first date

I've wrecked my brains on this one, and the sad truth is, I can't find a single topic that inspires me to amuse you. I've run dry. I don't know if it's writer's block, but i can't seem to put two words together to form a sentence. So I've decided to go back in time, salvage a story from the past that is not tainted by my currently notorious anger/bitterness towards men. This, ladies and gentlemen, is the first date. Uncensored, and 100% based on true events.

New York, May 2008. I had never been on a date before in my life. Not because I never dated anyone, I just thought actual "dates" where more of an American movie type of thing... but then again, I had lived in New York for two years and I had never been asked on a date. Anyway, this was my first time.
Some background: I was a freelance journalist working in Manhattan, and writing an article about successful Lebanese businessmen. One of my interviews was over the phone with a Certain Fellow who was 38 years-old, huge success story, millionaire and what-not, and so obviously single. It's funny how these men who are obsessively career driven for twenty years wake-up at the eve of their fortieth birthday and sweat the fact that they are all alone. Anyway... this man who was across the world in Dubai asks me if he can take me out to dinner when he comes to New York a few weeks later. And I, feeling a little Carrie Bradshaw style, being a writer in Manhattan and all, got carried away by the thought... maybe he was my Mr. Big?
Three weeks later, the Certain Fellow arrives in New York, ready to dine me and wine me. We meet up at the Four Seasons hotel, and I recognize him from the picture he sent me for the article. Except he is wearing a leather jacket and trying to act hip although he is hitting 40, and he looks it... I tell myself this will be an interesting experience.  We are chauffered down in a limo to a new hip restaurant in Tribeca. I was nervous I could hardly breathe, so, of course, I downed the first drink he offered me as we waited for a table. What the hell are first dates all about anyway? For this man, apparently, it was an audition for finding himself a suitable wife. Did I cook? Did I love Beirut? Where would I want to live? I wasn't sure if I felt dizzy by the vodka or his questions. We were seated on a corner table, on a bench, which means we were right next to each other --awkward. By the time the main course came, I had had three drinks and my cheeks were feeling numb. He asked me to tell him something about myself. I told him a had written a book when I was 13. He asked me what it was called. I told him, "I believe in angels." He looked into my eyes, and uttered the single, cheesiest, most cringing line anyone has ever tried: "Now I believe in angels..." (did you gag yet?)
I kid you not. These were his words. I was so tipsy I think I burst out laughing, and he took it as a good sign, leaned over and kissed me. I ordered another drink. He was in a hurry to get the bill. I saw him take out his black credit-card, and laughed silently, remembering my roommate who had warned me I would see a black-credit card with this guy.
The ride back in the limo is a little blurry --there was some making out, I'm sure, because we ended up back at the Four Seasons, which is definitely not where I lived.
Now I know I said uncensored, but I will spare you some details. The bottom line is, I was beyond tipsy, I fell asleep on a super comfortable bed in a suite in one of the biggest hotels in New York, and there was one Certain Fellow who was fairly disappointed by the failed magic of his black card.
I woke up slightly confused about where I was. It was 7am, and the Certain Fellow was back in business mode, on the phone and typing emails and getting dressed all at once. I put on my heels, dreading the walk of shame I had ahead of me.
And as a grand finale, just as I stepped out of the Four Seasons, with the trailer of my own movie playing in my head, I tripped. I fell, at 7 in the morning, on the steps of the grandiose hotel, in front of all the concierges, valets, and taxi drivers passing by, wearing a mini black dress and high heel shoes.
And I smiled, because I could think of no better way to end this excruciatingly cliche moment of my life. 

introducing girls and boys

Meet the Lebanese girl.
She's the one who gets her nails to match the buckle of her Chanel bag. She goes to the gym six times a week, has her hair professionally done, wears the latest Louboutin and when it's time to walk that body in a bathing-suit, she looks like she was copy/pasted from Playboy Magazine.
She's the one who sits in the back of Torino Express sipping a beer and inhaling a cigarette with her hair kinda falling in front of her eyes. She reads books written by obscure Russian novelists and shows up at every Art show in town --which most of us don't even know existed.
She's the one who works 15 hours a day, but still manages to look good when she walks out of the office and into Myu at 10pm, ready to put her flirt on. She's the one who goes biking and skiing and climbing --just for the fun of it. She's the one who stands up for gay rights, women's rights, children's rights, and always has an opinion. She's the pretty one, the smart one, the snobish one, the fashion-addicted one, the diet one, the plastic one, the business one. She's all of that and none of that and there's one for every taste.

Meet the Lebanese boy.
He's the one with the black Porsche and the 4 digit car-plate even though he's only 21. He orders Champagne at Palais, and has a table every week of the Summer at Sky Bar. He wears a Polo Ralph Lauren shirt and a Rolex watch, none of which he could ever afford without Dad.
He's the one hiding behind his beard, drinking Tequila shots at Behind the Green Door, sometimes dressed like a homeless drunk, sometimes looking edgy and hot. He smokes weed to chill-out, and ends up at B018 on any given Friday night.
He's the one who works in the family business, and acts as if it was not handed down on a golden platter. He's the one who watches sports on TV, 7 hours a day, and spends the other 7 playing sports --on his Playstation. He's the funny one, the expat one, the sleezy one, the political one, the gay one, the workaholic one, the rich one. He's all of that and none of that and there always seems to be a girl who digs it.

Now meet the Lebanese couple.
They're the ones who are both good-looking, have three beautiful children, and have a professional photographer take their family pictures. They have two Philippino maids, a driver, three cars, and an apartment with sea view. She used to match her nails to her Chanel bag, but now matches it to her kids' clothing. He used to have a table a Sky Bar for the summer, and he still does.
They're the ones who are chilled-out, she still dresses like she was twenty-two, he alternates between the business look and the homeless look depending on the mood. They've been married three years but don't have any children because they're not ready to give up smoking just yet. She's an architect or a journalist, he's a self-made consultant or something financial.
They're the ones who have been dating for seven years, finally got engaged last summer... and then broke up because it suddenly felt too serious. They're the ones who seem to really like each other, especially because they're both from prominent Sunni (Maronite, Chii'a, Orthodox...) families and their parents love each other. They're the ones who are head over heals because their parents can't stand each other, are from different religions, and the boy has no real prospects and the girl doesn't care. They're the ones who cheat on each other like it's just another thing you do, the ones who act like a couple but refuse to acknowledge that they are together, the ones who fight constantly and you wonder why the hell they're still together.

We're all of that and none of that and that's what makes us a little bit Lebanese, and a little bit of that something else that we all bring to the pack.