By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

Matchmaker, matchmaker, go back to L.A.

Bravo’s reality series Millionaire Matchmaker is filming this season in Manhattan instead of Los Angeles. The show’s star, Patti Stanger, will fit in quite nicely with those competitive New Yorkers who often don’t live up to their own hype.

We all know them: the colleague who sharpens a pencil and acts as though they’ve cured cancer; the friend who must one-up you even if it’s over one more slice of bacon on his BLT; and the mom who declares her child “gifted” even though his class rank or position on the team is no more impressive than anyone else.

Watching the program’s wacky west coasters embarrass themselves on dates has given me hours of amusement. Now that it’s in my own backyard, though, I’m not laughing.

First, let’s define “millionaire.” On both coasts, Stranger’s are not the high-society, captains-of-industry types, but more of the millionaire-next-store ilk. They aren’t exactly inaccessible; but, as are those who work paycheck-to-paycheck, often just too busy for “the hunt.”

Enter the abrasive, Jersey-born Stanger (note: the doctor cannot heal herself, and remains unmarried), who bills herself as a third-generation matchmaker with a phenomenal record of helping wealthy people find their soul mates.

Except that she doesn’t. What puzzled me from watching the L.A. franchise is her abysmal rate of failure. Why would anyone put their business on national television and week after week disprove their bragging rights that they are the best at what they do?

In the show’s first NYC episode, her challenge was to set up two owners of a very lucrative Internet businesses. The million-dollar man was 40-years-old and looking for a wife. Patti honed in on the problem: His usual choice of young, hot party-girl does not a Mrs. make.

She set up a mixer for him to meet more serious, accomplished, age-appropriate women, of which New York has a plethora. But also invited twenty-somethings. (Why? Didn’t she say they were his downfall?) Guess whom Mr. Creature-of-habit chose and whose date didn’t work out?

Stanger, like all those who screw up their assignments, looked for someone else to blame—in this case, her intern.

Her other client, the million-dollar woman, didn’t fare any better. This time though, Stanger laid the fault at the feet of the single-mother, who was deemed too picky. Then, like those GOING OUT OF BUSINESS store salespeople who can’t convince you their cheap wares are “better than Sony,” Stanger yelled at her paying customer, “There’s the door. Go.” She declared the rejected men “great,” even though they didn’t meet the client’s requirements.

Yet none of this stops Stanger from proclaiming, “New York needs me.”

Like we need another bagel store.

This is yet another NYC reality show that does us no justice. For her get-togethers, Stanger manages to find the handful of women here who don’t own a little black dress, as well as guys who don’t own suits. Giving her license, by the second episode, to snap with superiority, “This is the fashion capital of the world, yet no one knows how to dress.” Where is she looking? Not at the elegant denizens on Madison, or Boho chic-sters downtown or the tailored execs in Midtown. She also claimed that, “No one here gets mani/pedis or waxes.” How does she explain the nail salons on practically every corner?

If you really want someone to help you snag a rich New York spouse, forget Millionaire Matchmaker and seek counsel from someone who’s already done it for herself. Anyone got an email address for Melania Trump?
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Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

“Step right up, folks! We’ve got arcade games and prizes, stilt-walkers and circus performers, magicians, jugglers and a 50-foot Ferris Wheel!”

On Columbus Day, I took my daughter and her friend to the Park Avenue Armory, whose 55,000-square-foot hall was transformed into a fantastical carnival.

Traditionally, these traveling circuses were meant to bring relief from the tedium of daily life with attractions like the half man/half woman, contortionists and sword swallowers.

Although we enjoyed our time there immensely, these past couple of months has proved to me that Manhattan doesn’t need an actual midway to distract us, since a carny-like atmosphere is often created by our day-to-day, nonstop sideshows.

We now live in a post-Waiting for Superman world where people are appalled to “learn” what everyone has known all along: there are subpar educators out there who can’t be fired no matter how bad they are at their jobs.

Melissa Petro, the former sex worker turned New York public school art teacher, wasn’t one of them. She did her job well, was liked by her co-workers and students and was only punished by the school district when her past came to light.

I think what bothered many people more than her stripping and hooking was the fact that she openly talked about it, choosing not to let it be a dirty little secret of which she would have to live in fear of exposure.

Petro did the work needed to go from the world’s oldest profession to the noblest one, making her the perfect example of how people who have made a poor choice can actually turn their lives around.

What is the impetus for people to improve themselves or their situations if what they did before is always going to be held against them? I argued to my friends.

Mayor Bloomberg obviously didn’t agree with me and ordered the tenured-teacher out of the classroom.

Weeks later, I watched his press conference regarding an unrelated matter, where he declared that in this city, “tolerance defines us.” It was like looking in a funhouse mirror that distorts everything.

Next, you could have knocked me over like the milk bottle pyramid at which you throw softballs to win the giant panda. Two homophobes decided to gay bash a man in the Stonewall Inn—the birthplace of the gay rights movement, as well as the establishment where I believe the phrase “bash back” originated. Apparently, the assailants had not known the place’s history. They live on Staten Island—under a rock.

Then it was time for something as light and fluffy as cotton candy. The Kardashians moved in (temporarily, I hope) to open a clothing store downtown. Because this family will not blow its collective nose without cinematic documentation, their exploits will be a new reality show titled, Kourtney & Kim Take New York!

Lastly, there was the day I awoke to Carl Paladino on TV claiming to embrace the gay community, on the heels of saying that homosexuality was not “an equally valid and successful option.” He argued that someone else had written his remark and he hadn’t wanted to say it. But he did say it, as well as some cracks about the Gay Pride Parade. He apologized to the gay community, but lost the support of those who agreed with the original statement that he didn’t want to make in the first place. My head started spinning as though I’d just gotten off the Tilt-A-Whirl.

Well, no one ever said living here was dull. That’s part of the beauty of NYC; you can’t guess what’s going to happen next. Or in carnival parlance: Round and round she goes, where she stops, nobody knows.
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Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

I spent a week on the East End doing my own version of Eat Pray Love. I called it Eat. Play. Sun.

Feeling quite brand new, I understand how the change did Elizabeth Gilbert good, but for the life of me, I still don’t quite understand why she had to go to three different countries for a year to “wake up and marvel at something.”

I did that each morning when I opened my eyes to the Atlantic Ocean. Adding to the “marvelousness” was the salt air, the wind in my face while bike riding and long walks on the beach. Also, I didn’t touch a computer for a week—I know, I still can’t believe it either. I didn’t even do any writing.

Upon arriving home, I decided that I wanted to hold on to my good feelings. Who says you can’t be where you are normally and transform?

This is the greatest city in the world—and yes, it is expensive, busy and often stressful. But it’s also the place where people come from all over the country and world, embrace everything we are and begin anew.

The things that make this “the” place to live (the history, the architecture, the hustle and bustle, the diversity of people and neighborhoods) are the things books, movies and songs are made of.

I see no reason why Gilbert’s EPL-lessons can’t play out right in Manhattan.

EAT: OK. This one is a no-brainer. Seriously, pick an avenue. Choose a street. Decide on an ethnic cuisine, as well as a price point and her “no carb left behind” diet is right there waiting.

Even if we’re starving, we’re still willing to wait for a good meal, evidenced by the line to get into the new Shake Shack on East 86th Street. I think it’s safe to say that we New Yorkers already have the “eat” part down.

PRAY: Without getting into the Ground Zero mosque issue, houses of worship are everywhere. If organized religion isn’t your thing, there are plenty of opportunities to find inner peace through helping others (try www.ivolunteer.org), as Elizabeth did when she arranged for a single mother in Bali to build a house.

I see plenty of people running around with yoga mats, so you can jump on the “ohm” bandwagon as Gilbert did pretty easily as well.

The real beauty of Manhattan, however, is that you can find spirituality by genuflecting at the alter of culture and creativity in any of our many museums; get in touch with nature on any park bench; you can even rent a bike and ride around à la Elizabeth.

LOVE: There’s a reason why “I love New York” was our slogan for so long. There’s so much to do and see here.

You can also find love here. I know a lot of people will roll their eyes at that, especially if you watched Sex and the City, where single people were portrayed as crazy, false or non-committal.

New York is a small place with so many opportunities. You just need to be open, and I don’t just mean your heart. If you want to meet new people, go to new places. Again, Elizabeth went to Bali to find whom she was meant to meet. I truly believe you need not go farther than Brooklyn. My brother-in-law and his wife met on the 6 train. I know two people who met doing volunteer work.

Some have to travel halfway around the world to find what New Yorkers have around every corner: a chance for change.

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Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

Oops, I did it again—I stood in line for Shakespeare in the Park, this time to see a fabulous performance of The Winter’s Tale.

I’ve attended this free outdoor event since 1980, using the same M.O. every time: get there at dawn to camp out. And every year I end up about 200 people back by the big rock. Hence, I always end up in virtually the same seats, which are in the section that could be deemed “the nose bleeds.” There were years I felt like they saw me coming and whipped out the same old seats just to mess with me. This year, due to an alternate side of the street parking matter that I had to deal with, I broke tradition and arrived “late” at 9 a.m.

My position was parallel to the north of the Great Lawn, just before the line turns off the path and veers uphill towards the west side. Farther back than usual, but for the first time ever I got to sit on a park bench. (I’ve always had bench envy of those who did not have to bring or rent a beach chair similar to the one I usually squirm in.)

As I sat for four hours, instead of my usual six or seven, I found that life at the back of the line is pretty much the same as it is closer up, except with a smidge more anxiety regarding whether I’d make the cut for tickets. That lack of smug assurance that seats would be scored actually added to the cachet and excitement of waiting.

Not only that, but the tickets I did get were two of the best my husband and I have ever had: middle section right on the aisle. My over-diligence in years past, that without fail reaped tickets but nothing more in way of perks for my early morning arrival, has made me question if being hyper conscientious—which goes way beyond the ticket line—is really worth the effort?

I’m always the first mom to hand in the permission slip and money for the class trip, even though the child of the last mom to pony up still gets to go on the outing. I pay my bills when I get them, even though ConEd doesn’t turn the lights off if you’re only a little overdue; also American Express gives you 10 days grace after the “pay by this date” stamp. Oh, and my last doctor’s visit ended with a need for a blood test. I arranged it for the same day it was requested, figuring the sooner I did it the sooner the MD would get the results. They reached him within a couple of days, except it really didn’t matter since he had left for vacation.

Of course, I’ve passed the need to get things done now on to my children. During the school year I start asking if homework is done before they’ve finished their after-school snack and, most recently, by insisting that they crack open their summer reading books before summer had even begun.

Clearly, there is a fine line between being a good Do-Bee and manic candidate of OCD (Obsessive Compulsive Doer)—and I’ve crossed it.

Perhaps procuring Shakespeare in the Park tickets even though I showed up at least three hours after the “first responders” is the universe’s wake-up call for me to calm down. Not easy to do in NYC. Good thing I’m heading off to Montauk.

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Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

By Lorraine Duffy Merkl

Last week I saw Breakfast at Tiffany’s again for the first time.

Even though I can practically recite every line by heart, I viewed the classic with fresh eyes when it played at the Sunset Film Festival in Carl Schurz Park because I had just finished Sam Wasson’s behind-the-scenes book about the movie, Fifth Avenue, 5 A.M.: Audrey Hepburn, Breakfast at Tiffany’s, and The Dawn of the Modern Woman.

The film is a light-hearted version of Truman Capote’s dark, rather bitter novella, and I love it. I always put aside the fact that Holly and Paul sleep with people for money, and chose only to see the depiction of everything that is fun, carefree and glamorous about striving to make it in New York. The Wasson tell-all has changed that for me.

Now I see a big ol’ mess that somehow turned into a masterpiece.

Let’s begin with the novel. I know it’s hard to make it in the city, but even Truman Capote, the cause célèbre of the literary world, found his manuscript turned down by Harper’s Bazaar, despite the fact that they had a publishing deal with him. I guess that was all for the best, since it ended up as a book rather than as a few pages in a magazine.

Next, the film almost wasn’t made because the producers didn’t know what to do with a novel that had no second act, a nameless gay protagonist, as well as an unhappy ending. This was not the stuff of which Hollywood hits were made.

This time, as I watched the willowy, elegant Audrey Hepburn exit the taxi in front of Tiffany’s in her sunglasses and black gown, Danish in hand, I kept envisioning a crass and curvaceous Marilyn Monroe, who Capote originally wanted for the part.

I listened to “Moon River” trying to figure out how the producers could have possibly thought that Oscar-winner Henry Mancini was not up to the task of scoring the film.

And for the first time, I did not swoon over the charming, boyishly handsome voice of reason, pre-A-Team George Peppard (who I attest looks like my husband) because I was haunted by Wasson’s description of him as a surly, humorless whiner, who director Blake Edwards—on bended knee—begged the studio to replace.

Oh yes, and I really didn’t need to know that this quintessential New York film was shot in California, with only a week’s production here for exteriors.

When all was said and done, though, and Holly and Paul kiss in the rain with Cat safely between them, my movie, about a New York woman who finally chooses a man based on love and not finances, comes shining through.

Fifth Avenue, 5 A.M. showed me that a project’s end result can still satisfy even though the process is disorganized, fraught with bad judgments and is just plain maddening—similar to some of our city’s current undertakings.

I’ve decided to transfer my new knowledge regarding the mess-to-masterpiece to such ideas as the Second Avenue Subway and have started believing that in 2018, Second Avenue, which currently looks as though the Upper East Side has been bombed, will reap a worth-the-wait subway. Also, that one day an admirable tribute will rise at Ground Zero. Last, I’ve begun to think about our local elected officials. I’ve decided not to see them as “quel superrats” but to instead have faith that they can turn our city around.

In the meantime, we need to remember that we New Yorkers still have a lot of good going here. As Holly Golightly would say, “I’m just crazy about Tiffany’s.”
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Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel, Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

“I have a leisurologist,” said the young woman into her cell, while breezing by me on Madison and 60th Street at lunch hour.

She was in her late twenties, with bouncy brown hair and simple, yet trendy, clothes. Her demeanor was so upbeat, all I could think was Whatever a leisurologist is, hers must be doing a great job.

I began immediately to question myself. Is this some new, cool thing that everyone has or knows about but me? Then I decided Ms. Leisure must be from somewhere else; her discipline sounded a little too La-La Land for NYC. Or maybe in our competitive, stressful city, it’s just what’s needed.

Usually, the Internet—specifically Google—is a wealth of information. Not so, this time. Perhaps “leisurology” is still one of those burgeoning tends.

From what little I could gather, it appears that “leisurologist” is a title bestowed on someone who has more than a passing fancy with (as my son calls it) chillaxin’.

On www.leisurevolution.org, I found “The 9 Tenets of Leisurology”:

9) Making a life is more important than making a living. If your landlord doesn’t charge rent.

8) Work is not a four-letter word, but rut might be. Right now, a job rut is better than no job at all.

7) Refreshing cold drinks are not optional. OK, they’ve got me.

6) Wear comfortable shoes. Ditto.

5) Howl at the moon from time to time. We’re getting a little silly now.

4) Balance the doing with the un-doing. I’m at a loss. What?

3) Path and goal are equals. Again, huh? Perhaps they mean, “Enjoy the journey.”

2) Never rush. Yes, let’s all try this one in Midtown at rush hour.

1) Relax. Isn’t that what we’re all already doing on the Great Lawn?

I was still unclear as to whether the leisurologist is one who uses free time better than the rest of us, or if the designation is meant to describe one who counsels others.

Then I found a blog (there’s always one of those, isn’t there?). The author of www.theleisurologist.blogspot.com characterizes himself as teacher, student and lover of leisure, who stands in awe and absolute amazement at its power.

Well, OK. I could try to decipher his thinking, but don’t know if I could do it justice, so here, direct from the supporter of spare time: “When we do take time out for leisure, there are often ulterior motives. We play tennis in order to stay fit/lose weight; go dancing so that we can meet other single people; do crossword puzzles to keep our minds sharp.”

This is bad, why? For me, New Yorker equals multitasker. The idea that something I do for pleasure, such as walking to get the air, has added health benefits is a plus.

The Leisurologist’s answer: “It’s possible to enjoy ourselves immensely at the same time as reaping the other benefits; and yet it’s also possible to neglect the enjoyment factor in pursuit of the other pay-offs. And when that happens, even our free time activities can begin to feel like work.”

Fair enough. Sometimes in Manhattan we get so busy that we even have to schedule fun, and anything on a to-do list does have a chore-quality.

I, however, still hold that leisurology is not destined to become a New York phenomenon. Isn’t the whole reason to live here because of the notorious hustle and bustle, as well as the work hard/play hard mentality? We’re the go, go, go city that never sleeps, remember? We don’t do leisure. That’s what the Hamptons are for. 

Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel, Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is available at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com.

Positive these successes could be duplicated in our dingy lives, we swear off the fudge and trash that bag of chips, convinced that a diet could help us shed a few pounds here, make us a little leaner there and hold the ticket to success. But what if it didn’t.

In her debut novel Fat Chick, columnist Lorraine Duffy Merkl holds up a mirror to the lessons of a lifetime of dieting. While every girl eager to find her prince kisses frogs called diets, it may turn out you’re wasting your time on the wrong thing. In the novel, protagonist Trish is an advertising professional who has just lost a prestigious account to a skinny colleague. Talented and on a mission to reclaim her position in the agency, Trish embarks on a vicious dieting routine with surprising consequences.

Merkl, a freelance advertising consultant whose work has been published in the New York Times and New York Post, recently sat down over breakfast to give us the skinny on Fat Chick. She is already at work on her second book.

Q: You say there is a difference between fat chick and a fat chick mentality.

A: When I tell women what the book is about, more than one person has asked, “Am I on the cover of the book?” They say it jokingly, but you know there is some truth to their saying it. If you are a size 2 and you turn around and ask your friend if you look fat in an outfit, that’s not a fat chick, but a fat chick mentality.

Q: Your protagonist Trish is similar to the pre-makeover Peggy Olson, from Mad Men. Maybe she could take a few lessons from Joan?

A: Joan is a perfect example of someone who is “stacked.” She is poised, gracious, so confident—she looks beautiful—yet she is a big woman. The de facto heroine in my book is also a big woman, a plus-size model who carries herself with great confidence and poise. People trash media images for projecting certain body types. But even if there were no models, no pictures, you would still see women in a communal changing room or in a bathing suit at the beach and compare yourself to other people. You should not be caught up in what others think. The book talks about fashion, but it doesn’t trash fashion or magazines for women’s body issues.

Q: You are 51 now and have yo-yo dieted since you were 13. Is this a memoir?

A: It’s not a memoir, it’s a novel. As with any fiction writer, I took stories from my own life. I didn’t want this story to be about a fat girl that lives happily ever after, after losing a ton of weight. If that were true, then people like Kirstie Alley wouldn’t be gaining weight.

Q: Do thin chicks get the guys, or is that a myth?

A: It’s a myth. People like [Tiger Wood’s wife] Elin Nordegren, Jennifer Aniston—people we hold up as beautiful women and think, “If only I had her hair, if I had her legs,” if that were all it took to be happy, then bad things would never happen to beautiful people. Comparing yourself to others is a waste of time. Run your own race.

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Fat Chick is available exclusively at amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com. Transcript has been edited for clarity.