But last night I had a dream that I was surrounded by women who had committed suicide in my workplace. It was so vivid, I trembled. So disturbing, I turned away. One hanged herself in the bathroom; the other in my cubicle.

Just yesterday I was telling a friend that the work environment has turned a bit toxic, but good God, it’s not that bad. I am keeping my options open and would like to find something that suits my lifestyle a bit better. I’d love to focus more on my writing and would therefore love to find something part-time on the side even though I worry about how I’ll pay the bills and what I’ll do for health insurance. Part of me is done with the rat race and working in Manhattan in general. This isn’t the first time I’ve said this, but it is the first time I’m actively searching, networking, and floating around my resume.

Because I really want a different course.

And I don’t want to have dreams like that ever again.

Have you ever had a dream/series of dreams this disturbing? Did they eventually stop when you changed something that was bothering you?

I was recently contacted by the team at IvyDate, a new dating site started by Harvard MBAs. As many of you know, I have tried a few online dating services myself over the years (some better than others) and I’m always interested to see what the kids are doing these days. I’ve technically only been off the market for a few months, but I know how quickly things change and I am always looking to hook up my single ladies (and male friends) with any inside knowledge I may have. I know firsthand how daunting it can be to date in New York.

I looked over the attached materials keeping fingers crossed that this wouldn’t be an exclusive “members only” club my single friends would be denied access to because they aren’t Harvard-grad material. Rest assured, though this community is selective, it isn’t exclusive. The goal here is to match likeminded, intelligent individuals who score high in the fields that matter. Chances are these men will have jobs and think there’s more to a Friday night than flip cups. Just sayin’.

Here’s what the fine folks behind IvyDate have to say:

Let’s be honest – you’re a catch. Smart, witty and charming. But likeminded singles can’t find you. Between your career, friends, and family, you make little time for the bar scene, and certainly no time for dating sites with millions of random profiles.

To cement its commitment to quality, IvyDate also connects interested members with 24/7 concierge services, exclusive events at top venues, and on-call relationship experts. IvyDate’s last three events attracted more than a thousand of the most eligible singles in New York City, maxing out the capacity at swank venues like Trump Soho and Hudson Hotel.

So what do you think, ladies and gents? Pretty impressive, right? I’m mostly intrigued by the 24/7 concierge services. I dunno exactly what that means, but I imagine a brainy Brad Pitt lookalike will arrive at 3am to feed me chocolate covered strawberries. Just because.

My Pixie Blog readers are qualified to receive exclusive benefits to IvyDate. Use promo code My_Pixie_Blog to receive the following:

· Ability to register & subscribe for free
· First priority in membership queue
· Ability to respond to messages & send smiles for free
· 25% free extension on membership.

I was not sponsored for this post. All opinions expressed herein are entirely my own.

I never would have expected anything from Bryan because I know how detrimental that is to any relationship. And I want to hang on to this one for a while. So whenever the topic of the dreaded holiday came up, I laughed it off and told him repeatedly how little I cared for it and how silly it was that men everywhere were forced to do something nice for their loved ones. And then I thought that if he had taken me seriously and didn’t do anything at all, I would likely be at least a little upset. It was, after all, a date on the calendar that also marked our anniversary.

And I did nearly burn down my kitchen Sunday night in an attempt to make vegan Valentine’s Day cookies.

kinda' like these, but nowhere near as appealing. and also without the cream, the zest, and lemon juice. so basically, NOTHING like these.

We agreed to meet at my place after work, but he wouldn’t tell me what to expect. Poor Bryan greeted a rather disheveled Charlotte at the door (I blame the 20 minute walk and the fact that I was hyperventilating/schvitzing for most of it while watching my hair expand). Somehow he was not deterred from giving me a kiss. I noticed immediately that my dining room table had been decorated with a red table cloth, some candles, and three yellow and red roses. Then I smelled what was cooking on the stove and went over to take a look. Butternut squash soup and a delicious homemade veggie risotto. Glasses of white wine had already been poured and he asked me kindly to sit while he brought everything over.

It was simple, romantic, delicious, and sweet and reminded me why I had fallen for him in the first place. It was also the first time anyone had ever cooked for me. Like, really cooked and not just opened containers from a local Chinese takeout place.

I guess I am turning over a new leaf. Perhaps I’m getting sentimental in my old age after all. This was truly my favorite Valentine’s Day ever. The beautiful silver ring he presented me with after dinner was just the icing on the cake.

Almost made me feel bad that I gave him a card about his snoring.

I hope this post finds you all well in body and in mind and well rested after a lovely weekend. I’m not entirely awake yet (shocker) but should be after my A.M. cup o’ joe and a few hours in the office. Well, at least the coffee should help.

I’m featured over at SITS today. Please stop on by and check out my post on surviving Valentine’s Day,
whether you’re in a relationship or not. Much love, all. XOXO

PS: In the spirit of Valentine’s Day, I’m looking to hear some of your embarrassing, funny, and most romantic first dates. Have something to share? Email me at charlotte@mypixieblog.com with “first date story” in the subject heading.

In other news, my grandfather slipped away peacefully this past weekend at the age of 94. As sad as the loss was on the entire family, I am glad he is now reunited with the love of his life, my mami Naomi. We had a somber funeral service on Tuesday and were greeted by family members from LA, including some relatives I had never met before. It’s always an interesting affair when my family gets together, but for the most part, everyone was on their best behavior. Papi was the last of my living grandparents and it’s made me very reflective these past few days.

This past week also saw some pretty great highs, too. I met some wonderful women on Saturday at an aromatherapy party I attended with my dear friend Nicole and plans are in the works for an exciting giveaway in the spirit of Valentine’s Day. Stay tuned for more info!

I also jumped in the frigid waters in Long Beach, NY, this past weekend for the Make-a-Wish Foundation. Team Levi raised more than $1,000 for this amazing cause and it was a great way to spend the early hours of Superbowl Sunday. Many, many thanks to all who donated and to the friends who came to show their support and jump in the ocean with us. As crazy as it sounds, ask anyone who attended and I’ll bet you they’ll tell you the same thing: they would do it again in a heartbeat. I’m not going to lie, it was cold, but once the adrenaline starts pumping you really don’t notice that you can no longer feel your legs. I ran in a total of four times. I’m still getting the circulation back in my fingertips. Here are some pics of the event (also notice that in the third picture I accidentally stepped on Bryan’s foot. With my ginormous galoshes. Which he claims hurt more than the cold water itself. Sorry about that, hun).

Before I met Bryan several months ago, David and I sat in a local dive and bitched about dating in this great, beautiful, and cold city as well as the stereotypes men had about women and vice versa. I asked him to write a post for me to shed light on the male perspective because he’s opinionated and clever and I have always respected his views. So he did. And like the terrible friend I am, I dropped the ball on this and let it sit in my inbox for an unreasonable amount of time. (Sorry about that, homey).

Please give a very warm welcome to my buddy David who blogs over at ΔΟΚΕΙ ΜΟΙ and follow him on Twitter @Herkolaos.

***

I have been asked to offer a male perspective on the rather broad topic of dating in New York City. To be clear, this is a male perspective not the male perspective.

In searching for a potential partner, there are essentially three ways to proceed. In addition to the old fashioned way of meeting somebody on one’s own in realife, there is also the intermediary (see: Yenta) or cyberspace. Let us dispense with the simplest of these first, i.e. through an intermediary. This, I believe, functions generally the same for both sexes. Some friend or coworker invariably has the bright idea that two people would be a great match and sets about getting them together. Said friend or coworker is either possessed of some deep insight into human nature and a nuanced understanding of both parties. Or said friend is a meddlesome twit.

So much for friends. But what of online? It is here that womanity has taken its first tentative steps along the path of Targeted Mate Acquisition (TMA). And good on you lot, because now you get to see just how difficult TMA can be. In some ways, it’s like hitting a baseball. If you succeed roughly three times out of ten, you are deemed successful. Therefore, men are accepting of a high failure rate. It is a burden we bear without complaint, for ever and anon do we console ourselves with not being subjected to a menstrual cycle. Women, however, need not fear such a perilous rate of rejection. Though there is surely a more poetic way of putting it, I shall borrow from a Twisted Sister lyric. “I know what you want. You want what we got.”

Still, the potential to experience rejection exists, whether through failing to meet another’s highly subjective optimal ophthalmic standards or by coming across as demonstrably insane. Consider the following: I recently received a message from a girl which was well crafted, intelligent and overall generally pleasant. Natch I perused her profile. She appeared to be quite bright, like-interested and rather charming. I would have liked very much to talk with her… until I saw the pictures, at which point I felt sore ashamed. As you might imagine, I was less than thrilled with myself for making a snap judgment on so shallow a ground.

I composed the following response, here submitted for your (dis)approval, which I (obviously) did not send:

“Hello there, person who is interesting-to-an-uncommon-degree. I respect your courage in not only putting yourself out there but also for laughing in the face of defined gender roles by your female self reaching out and contacting my male self. After careful consideration, we have decided that you score highly in all categories which ‘really matter,’ and have earned a rating of ‘credit to your sex and to humanity already.’ Nonetheless, we regret to inform you that you are hereby: REJECTED. Good luck and thanks for playing. Best wishes: The Mgmt.”

As for coming across as a lunatic, needless to say a whole post could be written on that subject alone. In any event, while womanity may be sloughing off the vestiges of come-hithertude online, it is uncommon rare that this should occur at the local tavern. It is in this arena that the divide between us is most evident.

Men have confected any number of mechanisms by which to deal with this, both fair and foul. These include on the one hand flattery, drink-buying, peacockish displays of chivalry, ingratiation by way of kindness towards the targets friends and light humor. On the other, mendacity, arrogance, peacockish displays of affluence, and any manner of speech or action which may be classed as “Douchebaggery.”

Alas, Douchebaggery knows few bounds. It seeks you always, finds you often, and is not satisfied until the night is won or it is forced to withdraw in defeat. No amount of over-his-shoulder-looking or watch-checking or obvious glances of annoyance to one’s friends will divert it from its aim. And that is not all, for there is collateral damage as well. With every passing minute that Jimmy Popped-Collar is winnowing off your life, there may be some well-mannered gentleman of refined taste who is deterred from sweeping you off your feet.

It has been my observation that through body language, girls will make known whether or not they wish to be approached on a given evening. To be sure, signs may be misapprehended. I grant that it may be ideal, from the feminine perspective, to be approached by an attractive and charming gentleman. Yet as you await him, Douchebaggery circles as a vulture.

Thus, if women are willing to be approached, wherefore are they unwilling to do the approaching? This seems to me to be one of the great differences between our sexes. Many ladies, of course, will argue that it is just as difficult for them to meet a fine fellow as it is for a fine fellow to meet with a fair lady. This may be so. While our approaches do seem starkly different, yet are our objectives strikingly similar. In closing, then, I humbly suggest that if womanity should take some small step toward initiating the Targeted Mate Acquisition, though they should oft times meet with failure and rejection, still they would meet with it less often then do we. And if nothing else there might some circumvention of Douchebaggery to the general welfare of all.

I’ve never been a fan of Valentine’s Day. There I said it. Regardless of whether or not I was in a relationship, I always hated the idea of applying so much pressure to one day alone. This, in effect, can only lead to one thing in the end: sheer disappointment. Either the guy doesn’t deliver in the romantic department or conveniently “forgets” about the holiday altogether or you find yourselves crammed in a restaurant with dozens of other bored couples only to be chased away by waiters just looking to turn tables.

One thing I always tried to keep in mind as a single lady is that it’s a day like any other. Sure, there will be the Facebook messages of love from couples who seemingly need an audience to profess their love. And you may pass a few girls in the office with bouquets of roses and teddy bears, but you know what? We create our own happy. I remember back in high school when I would send flowers to my friends in class; the single girls who also didn’t have a significant other on that day. This eventually progressed to going out and celebrating with the girls over a few captain and cokes many years later. But in the end, Valentine’s Day is always what we make of it.

I was contacted recently by a company interested in targeting the fabulous demographic of singles out there this Valentine’s Day. Started by two young men from France, Ode à la Rose is a different kind of flower delivery service. Their beautiful and authentic Parisian style fresh rose bouquets are not only affordable, but they also use only the highest quality roses ensuring long-lasting freshness. Flowers are hand-delivered the same day they are ordered in a signature gift box that is whimsical, romantic, and fun, and with a slogan that reads “Aren’t you the lucky one?” As if that’s not precious enough, a photo of the bouquet is taken before it leaves the workshop and emailed to the sender with the exact time of delivery. Isn’t that just the cutest thing? I envision a Santa’s workshop with adorable French men running around, but hey, that’s just my fantasy.

Ode à La Rose is offering a special 10% discount on all their products to My Pixie Blog readers this Valentine’s Day. To obtain the promo code, you’ll need to “like” them on Facebook.

This Valentine’s Day, why not treat yourself–or a special friend of yours–to a beautiful bouquet that will conjure up images of cobblestone streets, sidewalk bistros, baguettes, and glasses of red wine. Imagine. The streets of Paris delivered right on your doorstep in New York.

I guess I am a hopeless romantic after all.

Years later, I dragged my poor best friend from one festival, ren faire, and street vendor to another in search of the perfect tiger’s eye ring. Eventually we found it–at an Oktoberfest in Bear Mountain, New York. If I had to take an educated guess, I think we must have looked in more than 30 locations for close to 8 years. It’s amazing she’s still friends with me.

During the great Bed Bug Scare of 2010, I convinced myself (and those around me) that I had bed bugs in my apartment and at work. I couldn’t stop scratching and even convinced myself that I would be the girl to bring bed bugs on Phish tour that summer. I frantically called my landlord, realtor, and HR department to spray the area around my cubicle at work and to inspect every crevice in my apartment. Eventually I stopped itching, though I never did see a single bed bug.

Some obsessive thoughts have stuck over the years. I still let the water run for seven seconds before filling up a glass, I only step out of one side of the shower, and I have to put my socks and shoes on in the following order: sock/shoe, sock/shoe.

In college, it seemed all my friends were running out to get tattoos and I decided that I, too, wanted to find the perfect one to adorn my right wrist. In hindsight, I’m glad I waited the 10+ years or I may have ended up with Tinkerbelle (I always did have an obsession with fairies). Recently I’ve revisited the idea some more and wanted to choose something that represented my German heritage. I scoured the net for folk art (scherenschnitte in particular, which are too big for so small an area) and quotes by Hesse, Goethe, Rilke, and Einstein, that resonated with me (sadly, German words are entirely too long and a phrase would take up more real estate than I would like on my small wrist).

And then I joined Pinterest over the weekend (okay, so now I know what you all have been raving about for months. Talk about addicting!) and my tattoo search pulled up an image of a woman so beautiful and with a tattoo so meaningful to me that I couldn’t stop staring at it.

“To Thine Own Self Be True.”

It’s a quote by Shakespeare my father always said to me when the chips were down and I began to doubt myself. It’s also a phrase I had engraved on a new iPod just last week. And a phrase I kept considering when designing my perfect tattoo.

I just didn’t want it on my wrist.

I have plans for the wrist. For now, I want to get this tattoo in the same location as Christina Perri (photographed above), but all on one line, and in a feminine, cursive font. Something more like this:

My bestie will get a tat with me (we’ve discussed it for ages) and we’ll go to Bryan’s regular tattoo parlour (I’d say he’s something of a regular with a half sleeve, full leg, and assorted other beautiful tats. I always say it’s Christmas every time I discover a new one and learn its meaning).

So, what do you think? How painful do you think this part on the inner arm will be for tattooing? Bear in mind, I am a giant wuss and cringe at the sight of blood and needles.

Are you on Pinterest? If yes, find me and we can stalk, errr, pin each other. Or whatever it is we’re supposed to do on there. Find my icon to the top right of this page under the “Connect With Me” tab.

Obviously I haven’t made it that far yet. But this weekend I introduced Bryan to my best friend and I realized how much I wanted her approval. She has always been a voice of reason for me and knows me better than anyone else in the world. I really wanted her to like this one. I’ve been with guys over the years that she had reservations about and she would often see things I was too blind to notice. We tend to see the world through rose-colored lenses when we are in the throes of a new romance.

I visited my parents this weekend to meet the new dog in their lives, and Bryan stopped by Saturday night to pick me up for dinner at Veggie Heaven. After dinner, we intended to visit my best friend’s house to attend her small housewarming. She’d heard stories about Bryan for months and was excited to finally meet him.

In a room full of eight lesbians (a tough audience for some of my previous boyfriends), Bryan was a hit. Maybe it was the way he held my hand under the table, or the fact that he helped me navigate around the icy patches in the driveway, or the subtle glances he exchanged with me from across the room, but I relaxed into his presence and realized that, even though I did still want her approval, I had already found my happy place.

As one of my friends was leaving, she gave me a gentle squeeze and whispered in my ear “I like him. And he’s CUTE!”

My friend later text messaged me to tell me her girlfriend picked up on some of the nuances and they both thought he was awesome. The word “happy” appeared three times. She was happy we had stopped by and happy to see me happy.

I was elated.

After the shindig, Bryan dropped me off at my parent’s house and stayed for a while. As we shared a toast with my family, he picked up Pepe, the sweet little schnauzer, and placed him in his lap. Without even trying, he had made another friend.

That was the moment when I realized that I am madly and hopelessly in love with a 32-year-old banjo-playing vegan.

And also this little guy:

I want to hit the pause button a bit more often this year. To just feel and be.

I’m trying to change my ways and have for the past few weeks reconnected outside of the beeping world of electronics. I want real face time because a girl needs her friends for dinner, to talk about life’s stresses, and to get a mani with every now and then. I have had the good fortune of doing all of these things in the past few weeks, not because life is lookin’ bad, but because I don’t want this season to pass me by. To know me is to understand that this is my season of hibernation, but I love my friends (and boyfriend) far too much to spend all that time under the covers (well, some time under the covers with Bryan is never a bad thing…).

Last week I had Ethiopian in Hell’s Kitchen with an old coworker I hadn’t seen in ages. It was fun to shoot the shit with her and catch up on the past nine years since we’d last seen each other (also, where in the hell does the time go?). She is a divorced mother of three and is taking tentative steps to get back out into the dating world. As we rolled our bread and dug into the delicious and colorful vegetarian food in front of us, she asked a question that transcends all ages, cultures, and backgrounds. “What in the hell is going ON out there??” She described online dating as a battle zone of sorts and told me about some of the weirdos she had encountered lately. We swapped horror stories and laughed over the absurdity of it all. She let me know that contrary to popular belief, older men still don’t always have it figured out.

I also went to Rosa Mexicano in Union Square with two of my besties as it had been some time since the three of us were able to plan a date night. For the first time in the history of our friendship, we all have significant others at the same time (one of them will soon get married), and it was fun to find out about their beaus and giggle into our sangria like old times. Also shout-out to the lovely Jill of Glamamom who apparently drove by me that evening as I was stepping into the restaurant!

Last night, I treated myself to a mani with a dear friend of mine who is also diving back into the online dating world after a bit of a break. I’m happy for her. I think she has a much healthier outlook since she participated in this dating detox. And now that I have a boyfriend, I can live vicariously through her stories.

How are you all coming along with your New Year’s resolutions? I’ll be honest: I’ve cheated a bit with the no smoking thing. I’ve had a few since, but I don’t feel the urge to smoke as I once did and I think I’m making strides in a very positive direction. I’m also learning the importance of shedding this thin skin and developing a thicker backbone. That’s still a work in progress, but we’re getting there.

You may also remember that my family lost it’s beloved beagle Linus in October. While there can never be another quite like him, I’m happy to meet a new shelter dog my parents are adopting this weekend. He’s a schnauzer/affenpinscher mix and quite possibly the most unattractive dog I’ve ever seen but I think he’ll make a beautiful addition to my crazy family. I’m happy they’re finally ready to welcome another dog into their home and lives again and I’m glad I’ll have a scruffy little guy to play with whenever I visit.