so clear: Hillary Clinton or John Kerry, he wasn’t.

“So I put down my Kerry sign / So black and sexy, you’re so fine.”

Presidential candidate as sex symbol?  This was a new era, indeed.

This was no Swift boat, no cranky senior citizens complaining about health care.  Instead we had model/actress Amber Lee Ettinger, then 25, with long flowing black hair and curves that could make gay Republicans straight – plus an undeniably catchy tune, some arguably amusing lyrics (“You’re into border security/Let’s break this border between you and me/You can love but you can fight/You can Barack me tonight”), and, oh yeah, a bright red pair of booty … uh …  “shorts” – with OBAMA in white letters on the butt.
Such iconic sexual-political imagery is the stuff of pop culture legend.

“It’s safe to say the original video was more memorable than any of Barack Obama’s own TV ads,” says former ad-exec Ben Relles, who co-created Obama Girl with vocalist Leah Kaufmann, shooting it in a single weekend.

That it looked slightly homemade – no slick videography, with a budget of just $2k, only fanned the flames of grassroots views & media love.  More important, the message perfectly articulated – in a cheeky (figuratively & literally) manner – the cult-like almost adolescent adulation Obama fanaticism that had been building in pop culture.   “It was a metaphor for how young people were head over heels for him for the wrong reasons,” says co-creator Ben Relles.

Well … maybe not the “wrong” reasons, per se, but certainly reasons not frequently ascribed to politicians, like, for example, uh … “hotness.”

But it wasn’t just sex appeal that made Obama Girl (now viewed almost 50 million times worldwide) the defining viral video of the 2008 election.  For the first time it became possible for an individual to create and disseminate a video to an enormous audience.  “A video created in a weekend for a few hundred dollars could impact a national election,” explains Relles, “That represents a real shift in the way people can participate in politics.”

And so Obama Girl stands – clad in a tight white tee with Obama’s face – at the intersection of sex, politics and the internet, harkening a new era where elections are young and sexy and fun and underwear doesn’t just sport boring lettering like “Juicy Couture” but instead politicians’ monikers.

“Obama Girl’s in textbooks, in museums, referenced on SNL and in Michael Moore’s book,” marvels Relles.  Oh, and one more thing … “Obama’s seen it.  He emailed me.”

Jan 03, 10 9:14pm
END OF THE DECADE PROJECT: LonelyGirl15NEWSWEEK December 3, 2009By Julia Allison LonelyGirl15: the post-modern Hughesian icon for the Face-space generation.****Sixteen years old, with widely spaced brown eyes – and those crazy eyebrows! – Bree’s first video as “LonelyGirl15” on her eponymous YouTube channel had all the sophistication of a pink fuzzy diary (with over 100 million people leafing through the pages) and all the plot … well, it didn’t really have much of a plot at all. Ostensibly the clear-skinned home-schooled daughter of super religious parents, somewhere in a generic IKEA outfitted room in the heartland, she pulls her legs in close to her chest, has difficulty maintaining eye contact while glancing around nervously, and awkwardly stumbles over her lines … oops, wait – did we say lines?Oh yeah, Bree isn’t really Bree, of course, but an unknown Kiwi actress named Jessica Rose, now 22, playing what the New York Times dubbed “an unbeatable fantasy: a beautiful girl who techy guys had something in common with.”  Bree certainly captured the eye-roll inducing late-aughts zeitgeist of semi-precocious teens spending their free time angsting into web cams and editing it on iMovie.  That made it all the more shocking for the millions of fans who finally realized they had been duped when it came out that LonelyGirl had a web cam Svengali: the 2007 budgetless (talentless?) John Hughes.The story lines were unabashedly basic, but media outlets obsessed over the hoax, with the NY Times calling it “one of the Internet’s more elaborately constructed mysteries.” User generated content that wasn’t so user generated?  It was, as NY magazine concluded, “the birth of a new art form.” An art form with more views than the last two superbowls combined.That the popular success didn’t necessarily translate into direct monetary success was neither here nor there: LonelyGirl15 was more proof of concept – a concept that some argued represented the future. “Maybe this, and not some NBC shows for sale on iTunes, is the future of television—or the promised land of a new narrative form,” NY magazine wrote presciently in 2006, far before the LonelyGirl creators released the sub-three minute “In the Bedroom,” their highest viewed episode, clocking in at almost 25 million views as of October 2009.   The irony, of course, is that hits-based-upon-trickery are inherently un-replicable: fool me once, say the easily-jaded internet viewing masses, and we’ll find it creative and maybe a bit charming.  Fool me twice?  Well, uh … you can’t!In the end, LonelyGirl’s rank in the annals of pop culture certainly won’t be for masterful story-telling (You got kissed? Whatever. Get murdered and now we have a show NBC might air).  But with the Blair Witch-esque blurring of the lines of is-she-or-isn’t-she real - the hallmark of the muddled “reality-based” entertainment in this decade – it did, at the very least, capture our attention.  And as the first episodic internet series to go mainstream, LonelyGirl showcased the web’s ability to create and sustain a viewership for content beyond cat videos and Andy Samburg.For that alone, Bree deserves a prize.

END OF THE DECADE PROJECT: LonelyGirl15
NEWSWEEK
December 3, 2009
By Julia Allison

LonelyGirl15: the post-modern Hughesian icon for the Face-space generation.

****

Sixteen years old, with widely spaced brown eyes – and those crazy eyebrows! – Bree’s first video as “LonelyGirl15” on her eponymous YouTube channel had all the sophistication of a pink fuzzy diary (with over 100 million people leafing through the pages) and all the plot … well, it didn’t really have much of a plot at all. Ostensibly the clear-skinned home-schooled daughter of super religious parents, somewhere in a generic IKEA outfitted room in the heartland, she pulls her legs in close to her chest, has difficulty maintaining eye contact while glancing around nervously, and awkwardly stumbles over her lines … oops, wait – did we say lines?

Oh yeah, Bree isn’t really Bree, of course, but an unknown Kiwi actress named Jessica Rose, now 22, playing what the New York Times dubbed “an unbeatable fantasy: a beautiful girl who techy guys had something in common with.”  Bree certainly captured the eye-roll inducing late-aughts zeitgeist of semi-precocious teens spending their free time angsting into web cams and editing it on iMovie.  That made it all the more shocking for the millions of fans who finally realized they had been duped when it came out that LonelyGirl had a web cam Svengali: the 2007 budgetless (talentless?) John Hughes.

The story lines were unabashedly basic, but media outlets obsessed over the hoax, with the NY Times calling it “one of the Internet’s more elaborately constructed mysteries.” User generated content that wasn’t so user generated?  It was, as NY magazine concluded, “the birth of a new art form.” An art form with more views than the last two superbowls combined.

That the popular success didn’t necessarily translate into direct monetary success was neither here nor there: LonelyGirl15 was more proof of concept – a concept that some argued represented the future.

“Maybe this, and not some NBC shows for sale on iTunes, is the future of television—or the promised land of a new narrative form,” NY magazine wrote presciently in 2006, far before the LonelyGirl creators released the sub-three minute “In the Bedroom,” their highest viewed episode, clocking in at almost 25 million views as of October 2009.   The irony, of course, is that hits-based-upon-trickery are inherently un-replicable: fool me once, say the easily-jaded internet viewing masses, and we’ll find it creative and maybe a bit charming.  Fool me twice?  Well, uh … you can’t!

In the end, LonelyGirl’s rank in the annals of pop culture certainly won’t be for masterful story-telling (You got kissed? Whatever. Get murdered and now we have a show NBC might air).  But with the Blair Witch-esque blurring of the lines of is-she-or-isn’t-she real - the hallmark of the muddled “reality-based” entertainment in this decade – it did, at the very least, capture our attention.  And as the first episodic internet series to go mainstream, LonelyGirl showcased the web’s ability to create and sustain a viewership for content beyond cat videos and Andy Samburg.

For that alone, Bree deserves a prize.

Oct 22, 09 7:27am
PAGE SIX MAGAZINE DebateBy Julia Allison I’m not against expletives as a rule – they’re handy when putting together IKEA furniture or attempting to follow a Martha Stewart recipe or when your boyfriend finishes in less than 120 seconds. But on live television?  In the morning?  When you haven’t been drinking, Danny-Devito-on-the-View style?  Ehhh … Not so much. It’s not necessarily that Jane Fonda’s “cunt” or Diane Keaton’s “fucking” were such big deals in and of themselves.  Context is key, and theirs were innocuous – the former, to describe a play about, well, vaginas – the latter, to emphasize just how vibrant her personality really is (the real question is: if she had Diane Sawyer’s lips, would she have sworn with them?  Hmm.) So the problem isn’t these two ladies or their particular swearing scenarios. The problem when OTHER people – in less appropriate situations – start throwing around four letter words in ad hominem attacks (or to spice up a boring fucking interview!).  Two words: downward spiral.  We don’t want tv denigrating into some barroom stream of invectives.  It’s one thing if Jane Fonda says “cunt.”  But Bill O’Reilly?  That’s hate speech.  Or his private fantasy.  Either way, it has no place on television. And yeah, we’ve gotta protect the kidlets.  Even if you curse like a trader on Black Monday, you probably wouldn’t do it around your little ones.  Why?  Children don’t know how to correctly wield the power of expletives.  It’s like drinking.  Unless you’re taught properly (Only on special occasions!  In moderation or you’ll regret it the next morning!), you’ll binge. Not to mention that if you swear too frequently, it loses all its power.  If we want expletives to really MEAN something, we need to preserve them. “Save the swear words!”  Perhaps it could be Fonda’s new campaign.

PAGE SIX MAGAZINE
Debate
By Julia Allison

I’m not against expletives as a rule – they’re handy when putting together IKEA furniture or attempting to follow a Martha Stewart recipe or when your boyfriend finishes in less than 120 seconds.

But on live television?  In the morning?  When you haven’t been drinking, Danny-Devito-on-the-View style?  Ehhh … Not so much.

It’s not necessarily that Jane Fonda’s “cunt” or Diane Keaton’s “fucking” were such big deals in and of themselves.  Context is key, and theirs were innocuous – the former, to describe a play about, well, vaginas – the latter, to emphasize just how vibrant her personality really is (the real question is: if she had Diane Sawyer’s lips, would she have sworn with them?  Hmm.)

So the problem isn’t these two ladies or their particular swearing scenarios. The problem when OTHER people – in less appropriate situations – start throwing around four letter words in ad hominem attacks (or to spice up a boring fucking interview!).  Two words: downward spiral.  We don’t want tv denigrating into some barroom stream of invectives.  It’s one thing if Jane Fonda says “cunt.”  But Bill O’Reilly?  That’s hate speech.  Or his private fantasy.  Either way, it has no place on television.

And yeah, we’ve gotta protect the kidlets.  Even if you curse like a trader on Black Monday, you probably wouldn’t do it around your little ones.  Why?  Children don’t know how to correctly wield the power of expletives.  It’s like drinking.  Unless you’re taught properly (Only on special occasions!  In moderation or you’ll regret it the next morning!), you’ll binge.

Not to mention that if you swear too frequently, it loses all its power.  If we want expletives to really MEAN something, we need to preserve them.

“Save the swear words!”  Perhaps it could be Fonda’s new campaign.

Oct 22, 09 7:05am
PAGE SIX MAGAZINE Debate: Is it Pointless to Defend Your Online Reputation? By Julia Allison I don’t believe the internet should be a state of nature - but it is.  There is no justice here, and it’s futile to seek it within the traditional confines of a bricks and mortar court of law, not because it’s morally acceptable for people to defame you - for the record, it’s not - but because it’s a waste of time.  The legal system is just no match for the internet: you’ll lose.  And then what?  Your google cache will be reloaded with regurgitations of the same defamatory comments that got you to the courthouse in the first place!Practically speaking, once a story is up, it’s there forever. Attempting to get it removed legally is expensive, time consuming and - and, ironically, your protestations can take on a life of their own, snowballing what may have started out as one rumor, hidden on page 673 of your google search, into a much bigger story, dominating your first ten pages.The only answer then, is to flood the net with good stuff.  Or at least, other bad stuff.  You know, better bad stuff!  I’ve been on the receiving end of more internet vitriol than I care to remember, and the more I fought against the negativity, the more negativity I got.  The most effective response? Treat the haters like small, belligerent children: ignore them, and go play with someone else. Or just laugh at it, like George Clooney, who, confronted with websites branding him “GAY GAY GAY,” quipped, “No, I’m gay, gay. The third gay - that’s pushing it.”

PAGE SIX MAGAZINE
Debate: Is it Pointless to Defend Your Online Reputation?
By Julia Allison

I don’t believe the internet should be a state of nature - but it is.  There is no justice here, and it’s futile to seek it within the traditional confines of a bricks and mortar court of law, not because it’s morally acceptable for people to defame you - for the record, it’s not - but because it’s a waste of time.  The legal system is just no match for the internet: you’ll lose.  And then what?  Your google cache will be reloaded with regurgitations of the same defamatory comments that got you to the courthouse in the first place!

Practically speaking, once a story is up, it’s there forever. Attempting to get it removed legally is expensive, time consuming and - and, ironically, your protestations can take on a life of their own, snowballing what may have started out as one rumor, hidden on page 673 of your google search, into a much bigger story, dominating your first ten pages.

The only answer then, is to flood the net with good stuff.  Or at least, other bad stuff.  You know, better bad stuff!  I’ve been on the receiving end of more internet vitriol than I care to remember, and the more I fought against the negativity, the more negativity I got.  The most effective response? Treat the haters like small, belligerent children: ignore them, and go play with someone else. Or just laugh at it, like George Clooney, who, confronted with websites branding him “GAY GAY GAY,” quipped, “No, I’m gay, gay. The third gay - that’s pushing it.”

Oct 22, 09 7:03am
PAGE SIX MAGAZINE Debate By Julia Allison Most New Yorkers’ reaction to Forbes ranking us #8 best city for singles was more or less universal bafflement.  Were there even seven other cities in the US??  With, uh, singles, that is?Don’t get us wrong, we love Rankings.  Rankings mean there are Winners and, more importantly, Losers who are Not Us!  But we’re clearly the best city in which to be single  - so how could we have lost?  Well, Forbes obviously wasn’t evaluating on the right merits (duh). They factored in “culture” (we came in third, losing to … LA???), nightlife (we won!), job growth (jobs are useful for paying rent, but getting laid? they’re actually really distracting!), living cost and a category called “online.”  Oh yes, and “coolness,” which is admittedly sort of difficult to quantify, although we won it.  Of course.  In fact, NY did pretty well in all of the categories, except Cost of Living, which we slogged in at last place. (Shock.)But so what if we have to store our shoes in our oven? We’re going on too many dates to cook, anyway.  Yes, this pond may be expensive, but it’s well-stocked with some very nice fish.The REAL most important criteria of a SuperSingles City, of which New York is clearly #1, is fivefold: 1) number of singles, 2) quality of singles, 3) ability to actually meet those singles, 4) how long singles STAY single, and 5) odds that those singles haven’t already slept with that one slutty friend of yours.New York wins in all of these, no question, and so dominates number #3 and #4 that no other city - not even you, #3 Minneapolis - has a shot.  After all, NY is the only true pedestrian city in the US, making it highly interactive as a rule.  In LA you’re safely - antisocially - ensconced in your home, then your car, then your movie trailer.  In NY, even celebs take the subway.  Or, okay, hail a cab.  On the street.  That threat of constant interaction leads to an unexpected - if not warmth and friendliness - at least ease at meeting new people.  And as we all know, meeting is a crucial step in actually having sex with them, which is (I’ve heard) a key component of dating.Of course, meeting people doesn’t much help if they’re already married, which is something NY has going for it above all the other locales: Manhattan denizens stay single longer than anywhere else.  Mostly they’re focusing on their careers, working on their cultural street cred, being awesome, that kind of thing, but this means you afford to stay picky longer, without worrying that you’ll be left with your Mom’s friend Sheryl’s son Albert, who’s 48 “but a dentist, honey!”Which leads to the most important factor: despite the incessant grousing, the quality of singles in this city is ridiculously high.  We’re intellectually stimulating, relentlessly ambitious, so cool we’re too cool to admit it, especially if we live in Brooklyn, and more or less wildly successful and/or loud in everything we do.  But then again, so is everyone else.  That’s why we moved to New York, after all.Let’s just be clear: It’s “Sex and the City” … and they don’t mean Atlanta.

PAGE SIX MAGAZINE
Debate
By Julia Allison

Most New Yorkers’ reaction to Forbes ranking us #8 best city for singles was more or less universal bafflement.  Were there even seven other cities in the US??  With, uh, singles, that is?

Don’t get us wrong, we love Rankings.  Rankings mean there are Winners and, more importantly, Losers who are Not Us!  But we’re clearly the best city in which to be single  - so how could we have lost?  Well, Forbes obviously wasn’t evaluating on the right merits (duh). They factored in “culture” (we came in third, losing to … LA???), nightlife (we won!), job growth (jobs are useful for paying rent, but getting laid? they’re actually really distracting!), living cost and a category called “online.”  Oh yes, and “coolness,” which is admittedly sort of difficult to quantify, although we won it.  Of course.  In fact, NY did pretty well in all of the categories, except Cost of Living, which we slogged in at last place. (Shock.)

But so what if we have to store our shoes in our oven? We’re going on too many dates to cook, anyway.  Yes, this pond may be expensive, but it’s well-stocked with some very nice fish.

The REAL most important criteria of a SuperSingles City, of which New York is clearly #1, is fivefold: 1) number of singles, 2) quality of singles, 3) ability to actually meet those singles, 4) how long singles STAY single, and 5) odds that those singles haven’t already slept with that one slutty friend of yours.

New York wins in all of these, no question, and so dominates number #3 and #4 that no other city - not even you, #3 Minneapolis - has a shot.  After all, NY is the only true pedestrian city in the US, making it highly interactive as a rule.  In LA you’re safely - antisocially - ensconced in your home, then your car, then your movie trailer.  In NY, even celebs take the subway.  Or, okay, hail a cab.  On the street.  That threat of constant interaction leads to an unexpected - if not warmth and friendliness - at least ease at meeting new people.  And as we all know, meeting is a crucial step in actually having sex with them, which is (I’ve heard) a key component of dating.

Of course, meeting people doesn’t much help if they’re already married, which is something NY has going for it above all the other locales: Manhattan denizens stay single longer than anywhere else.  Mostly they’re focusing on their careers, working on their cultural street cred, being awesome, that kind of thing, but this means you afford to stay picky longer, without worrying that you’ll be left with your Mom’s friend Sheryl’s son Albert, who’s 48 “but a dentist, honey!”

Which leads to the most important factor: despite the incessant grousing, the quality of singles in this city is ridiculously high.  We’re intellectually stimulating, relentlessly ambitious, so cool we’re too cool to admit it, especially if we live in Brooklyn, and more or less wildly successful and/or loud in everything we do.  But then again, so is everyone else.  That’s why we moved to New York, after all.

Let’s just be clear: It’s “Sex and the City” … and they don’t mean Atlanta.

Sep 28, 09 10:14pm
HOW TO *REALLY* GET HAPPYDIVINE CAROLINESEPTEMBER 2009BY JULIA ALLISON It would be tough to argue that anything occupies a larger portion of our conscious “think time” than an endless quest for happiness.  And yet, despite this being the ostensible end goal for just about everything we do, we sure spend a lot of time … well … not feeling terribly happy.Are we BAD at happiness?  Actually?  Yes.  We sort of are.  But it’s more complicated than that, of course. There are two big fallacies about happiness, and letting go of both of them will allow you to embrace your sunnier nature – and enjoy life a little.  What do you have to lose?  (Besides that whole “misery” thing.)It’s not always that we’re “bad” at being happy.  It’s that we’re frequently bad at accurately predicting what will make us happy.I’ve read numerous happiness studies which support this point (including, but not limited to, Daniel Gilbert’s Stumbling Upon Happiness and Gretchen Rubin’s The Happiness Project) some of which cite statistics and anecdotes about models, lottery winners & movie stars, people who should theoretically be so hopped up on Natural Beauty/Money/Fame Bliss that they walk around in a perpetual Cloud of Joy mere mortals can’t even wrap their sad delight-deprived minds around.Except … that’s not the case.  Rich, beautiful, famous people may have lives that “stand out” more on E! True Hollywood Story, but they aren’t happier than the rest of us – in fact, if you’ve ever watched such a program, you’ve probably thought, “Dear god, thank you for not making me wealthy, gorgeous and well-known!”It’s certainly a cliché that cash, looks & constant paparazzi doesn’t lead you to the temple of contentment.  But the extreme examples serve to highlight the mundane: that we really do place a disproportionate importance on those three, in slightly less dramatic forms: our jobs, our sex appeal, or popularity.So we mindlessly toil away without thinking , or worse, strive towards goals which we confuse with happiness.  After all, many of us forget – or never learned in the first place – what really makes us content.As my friend Tim Ferriss writes in his bestselling business book, The 4 Hour Work Week, we’re all too quick to “postpone the intense self-examination and decision-making necessary to create a life of enjoyment.”  What do we do instead?  Distract ourselves with the idea that only more money (or losing weight, or getting married) will satisfy us.So what’s the fastest way to really – REALLY – figure out what makes you a happy camper?Start a list.  (Groan)  I know, I know. Another list, just what you need!  But seriously, come on - you make excruciatingly detailed lists for the grocery store, the IRS, and your wedding.  The least you could do is write down a few things that led directly to joy on your part.  None of this “the end justifies the means” stuff!  You’re not allowed to write anything that “might one day” make you happy.  It has to create contentment right then and there.And be specific!  “My apartment” is too vague. “My boyfriend” is too general.  What exactly is it about your apartment which makes you happy?  The way the light streams through the windows at 7:30 am?  The fact that you can’t hear your neighbors – ever?  Your tiny little balcony, on which you fell asleep last Saturday night, on a blanket, because no chairs fit out there?That’s the sort of thing you should write down.  The list should exist in a cute little notebook, or even a word doc on your laptop, not some piece of paper you’re likely to lose or forget.If you get stuck, think of this very cheesy reminder – Maria in The Sound of Music, singing about “her favorite things.” Yeah, it seems a bit juvenile, but I promise, as you write down the silly bits of life that make you smile, I bet you’ll have a revelation: you’re happier than you think.  And when you do, you’ll begin to notice that happiness is a choice – and it’s a positive feedback loop.  As you choose to see the little things about you which bring you joy, you’ll start to see MORE of them, which will in turn make you happier.I remember reading somewhere that “true happiness requires cultivation.”  Take time to cultivate your happiness.  After all, what could be more important than that?

HOW TO *REALLY* GET HAPPY
DIVINE CAROLINE
SEPTEMBER 2009
BY JULIA ALLISON

It would be tough to argue that anything occupies a larger portion of our conscious “think time” than an endless quest for happiness.  And yet, despite this being the ostensible end goal for just about everything we do, we sure spend a lot of time … well … not feeling terribly happy.

Are we BAD at happiness?  Actually?  Yes.  We sort of are.  But it’s more complicated than that, of course.

There are two big fallacies about happiness, and letting go of both of them will allow you to embrace your sunnier nature – and enjoy life a little.  What do you have to lose?  (Besides that whole “misery” thing.)

It’s not always that we’re “bad” at being happy.  It’s that we’re frequently bad at accurately predicting what will make us happy.

I’ve read numerous happiness studies which support this point (including, but not limited to, Daniel Gilbert’s Stumbling Upon Happiness and Gretchen Rubin’s The Happiness Project) some of which cite statistics and anecdotes about models, lottery winners & movie stars, people who should theoretically be so hopped up on Natural Beauty/Money/Fame Bliss that they walk around in a perpetual Cloud of Joy mere mortals can’t even wrap their sad delight-deprived minds around.

Except … that’s not the case.  Rich, beautiful, famous people may have lives that “stand out” more on E! True Hollywood Story, but they aren’t happier than the rest of us – in fact, if you’ve ever watched such a program, you’ve probably thought, “Dear god, thank you for not making me wealthy, gorgeous and well-known!”

It’s certainly a cliché that cash, looks & constant paparazzi doesn’t lead you to the temple of contentment.  But the extreme examples serve to highlight the mundane: that we really do place a disproportionate importance on those three, in slightly less dramatic forms: our jobs, our sex appeal, or popularity.

So we mindlessly toil away without thinking , or worse, strive towards goals which we confuse with happiness.  After all, many of us forget – or never learned in the first place – what really makes us content.

As my friend Tim Ferriss writes in his bestselling business book, The 4 Hour Work Week, we’re all too quick to “postpone the intense self-examination and decision-making necessary to create a life of enjoyment.”  What do we do instead?  Distract ourselves with the idea that only more money (or losing weight, or getting married) will satisfy us.

So what’s the fastest way to really – REALLY – figure out what makes you a happy camper?

Start a list.  (Groan)  I know, I know. Another list, just what you need!  But seriously, come on - you make excruciatingly detailed lists for the grocery store, the IRS, and your wedding.  The least you could do is write down a few things that led directly to joy on your part.  None of this “the end justifies the means” stuff!  You’re not allowed to write anything that “might one day” make you happy.  It has to create contentment right then and there.

And be specific!  “My apartment” is too vague. “My boyfriend” is too general.  What exactly is it about your apartment which makes you happy?  The way the light streams through the windows at 7:30 am?  The fact that you can’t hear your neighbors – ever?  Your tiny little balcony, on which you fell asleep last Saturday night, on a blanket, because no chairs fit out there?

That’s the sort of thing you should write down.  The list should exist in a cute little notebook, or even a word doc on your laptop, not some piece of paper you’re likely to lose or forget.

If you get stuck, think of this very cheesy reminder – Maria in The Sound of Music, singing about “her favorite things.” Yeah, it seems a bit juvenile, but I promise, as you write down the silly bits of life that make you smile, I bet you’ll have a revelation: you’re happier than you think.  And when you do, you’ll begin to notice that happiness is a choice – and it’s a positive feedback loop.  As you choose to see the little things about you which bring you joy, you’ll start to see MORE of them, which will in turn make you happier.

I remember reading somewhere that “true happiness requires cultivation.”  Take time to cultivate your happiness.  After all, what could be more important than that?

Aug 25, 09 2:13am
RETHINKING HAPPINESSDIVINE CAROLINEAUGUST 2009BY JULIA ALLISON I have an apartment the size of most people’s bathrooms. My income stream is not terribly large, and often unsteady. I haven’t had a relationship which lasted longer than six months in the last two and a half years. And people who have never met me feel obligated to write unfavorable things about my personality, appearance, and life choices. But I’m happy.  Because I don’t think about things that way.  I think about them like this: Yes, I have an apartment the size of most people’s bathrooms—but it’s new and it’s clean and it’s safe and it’s comfortable and I’ve decorated it exactly the way I like it and it’s all mine. Yes, my income stream is not terribly large—but it’s enough to live on, in one of the most expensive cities in the U.S. And I made it myself; after three years of earning under poverty level wages, I feel very, very rich indeed. No, I don’t have a 401k, but I do have enough for food and shelter and a comfortable bed in which to experience insomnia. What more is there? Yes, I haven’t had a relationship which lasted more than six months in the last two and a half years, but that’s exactly what I wanted/needed! I wanted to discover what it was like to date all sorts of men—yes, even jerks (check, check, check)—and live as an independent adult without a boyfriend or husband as a crutch. While I haven’t loved every moment (I’ve certainly cried my share of tears), I don’t regret for one second this period of being single. I’ve had a series of incredibly rewarding, enriching experiences in my dating life, experiences which aren’t belittled by the length of time, some of which have turned out to be the most formative experiences in my adult life. I also believe there is no such thing as a “failed” relationship, that you learn something new from each person who comes into your life. I have a far greater understanding of who I am, and what traits I want in a partner, not to mention, an exponentially greater appreciation for the “good guys.” And yes, when the right Good Guy does come along, I’ll be ready for him, unlike the way I felt when I was twenty-five … On August 14, 2006, I wrote in my dating column about leaving my amazing then live-in boyfriend that “I need to make my own mistakes, to date Mr. Wrongs, to see what else life has to offer. A decade from now, I don’t want to wonder, “Can I really stand on my own two feet—without him?” I want to know I can.”  In the next week’s column, after people called me immature and shortsighted, I wrote, “I am convinced that if I stayed with The Boyfriend, married him, and had children, that I’d feel a nagging uneasiness … Should I have experienced more of life independently before submerging myself in the cozy confines of coupledom? My relationship offered security, stability, predictability … but I’m still not convinced one should make life choices solely to avoid possible future unhappiness.” When I read those words, I’m floored. Everything I’ve learned in the time since then underscores their importance, and yet, when I think back, I was just operating on gut alone. And finally, yes, people who have never met me feel obligated to write bad things about my personality, appearance, and life choices—but this, in its odd, painful way, has been one of the best lessons I could have ever learned: judge not, lest ye be judged. It has made me into a kinder, more considerate, far, far less judgmental person. And now, as 2009 ends, I’m seeing something else happening. I’m developing a core of, not apathy, because I’m the antithesis of apathetic, but calm. Compassion. Peace. Maybe even Zen? For the first time in my life, I’m beginning to understand how to let go of other people’s opinions. After all, I know myself far, far better than anyone else—including my friends, my family, the guys I date, and the people I meet at parties, but especially angry internet commenters. And I’m beginning—just beginning—to rein in this frantic need to prove myself, to impress people I don’t know and will never care about, to make everyone love me. I’ve never been under the illusion that I’m even close to perfect, but I believe in self-examination, I believe in the miracle of personal transformation, and I believe in myself. And that, my friends, is why I am sitting here alone, in front of my laptop, thinking that life is pretty darn good right now.

RETHINKING HAPPINESS
DIVINE CAROLINE
AUGUST 2009
BY JULIA ALLISON

I have an apartment the size of most people’s bathrooms. My income stream is not terribly large, and often unsteady. I haven’t had a relationship which lasted longer than six months in the last two and a half years. And people who have never met me feel obligated to write unfavorable things about my personality, appearance, and life choices.

But I’m happy.  Because I don’t think about things that way.  I think about them like this:

Yes, I have an apartment the size of most people’s bathrooms—but it’s new and it’s clean and it’s safe and it’s comfortable and I’ve decorated it exactly the way I like it and it’s all mine.

Yes, my income stream is not terribly large—but it’s enough to live on, in one of the most expensive cities in the U.S. And I made it myself; after three years of earning under poverty level wages, I feel very, very rich indeed. No, I don’t have a 401k, but I do have enough for food and shelter and a comfortable bed in which to experience insomnia. What more is there?

Yes, I haven’t had a relationship which lasted more than six months in the last two and a half years, but that’s exactly what I wanted/needed! I wanted to discover what it was like to date all sorts of men—yes, even jerks (check, check, check)—and live as an independent adult without a boyfriend or husband as a crutch. While I haven’t loved every moment (I’ve certainly cried my share of tears), I don’t regret for one second this period of being single. I’ve had a series of incredibly rewarding, enriching experiences in my dating life, experiences which aren’t belittled by the length of time, some of which have turned out to be the most formative experiences in my adult life. I also believe there is no such thing as a “failed” relationship, that you learn something new from each person who comes into your life. I have a far greater understanding of who I am, and what traits I want in a partner, not to mention, an exponentially greater appreciation for the “good guys.” And yes, when the right Good Guy does come along, I’ll be ready for him, unlike the way I felt when I was twenty-five …

On August 14, 2006, I wrote in my dating column about leaving my amazing then live-in boyfriend that “I need to make my own mistakes, to date Mr. Wrongs, to see what else life has to offer. A decade from now, I don’t want to wonder, “Can I really stand on my own two feet—without him?” I want to know I can.”  In the next week’s column, after people called me immature and shortsighted, I wrote, “I am convinced that if I stayed with The Boyfriend, married him, and had children, that I’d feel a nagging uneasiness … Should I have experienced more of life independently before submerging myself in the cozy confines of coupledom? My relationship offered security, stability, predictability … but I’m still not convinced one should make life choices solely to avoid possible future unhappiness.”

When I read those words, I’m floored. Everything I’ve learned in the time since then underscores their importance, and yet, when I think back, I was just operating on gut alone.

And finally, yes, people who have never met me feel obligated to write bad things about my personality, appearance, and life choices—but this, in its odd, painful way, has been one of the best lessons I could have ever learned: judge not, lest ye be judged. It has made me into a kinder, more considerate, far, far less judgmental person. And now, as 2009 ends, I’m seeing something else happening. I’m developing a core of, not apathy, because I’m the antithesis of apathetic, but calm. Compassion. Peace. Maybe even Zen? For the first time in my life, I’m beginning to understand how to let go of other people’s opinions. After all, I know myself far, far better than anyone else—including my friends, my family, the guys I date, and the people I meet at parties, but especially angry internet commenters. And I’m beginning—just beginning—to rein in this frantic need to prove myself, to impress people I don’t know and will never care about, to make everyone love me. I’ve never been under the illusion that I’m even close to perfect, but I believe in self-examination, I believe in the miracle of personal transformation, and I believe in myself.

And that, my friends, is why I am sitting here alone, in front of my laptop, thinking that life is pretty darn good right now.

Feb 05, 09 2:09am
MATCHMAKER, MATCHMAKER: CAN A DATING SPECIALIST HELP ME?TIME OUT NEW YORKFEBRUARY 5-11, 2009BY JULIA ALLISON My dating life was stale, and I knew it.  I had just broken up with a guy I really liked, and my disappointment over our ignoble end colluded with a worrisome lack of, uhhh …  “backup plans,” leaving me dangerously close to a debilitating dating depression. I had man-ertia, and I needed professional help. Manertia, noun. When one’s dating life is no longer new, interesting or exciting, and continues in its existing state of extreme banality in a straight line, unless that state is changed by an external force. In my case, that external force had a name - or three of them, actually: Amy, Lisa and Janis, Professional Matchmakers.Four men, six dates, and approximately 57 text messages later, my conclusion is unambiguous: they’re the best thing to happen to my dating life since I got boobs.In fact, I now firmly believe that upon moving to Manhattan, every single adult should receive a Metro card, a box of Trojans, the unlisted phone number to Milk & Honey and a year long subscription to a bona fide New York matchmaker.Matchmakers should be given as gifts for birthdays, graduations, and especially - especially - upon breakups.  They should replace shrinks (and mothers) as the first person you call after you get dumped, when you end your engagement or when your three week fling admits he “forgot” to mention he has a wife.  Craigslist, eHarmony, the $2 beer special at Black Bear - when it comes to your dating life, none of them are a match (har) for a real, professional matchmaker.FORCE #1: AMYI meet Amy Laurent at Olives, the W Union Square’s dusky lobby bar on a sleeting December evening.  Only 31, she’s undeniably adorable: a tiny brunette with a cute little nose, a huge smile and a girl’s girl friendliness.  Plus, she smells good.  I like her immediately.We’re not two minutes into conversation when she exclaims excitedly, “I know exactly who I’m going to set you up with!  You’re going to love him!!!” I have to restrain myself from clapping like a two-year-old presented with new colored blocks.  Yay!!!  “He’s 34, Ben Affleck lookalike, Ivy league educated,” I’m swooning.  All of my dating problems are solved!!  This is a miracle!! “… and a banker!”Oh.Blerg.“I’ve never really dated bankers,” I explain politely, by which I mean, “I have stereotyped bankers as boring fucks with whom I have nothing in common except for a shared love of towncars and pasta involving truffles. Please don’t force me to actually spend time with one of them.”“You’d better get used to it,” she chirps, undaunted.  Hmm.  My mind wanders back through three years of exes.  Like I’ve had so much success with non-finance guys?  Yikes.  And right there I learn the first rule of matchmaking: shut up and let the professional do her job.“I’m very intuitive,” and indeed she is.  Although she has a long form which I promise to fill out - but don’t - she names two men right there at the table, both of whom I’m still talking with two months later.“You may say on paper what you want,” Amy explains, “but my job is to ascertain what you really want.”  She ascertains correctly, in my case.  I go for highly educated, intelligent, driven, fun, irreverent risk-takers, and that’s exactly what she gives me.  First, there’s Cameron (the aforementioned banker, who, true to Amy’s word, could easily double as Mr. Jennifer Garner), then Kirby, a charming 41-year-old Upper West side doctor turned hedge-funder turned philanthropist.  Both ask me on second dates midway through the first, and third dates midway through the second.  They are gentlemen, scholars and “relationship-minded” (been there, played that, ready for the next phase). I’m thrilled.She even tries to set me up with a third fellow, who (due to my travel schedule) makes a date with me two weeks in advance, but texts me the day before: “Julia, hey, this is [redacted]. I hope you had a good trip to Vegas! I’m sorry to get back to you on such short notice, but I am not going to be able to meet tomorrow. Basically I went out on a date with someone late last week, and saw her again this week.  We kinda hit it off, so I think I am going to focus on this.  I hope you understand.  I hope it’s okay that I texted rather than called. Hope all is well.”  I’m impressed.  I’ve had actual boyfriends who haven’t been that conscientious - or honest.“These guys are incredibly eligible bachelors unlikely to be candidates using dating services,” she adds.  I know what she means - they’re not desperate, old bald dudes who can’t get dates - but it makes me sad that not relying on chance or happenstance to find a great person to date is still considered gauche.  What she says next resonates with me far more.  “My clients have time to date, but they don’t have time to date the wrong people.”  Exactly!!  Me too!  I’m far, far too busy facebook stalking my exes to go on dates with new losers!She compares herself to a “personal headhunter,” (Position needed: Girlfriend!). “Singles with busy lifestyles and demanding careers hire personal assistants, drivers, nannies, people to help run their households - I am simply their right hand woman,” charged with locating, screening and arranging introductions they would never have either the time or the access to find.  “At any time these guys could meet girls or just get sex, but there’s no way they can network and screen the way I can - it’s more than a full time job.”  Makes sense to me!In addition to New York, Amy offers her services in LA, Miami and London, averaging 60 male clients per city, and a database of several thousand women nationwide and the UK.  Men pay 10-20k for unlimited dating throughout the year.  At the end of my dates, I ask her for feedback - is there anything I could do better? “There was an impression you did not have time for dating,” she explains via email. “Make sure you appear to be available even more than your schedule may allow.  They weren’t certain you really had the time to devote to serious dating.”Innnnteresting. I would have guessed my insane schedule would make them want me MORE! I thank her for saving the relationships before they died a  “How about never? Does never work for you?” frenetic Manhattan death.FORCE #2: JANISJanis Spindel is the undisputed grande dame yenta of New York matchmaking, with the subtlety of Rosie O’Donnell and the tact and modesty of Donald Trump. Blustery, loud, pushy, unnervingly confident, she claims an astronomical, fairly unbelievable number of marriages (in the range of 800), although - as she repeats ad nausea - “because of the stigma I have NEVER been invited to a wedding!!!”Ah, yes, the “stigma.”  So why do men hire her? I ask.  “Because I do the EDITING for my guys and I NEVER try and fit a square peg into a round hole,” she responds in an email, “they are VERY busy and they want it all.  The 4 “B”s BEAUTY.BRAINS BODY BALANCE and where r they going to find HER?? I deliver exactly what they r asking for THEN I just leave the rest up to ‘chemistry’ and the ‘universe.’”Apparently Janis - or the universe - wasn’t super clear on what I was asking for, because when my date rolled up (in a towncar he had hired for the occasion), out stepped a fellow at least - at least - twenty years my senior, with what might charitably be described “not quite a full head of hair.”  After presenting me two CDs (Kings of Leon! And some other group!) still in their Virgin Megastore bag, he  announced that we’d be going to Bagatelle.  Bagatelle?? On a first date?!?  On ANY date?!  It’s basically a bumping discotec, with all the charm of Marquee.  Why not just go to Cipriani’s for models and bottles?Fleeing to the ladies’ room, I hysterically twittered “Oh myGOD I’M TRAPPED IN THE BATHROOM AT BAGETELLE SAVE ME FROM THIS DATE!!!!!!!!”When I emerged, my date stood there smiling with two glasses of red and an admission that Bagetelle was indeed an awful choice, so would I mind if we moved to Aquagrill?  I didn’t mind at all - Aquagrill (210 Spring, 212.274.0505) is arguably one of the best restaurants in the city for first dates. The atmosphere and meal were pitch-perfect, and he turned out to be energetic, funny, intelligent and interesting - and one of the least skeezy men I’ve met in New York.  I had judged him on his age and his appearance, and I was ashamed of myself.It wasn’t a romantic love-match, but we had a solid basis for a friendship.  I could get used to this matchmaker thing: even “bad dates” were pleasant experiences.FORCE #3: LISAI meet Lisa at a crowded diner on 52nd & 8th, near my apartment.  Clad fashionably in all-black, trim from her beloved spin classes with her dark brown mane perfectly blown out and her makeup perfect, her appearance belies her true age - she’s [48?] but looks a solid decade younger.  Meanwhile, I’m wearing a velour tracksuit, hair in a ponytail, no makeup, and frankly, look like shit.  She hugs me and puts me at ease immediately.  “I’m a romance junkie, a girly girl, and I love working with women,” she tells me, and I can see it’s true.  “What IS that on your hand?!” she gestures towards the sparkly band I wear on my right index finger, a gift from my best friends Mary & Meghan.  “No, no, no, no!  Men will think you’re married!! You need to wear that around your neck,” she whispers urgently.  “But it’s not on the left …” I try to protest.  “You cannot take that chance!!”  The woman is thorough.A nine year matchmaking veteran, Lisa’s matchmaking services don’t stop at the whole “here’s your date, kthxbye.”  She’s not just your pimp: she’s your coach, too.  And let’s just be honest here: who among us doesn’t need a little dating tough love?  “Feedback is key,” she explains.  “I have coached and married off so many people,” says Lisa, and I believe her.  “Not only do people choose the wrong partners, they constantly shoot themselves in the foot.  I give very honest feedback to my clients and it is so important to have that constructive criticism.  I am like their dating coach, best friend, big sister and concierge!”Unlike many matchmakers, Lisa’s paying clients are both men and women, as opposed to men paying the fees and women serving as the “inventory” (Inventory in Matchmaker Speak is more or less: “if you’re lucky and happen to be his type, you might get a date with one of our clients.”)  She, like the other two, emphasizes the confidentiality of her clients, her intense selection process (“I am really picky as to whom I take on as a client.”), involving detailed questionnaires, hour long in-person interviews, even home visits.  Let’s put it this way: no more “Surprise! I have a wife!  And two kids!”  I’d pay good money for that.“My clients are high end, smart and successful individuals who are too busy to focus on their love lives,” she explains, as she asks me about my dating proclivities and takes notes in her - yes, really - little black book.  An hour later, she stood up to go and announced, “I’m on a mission to marry you off!”  I don’t think she’s joking in the least.Within 48 hours, she emailed me the following list (*all names have been changed*): 1- Matt, travel guy who lives on Charles Street, smart, edgy, successful.2- James, 42 is an adorable doctor, smart and quite the catch!3- Dan is sooooooo cute, 34, tall, handsome.  You can look him upon Facebook. [I do. And he is.]  He will be back on Monday and will call you.4- Steve is tall, dark and handsome, 40, in banking.  He is away as well until Monday, but he is dying to meet you. I picked him up in a restaurant last year and my clients like him!5- My publishing client will call you soon … he’s 40, tall, dark and handsome.6- I am trying to meet LA boy, but that will probably happen after next week. I am PSYCHED.  Six new boys in one email?  Over the next few days, as they each call (CALL! Not even text!) one by one, and I schedule a date with Dr. James, who has one of the most fantastic attitudes of any guy I’ve met in New York. “I’m from the midwest,” he tells me.  Ah-ha.  That makes more sense.  He uses Lisa because - as she explains - “blind dates can be awful, and he knows that I know his taste.  He’s not into wasting his time; he’s serious about finding his life partner vs just hanging out with some random woman.”Dr. James suggests a live piano concert on Saturday night at La Poisson Rouge in the Village, then an Italian salmon and pasta dinner at Bar Pitti on 6th & Bleeker (268 Sixth, 212.982.3300) -  followed by salsa dancing at Gonzalez & Gonzalez (625 Broadway, 212.473.8787), near NYU.  High marks for his first date itinerary!  The evening turns into a grinfest, as we highfive and fistbump and I attempt (badly) to salsa.  I don’t really have to ask Lisa what he thought, because he’s already asked me out again - twice - but I’m curious.  “He said the one word to describe it is ‘CLICK,’ she types to me via email. “He thought that you two had the exact same energy.” (I’m nodding), “he thought that you two had such good chemistry … he could really hang out with you!”I could really hang out with him, too.  “But!” Lisa adds, “I think his one concern might be your attention level on your love life right now.  You’re super busy!  You need to make love a priority and make sure the guy knows that you are serious about finding love.”Oh no! I’ve heard this before.  I immediately text him and reassure him that after I’m back from Vegas, DC, Munich & Davos, I’d love to see him again.  He texts back, “I wanna go salsa dancing in puerto rico with you! xo and am sending you a smile. Safe trip and text me when u land!”Okay, so he didn’t read my “BAD TEXTIQUETTE” column the other week.  But my manertia?  Officially GONE.

MATCHMAKER, MATCHMAKER: CAN A DATING SPECIALIST HELP ME?
TIME OUT NEW YORK
FEBRUARY 5-11, 2009
BY JULIA ALLISON

My dating life was stale, and I knew it.  I had just broken up with a guy I really liked, and my disappointment over our ignoble end colluded with a worrisome lack of, uhhh …  “backup plans,” leaving me dangerously close to a debilitating dating depression.

I had man-ertia, and I needed professional help.

Manertia, noun. When one’s dating life is no longer new, interesting or exciting, and continues in its existing state of extreme banality in a straight line, unless that state is changed by an external force.

In my case, that external force had a name - or three of them, actually: Amy, Lisa and Janis, Professional Matchmakers.

Four men, six dates, and approximately 57 text messages later, my conclusion is unambiguous: they’re the best thing to happen to my dating life since I got boobs.

In fact, I now firmly believe that upon moving to Manhattan, every single adult should receive a Metro card, a box of Trojans, the unlisted phone number to Milk & Honey and a year long subscription to a bona fide New York matchmaker.

Matchmakers should be given as gifts for birthdays, graduations, and especially - especially - upon breakups.  They should replace shrinks (and mothers) as the first person you call after you get dumped, when you end your engagement or when your three week fling admits he “forgot” to mention he has a wife.  Craigslist, eHarmony, the $2 beer special at Black Bear - when it comes to your dating life, none of them are a match (har) for a real, professional matchmaker.

FORCE #1: AMY

I meet Amy Laurent at Olives, the W Union Square’s dusky lobby bar on a sleeting December evening.  Only 31, she’s undeniably adorable: a tiny brunette with a cute little nose, a huge smile and a girl’s girl friendliness.  Plus, she smells good.  I like her immediately.

We’re not two minutes into conversation when she exclaims excitedly, “I know exactly who I’m going to set you up with!  You’re going to love him!!!” I have to restrain myself from clapping like a two-year-old presented with new colored blocks.  Yay!!!  “He’s 34, Ben Affleck lookalike, Ivy league educated,” I’m swooning.  All of my dating problems are solved!!  This is a miracle!! “… and a banker!”

Oh.

Blerg.

“I’ve never really dated bankers,” I explain politely, by which I mean, “I have stereotyped bankers as boring fucks with whom I have nothing in common except for a shared love of towncars and pasta involving truffles. Please don’t force me to actually spend time with one of them.”

“You’d better get used to it,” she chirps, undaunted.  Hmm.  My mind wanders back through three years of exes.  Like I’ve had so much success with non-finance guys?  Yikes.  And right there I learn the first rule of matchmaking: shut up and let the professional do her job.

“I’m very intuitive,” and indeed she is.  Although she has a long form which I promise to fill out - but don’t - she names two men right there at the table, both of whom I’m still talking with two months later.

“You may say on paper what you want,” Amy explains, “but my job is to ascertain what you really want.”  She ascertains correctly, in my case.  I go for highly educated, intelligent, driven, fun, irreverent risk-takers, and that’s exactly what she gives me.  First, there’s Cameron (the aforementioned banker, who, true to Amy’s word, could easily double as Mr. Jennifer Garner), then Kirby, a charming 41-year-old Upper West side doctor turned hedge-funder turned philanthropist.  Both ask me on second dates midway through the first, and third dates midway through the second.  They are gentlemen, scholars and “relationship-minded” (been there, played that, ready for the next phase). I’m thrilled.

She even tries to set me up with a third fellow, who (due to my travel schedule) makes a date with me two weeks in advance, but texts me the day before: “Julia, hey, this is [redacted]. I hope you had a good trip to Vegas! I’m sorry to get back to you on such short notice, but I am not going to be able to meet tomorrow. Basically I went out on a date with someone late last week, and saw her again this week.  We kinda hit it off, so I think I am going to focus on this.  I hope you understand.  I hope it’s okay that I texted rather than called. Hope all is well.”  I’m impressed.  I’ve had actual boyfriends who haven’t been that conscientious - or honest.

“These guys are incredibly eligible bachelors unlikely to be candidates using dating services,” she adds.  I know what she means - they’re not desperate, old bald dudes who can’t get dates - but it makes me sad that not relying on chance or happenstance to find a great person to date is still considered gauche.  What she says next resonates with me far more.  “My clients have time to date, but they don’t have time to date the wrong people.”  Exactly!!  Me too!  I’m far, far too busy facebook stalking my exes to go on dates with new losers!

She compares herself to a “personal headhunter,” (Position needed: Girlfriend!). “Singles with busy lifestyles and demanding careers hire personal assistants, drivers, nannies, people to help run their households - I am simply their right hand woman,” charged with locating, screening and arranging introductions they would never have either the time or the access to find.  “At any time these guys could meet girls or just get sex, but there’s no way they can network and screen the way I can - it’s more than a full time job.”  Makes sense to me!

In addition to New York, Amy offers her services in LA, Miami and London, averaging 60 male clients per city, and a database of several thousand women nationwide and the UK.  Men pay 10-20k for unlimited dating throughout the year.  At the end of my dates, I ask her for feedback - is there anything I could do better? “There was an impression you did not have time for dating,” she explains via email. “Make sure you appear to be available even more than your schedule may allow.  They weren’t certain you really had the time to devote to serious dating.”

Innnnteresting. I would have guessed my insane schedule would make them want me MORE! I thank her for saving the relationships before they died a  “How about never? Does never work for you?” frenetic Manhattan death.

FORCE #2: JANIS

Janis Spindel is the undisputed grande dame yenta of New York matchmaking, with the subtlety of Rosie O’Donnell and the tact and modesty of Donald Trump. Blustery, loud, pushy, unnervingly confident, she claims an astronomical, fairly unbelievable number of marriages (in the range of 800), although - as she repeats ad nausea - “because of the stigma I have NEVER been invited to a wedding!!!”

Ah, yes, the “stigma.”  So why do men hire her? I ask.  “Because I do the EDITING for my guys and I NEVER try and fit a square peg into a round hole,” she responds in an email, “they are VERY busy and they want it all.  The 4 “B”s BEAUTY.BRAINS BODY BALANCE and where r they going to find HER?? I deliver exactly what they r asking for THEN I just leave the rest up to ‘chemistry’ and the ‘universe.’”

Apparently Janis - or the universe - wasn’t super clear on what I was asking for, because when my date rolled up (in a towncar he had hired for the occasion), out stepped a fellow at least - at least - twenty years my senior, with what might charitably be described “not quite a full head of hair.”  After presenting me two CDs (Kings of Leon! And some other group!) still in their Virgin Megastore bag, he  announced that we’d be going to Bagatelle.  Bagatelle?? On a first date?!?  On ANY date?!  It’s basically a bumping discotec, with all the charm of Marquee.  Why not just go to Cipriani’s for models and bottles?

Fleeing to the ladies’ room, I hysterically twittered “Oh myGOD I’M TRAPPED IN THE BATHROOM AT BAGETELLE SAVE ME FROM THIS DATE!!!!!!!!”

When I emerged, my date stood there smiling with two glasses of red and an admission that Bagetelle was indeed an awful choice, so would I mind if we moved to Aquagrill?  I didn’t mind at all - Aquagrill (210 Spring, 212.274.0505) is arguably one of the best restaurants in the city for first dates. The atmosphere and meal were pitch-perfect, and he turned out to be energetic, funny, intelligent and interesting - and one of the least skeezy men I’ve met in New York.  I had judged him on his age and his appearance, and I was ashamed of myself.

It wasn’t a romantic love-match, but we had a solid basis for a friendship.  I could get used to this matchmaker thing: even “bad dates” were pleasant experiences.

FORCE #3: LISA

I meet Lisa at a crowded diner on 52nd & 8th, near my apartment.  Clad fashionably in all-black, trim from her beloved spin classes with her dark brown mane perfectly blown out and her makeup perfect, her appearance belies her true age - she’s [48?] but looks a solid decade younger.  Meanwhile, I’m wearing a velour tracksuit, hair in a ponytail, no makeup, and frankly, look like shit.  She hugs me and puts me at ease immediately.  “I’m a romance junkie, a girly girl, and I love working with women,” she tells me, and I can see it’s true.  “What IS that on your hand?!” she gestures towards the sparkly band I wear on my right index finger, a gift from my best friends Mary & Meghan.  “No, no, no, no!  Men will think you’re married!! You need to wear that around your neck,” she whispers urgently.  “But it’s not on the left …” I try to protest.  “You cannot take that chance!!”  The woman is thorough.

A nine year matchmaking veteran, Lisa’s matchmaking services don’t stop at the whole “here’s your date, kthxbye.”  She’s not just your pimp: she’s your coach, too.  And let’s just be honest here: who among us doesn’t need a little dating tough love?  “Feedback is key,” she explains.  “I have coached and married off so many people,” says Lisa, and I believe her.  “Not only do people choose the wrong partners, they constantly shoot themselves in the foot.  I give very honest feedback to my clients and it is so important to have that constructive criticism.  I am like their dating coach, best friend, big sister and concierge!”

Unlike many matchmakers, Lisa’s paying clients are both men and women, as opposed to men paying the fees and women serving as the “inventory” (Inventory in Matchmaker Speak is more or less: “if you’re lucky and happen to be his type, you might get a date with one of our clients.”)  She, like the other two, emphasizes the confidentiality of her clients, her intense selection process (“I am really picky as to whom I take on as a client.”), involving detailed questionnaires, hour long in-person interviews, even home visits.  Let’s put it this way: no more “Surprise! I have a wife!  And two kids!”  I’d pay good money for that.

“My clients are high end, smart and successful individuals who are too busy to focus on their love lives,” she explains, as she asks me about my dating proclivities and takes notes in her - yes, really - little black book.  An hour later, she stood up to go and announced, “I’m on a mission to marry you off!”  I don’t think she’s joking in the least.

Within 48 hours, she emailed me the following list (*all names have been changed*):

1- Matt, travel guy who lives on Charles Street, smart, edgy, successful.

2- James, 42 is an adorable doctor, smart and quite the catch!

3- Dan is sooooooo cute, 34, tall, handsome.  You can look him up
on Facebook. [I do. And he is.]  He will be back on Monday and will call you.

4- Steve is tall, dark and handsome, 40, in banking.  He is away as well until Monday, but he is dying to meet you. I picked him up in a restaurant last year and my clients like him!

5- My publishing client will call you soon … he’s 40, tall, dark and handsome.

6- I am trying to meet LA boy, but that will probably happen after next week.


I am PSYCHED.  Six new boys in one email?  Over the next few days, as they each call (CALL! Not even text!) one by one, and I schedule a date with Dr. James, who has one of the most fantastic attitudes of any guy I’ve met in New York. “I’m from the midwest,” he tells me.  Ah-ha.  That makes more sense.  He uses Lisa because - as she explains - “blind dates can be awful, and he knows that I know his taste.  He’s not into wasting his time; he’s serious about finding his life partner vs just hanging out with some random woman.”

Dr. James suggests a live piano concert on Saturday night at La Poisson Rouge in the Village, then an Italian salmon and pasta dinner at Bar Pitti on 6th & Bleeker (268 Sixth, 212.982.3300) -  followed by salsa dancing at Gonzalez & Gonzalez (625 Broadway, 212.473.8787), near NYU.  High marks for his first date itinerary!  The evening turns into a grinfest, as we highfive and fistbump and I attempt (badly) to salsa.  I don’t really have to ask Lisa what he thought, because he’s already asked me out again - twice - but I’m curious.  “He said the one word to describe it is ‘CLICK,’ she types to me via email. “He thought that you two had the exact same energy.” (I’m nodding), “he thought that you two had such good chemistry … he could really hang out with you!”

I could really hang out with him, too.  “But!” Lisa adds, “I think his one concern might be your attention level on your love life right now.  You’re super busy!  You need to make love a priority and make sure the guy knows that you are serious about finding love.”

Oh no! I’ve heard this before.  I immediately text him and reassure him that after I’m back from Vegas, DC, Munich & Davos, I’d love to see him again.  He texts back, “I wanna go salsa dancing in puerto rico with you! xo and am sending you a smile. Safe trip and text me when u land!”

Okay, so he didn’t read my “BAD TEXTIQUETTE” column the other week.  But my manertia?  Officially GONE.