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The diary of a New York love-seeking doll July 4 Little Miss Independence Forget sharing a room with three other women, or sharing a bathroom with nine other people... roughing it was a weekend in the Hamptons without a pedicure. "I don't know how you did it. I never ever could have made it through." Thursday evening Kimberly (the brown one) and I (the red Kim) circle the Hamptons for a restaurant with more than four other patrons. It's high school. Music is blaring, the windows slid open, and we drive 20 minutes out of our way to find a good restaurant. Dragon Room is a drag, so we settle upon 75 Main and seek out dessert at "Jet". Jet East: Picture it. A spinning blue light overhead and hooch every which way, lots of it. Greased hair, too many rings, widows peak, hairspray, the only respectable boys are too short to date and haven't moved past the polo shirts. You're at "Jet" because you're trendy and on vay-K, too tired to add "East". Then you hear it: "Don't have to be rich to be my girl, don't have to be..." And we sing along and kiss the air evoking Julia Roberts feeling like our own little pretty women. But it's bullshit because I'm in the Hamptons, where streets are named after money. Let's face it, it's money, from the driveways flanked with hydrangeas to the Hermès orange Birkin and French tulips for her dinner party. You smell it, it smells rich. It's the Creed. South Hampton is old money, East Hampton is new money, and West Hampton ignores money and surfs instead. People drop names, saunter beyond velvet ropes and talk about the Sony party, the Hilton's new record label, Lizzy Grubman's new reality show filming at Cyril's, and you almost want to boot. But you don't because vomiting is cliché. Kim and I are just about ready to be booted from our "you don't have bottle service" table, when I rush to claim the last free "you are relegated to the back" table. Then I meet Pat Parnell and Shon Tomlin (Fuel TV dudes from LA), who hire me to photograph the premiere of Riding Giants the next day. I can't disclose the photographs yet (sorry). But here's what you would see: Christie Brinkley glowing with her angelic children and yummy husband. Gabrielle Reese not giving advice on how to recover from pregnancy because "I don't give advice". Some tan men whose faces look like mitts, with bleached hair, dimples, and Hawaiian shirts. Who cares what they're saying. And me with fucking ugly toes on the Blue Carpet. Oy. Cyril's: I run into many people I shouldn't have, and I become gravely depressed. I run into Bianca Struel (the same species, mortified I've associated her with Fat Camp), and then Caroline Wiesser (Falcone). Caroline and I used to work together. Now she's married, with a delicious baby and a house in Roslyn. Just kill me now. I'm crapass at dating. My energy goes into some guy instead of me. I'll go places I don't really feel like going because he'll be there. It's not me. I'll rearrange plans around a guy - and history gave me this lesson: he will be gone soon. In life, no matter what happens, I end up with me. So it's independence weekend. Well, Amen to that (snap, snap). I walk into Cyril's anticipating the brain freeze from the BBC (Bailey's Banana Colada) and sink into my white chair. I should be happy. I'm flanked with beauty, the sky, the friendships, the tan women in their orange terry Juicy tube dresses and enormous... ahem, jewels, what were you thinking? I see a trendy beautiful woman with smart sunglasses sit on tan boys' laps and I'll admit it. I can taste the jealousy; it tastes like steamers. I never look at it as a waste of time, but when I slam into people my age, married with their babies, their gardens, their make-your-own-taco nights, well I want that. I feel myself leaning over, trying to stab them with my fork prongs. I want to ingest their lives. But I demonstrate control and remind myself I'm not willing to settle for Jell-O. I prefer my crème br?lée, all blowtorch difficult and shit. I wish he'd get his act together and pursue me already. I'm a strong believer that the man must pursue the woman. I miss being pursued. I want a man, not afraid of putting it on the line, letting me and everyone know he's crazy about me. But it can't be West Coast; it has to be sincere. It can't be I love yous in a week before you know my middle name. It can't be "you're amazing", "Are you mine?" before I even know you. You need to learn how someone handles anger, stress, and disappointing people. It can't be "sweetheart" before you know what kind of drunk they are, how they handle deadlines, or phone messages, or their mother, or you when you've gone and chicked out in the middle of the night. So, about the sex, I know what you're thinking... and trust me, you're wrong. I'm telling you, it was a sex-free weekend. Period. As for independence, I'm still looking up, anticipating some fireworks. Even if I'm the one who has to conjure her own noise and light for now. I'm wicked good at that.
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