Victims and Villains

Victims and Villains
It was Saturday and I was returning to Club 55 shamefully for the third day in a row to attend the birthday lunch of a friend of a friend.

A table of 14 under pine trees and a make shift tarp was the venue. Our hostess happened to be a lady of a certain age who clearly had engaged in recreational surgery. Botox. Boobies. Lips, the Works. Her eyes were so arched that I thought she might catch flight at any moment were it not for the jewels around her neck weighing her down.

“Madam only has one wrinkle, and she’s sitting on it” my friend announces under his breath as simultaneously he made the introduction. “Charmed, I’m sure”
Frightening to look at upon first glance, Madam was bursting with wit and personality. She didn’t seem the victim of poor self-esteem which her multiple self-imposed surgeries would suggest. In fact she seemed bursting with pride next to her much younger boyfriend. She was actually a spectacular creature, the empowered Cougar. Her energy was electric , and I was hoping to be seated next to her!

Yet, fate was against me that afternoon.

Instead, I was seated next to a troll of a woman who looked like a blonde Kathy Bates and a tubby Cruella de Ville. Within seconds, she began to recruit me into her war against her ex-husband. He was a successful restauranteur who reportedly sold his franchise of restaurants and licensing agreements for $80 million. I didn’t know the man, and it quickly dawned on me that upon meeting anyone new, this woman established her identity as being the scorned woman of a man who ran off with a hostess who he impregnated while still married to wife #1.

As I looked down the table and saw my friend and the Cougaress laughing from the bottom of their stomachs at a story I was missing out on, I tried to summon an ounce of empathy for Mrs. Vinegar sitting to my left. “Was he unkind in the settlement?” I asked her travel companion sitting to my right? It looked like she had sucked the life out of this frail man who I couldn’t fathom to be her romantic partner. The only color he had left was the pink around his eyes and the yellow around his nails. He reminded me of one of the inbred children in “Flowers in the Attic”.

He informed me that the ex-husband gave her half of his net worth without contest though she had only been married to him five years. He had launched his company prior to their marriage, and they had no children because she didn’t want any. I asked her questions directly. “How long ago did this happen?” She replied that she found out about the affair seven years ago and the divorce had been finalized for six. He announced to her one morning that he had fallen in love with another woman who made him happy, and left with only a suitcase.

And, she kept making references to her therapist throughout the conversation. I thought well, at least she’s committed to therapy in an effort to try to find happiness. “You seem to admire your therapist. How long have you been seeing her?” She replied “twenty-two years”….

Although I had a glass or so of wine by this point, I was trying to calculate the present value of all these payments. Was paying her therapist in today’s dollars on average $250 per session over twenty-two years is about a million dollars assuming that money had been invested at 5% interest rate? It was no wonder she was depressed.

This lady had been playing the victim for at least seven years now, probably longer. She was holding onto anger as some false sense of empowerment. She wasn’t a defeated woman who invoked empathy; she was a bitter woman who entrapped herself in the past.

It was hard for me to even pity her as I saw her as a villain robbing me of a fun conversation at the far end of the table! Refusing to play the victim myself, I became empowered and departed for the beach in self liberation.

Victims and Villains? Aren’t we all protagonists in our own stories?

A Celexa Moment (...in Saint Tropez)

Let’s face it. The “Crisis” as the French call it, is over.

Having recently completed an educational sabbatical, the challenge of making new life decisions was upon me. I looked around at peers, friends and the people I love, and it seemed that a lot of us had deferred making decisions. Was this because of the Crisis?

I suppose the Great Recession was a convenience for all of us to collectively indulge in playing the “victim”. That is to say, we transferred control as it were to circumstance outside our control. Blaming the universe; claiming it was all out of our hands.

But, now it seems Hope abounds. It no longer seems fashionable to blame the Crisis…or even George Bush for that matter…for situations not to our liking. And, Obama is just too charismatic to blame for anything, plus he’s such a nice guy. (Although, Nancy Pelosi does make a nice villainess with that Darth Vader helmet hair and unveiled lust for power on her disfigured, sinister face).

Yet, left to our own free will, we have to make decisions in life less those decisions be made for us. (YIKES!). And making decisions often creates anxiety. Isn’t it so much easier to blame someone else and point the finger rather than taking responsibility?

Many friends of mine often opt for Celexa or Wellbutrin as remedies to anxiety. (Committing to the idea of long-term depression or the treatment thereof is just too depressing in of itself for me, so I only engage in the periodic use of Ambien and Clonazepam along with the occasional recreational use of Cialis to get through periods of anxiety…)

In a clear and present mind, my free will took me on pilgrimage to Saint Tropez seeking the sacred sands of Club 55 to ponder the paradox of a world so rich in opportunity that it creates debilitating anxiety. With the value proposition of a falling Euro, treating two friends to lunch and a couple bottles of Domaine de la Rouillere Rose was cheaper than my “out of pocket” co-pay for a session with my shrink, and far more therapeutic. So, we indulged.

To my surprise, our French waiter was smiling, friendly and accommodating. I thought for a moment that “hope truly is in the air”. The euphoria, however, of experiencing a pleasant interaction with a French waiter was soon spoiled by the onset of a hostile ambush by Paparazzi who attacked from the perimeter of the club.

The older of the Collins Sisters was rumored to have been dining in the corner with her much younger husband, but who the hell cared about her anyway unless Dynasty was being re-released on i-tunes with promotional out-takes of the behind the scenes wig posturing between her and Diahann Carroll?

Grace Jones began to sing to me “La Vie En Rose”. The guitar melody repeated several times before the first vocal note…Miss Jones was not one to be rushed. Mon coeur qui bat…in the words of love, and in every day words, a life lived through rose colored glasses…” Well, that was my translation anyway.

So my Celexa moment in Saint Tropez as seen through my rose induced glasses was realizing that the most effective anti-depressant to combat anxiety is equal doses of embracing the power of choice and celebrating great experiences.

A lazy afternoon on the beach with good conversation and wonderful friends was indeed a cherished treat. As for choices, in the short term, I had committed to a sailing trip the following day. The tougher life choices would need to wait until my return to New York….

Is Lenox Hill New York’s version of the Eighth in Paris?

Sitting at Amaranth for dinner on a Sunday night next to a very loud and tipsy Carla Bruni with her husband, the President of France, I thought for a moment that I was in the 8th Arrondissement. It’s easy to draw a parallel between the two neighborhoods. Both have fabulous restaurants and are home to Hermes. Both have an international flare and boast well healed residents wearing $800 footwear. And, both have a veneer of respectability that seems to melt off when one enters the local haunts.

I was a recent transplant to the neighborhood having moved to a floor-through apartment in a brownstone located on 63rd off 5th, a swank address indeed. My apartment once belonged to ZsaZsa and Eva’s mother who rented the home to Edie Sedgwick in her Factory Girl days. Given the location and provenance, why was my rent so much less expensive than something half as grand in the West Village? Not even for a moment did I think I would end up on the Upper Eastside, until by chance, I was recommended to a sublet of an editor returning to Italy.

The benefits and amenities of Lenox Hill were pleasantly surprising. The first joy I discovered is that the area South of 72nd and West of Lexington, is an unofficial stroller free zone. And the spawn that are allowed access are most well behaved. The proximity to the Park was another unexpected delight. There is a true luxury in being able to step into the Park to take a stroll or run with no notice. The only drawback to the neighborhood is that there are no grocery stores in ten block radius, and there is the temptation to order take-out from Nello or walk to the Pierre for a snack.

The elegance of the people I have discovered has been a true delight. Doorman along residential Park Avenue often open the doors to taxis even if the passenger aren’t arriving guests or residents to their buildings. The streets are cleaned every day and the restauranteurs and shopkeepers say good morning and smile.
People leave their apartments with their hair combed, though they may return slightly disheveled from a martini or two too many later in the evening.

Like the 8th, the neighborhood is a mix of sophisticated residents and eager tourists. But, only in New York would the First Couple of France be seated adjacent to two lady tourists from the mid-West dressed in vintage Acid Washed jeans who seem to use phemaldehyde as lip moisturizer…

Mr Gatsby’s Haunts
Amaranth
21 East 62nd
www.amaranthrestaurant.com

Le Bilboquet
25 E. 63rd

Monkey Bar
60 E. 54th

Rouge Tomate
14 E. 60th