Days of Auld Lang Syne

On the last day of 2009, I reflect and reminisce over the adventures I had over this last year. Let's sum up the highlights, why don't we?

- I dated some real winners, including the biggest fail in the history of well, history, a dirty manwhore who told me on our first date that I'm too arrogant and confident, the genius who couldn't recognize dinosaur bones and had never been to a museum before, and the creme de la creme, an idiotic bandanna-sporting douchebag.

- My girlfriends provided me with endless hours of hilarity and multiple nights of hijinx; one of the best included crashing a bachelor party, a lot of tequila, and then scamming some guys into a beer-pong tournament on their roof.

- I played Spin the Bottle for the first time in over a decade and discovered why I should stay away from Murray Hill.

- My family decided that I am officially a spinster.

- I found out that unlimited champagne served by a midget in a pirate suit leads to an absolutely horrendous hangover and a sprained foot.

- I started punching guys in the nuts. Good for mankind, bad for douchebags. And sometimes, bad for me.

- I relived the glory days of college, complete with tailgating, sketchy fraternity parties, and even more importantly, sketchy fraternity guy late-night booty calls.

All in all, if I had to sum up the year in a phrase, it would be "banana pancakes," the code words I came up with to let my friends know when I'm in trouble (i.e. if I slipped "banana pancakes" into a phrase like "I have a hankering for some delicious banana pancakes for breakfast," they would interpret it as an SOS and get me the hell outta there). There were a great deal of "banana pancakes" moments in 2009.

So I'd like to thank my girls for a year filled with more laughter and memories than I know what to do with. In all seriousness, I'm not sure I would've survived the disaster we will come to know as 2009 without my besties by my side. R, S, A, this one's for you:



Happy 2010 everyone!!!!!

Vanilla Overdose

What kind of night starts out at a classy cocktail party and ends with a Lady Gaga dance party at a dive bar?

Only the best kind, obviously.

So a few weeks ago I was invited to a magazine party sponsored by Stoli and R and I put on our finest black cocktail dresses and went to sip on awesome (free) vodka cocktails.

Mid-way through the party, we made friends with a group of very nice, very sweet, very white-bread boys who were all from the Mid-west and went to Harvard. We have appropriately termed them "The Vanillas."

One of them was so dapper and put-together that we are convinced he is none other than Freddie Fackelmayer's doppelganger. Seriously. Down to the jawline that looks like it was chiseled out of marble and the orange fake tan and the douchebaggy personality.

I'm actually afraid that someday they will find themselves in a room together and the universe might implode from the sheer force of their combined douchiness. It's a weapon to be taken seriously, people. (Case and point: have you SEEN Jersey Shore on MTV?)

His Vanilla friends, however, turned out to be nice guys, which isn't surprising since they are young (24) and born and bred in Arkansas and Ohio or some other state in Middle America where it is instilled in them to be gentlemen and hold doors open for girls. So when the open bar shut down at midnight, I agreed to tag along with them to another bar.

The Vanillas subsequently got into a fight about whose ancestors came over on the Mayflower and whether Vanilla Two's grandparents were the indentured servants of Vanilla One's family in Ohio. That was about when I started planning an escape strategy, worried I had wandered into another minefield of intensely boring guys.

(But seriously, could you imagine a whiter conversation? I mean other than an argument over where to buy the perfect pocket square and which club to use on the par-4 ninth hole.)

That was when my favorite song of the moment, Lady Gaga's Bad Romance started playing on the jukebox. Apparently Vanilla One is such a fan of the song that he put in $20 and set the song to play on repeat, much to the dismay of everyone else in the bar.



I, however, was in heaven and since I wasn't going to bail on a jukebox playing Lady Gaga nonstop, I suggested a game of "Never Have I Ever" to loosen up the Vanilla boys and that is when they disclosed something truly shocking.

Vanilla One: Never have I ever had casual sex.

Me: Well how do you define casual sex?

Vanilla One: I've never had sex with anyone I'm not in a committed relationship with.

Me (Thinking I misheard him; after all the Lady Gaga was blasting pretty loudly): Excuse me what now?

Vanilla One: I only sleep with girls if we're in a serious relationship. I've never had sex with anyone that I just met.

Vanilla Two: Yeah, I'm the same way.

Me (Flabergasted): I'm sorry. I just don't understand. You don't sleep with girls unless you're in a monogamous long-term relationship? When did you lose your virginity.

Vanilla One: Not until I was 22.

Me: What?! That was only two years ago.

Vanilla Two: Well, sex is so much better if you're in a relationship and you really know and love each other, so I agree with him.

Me: Well obviously you just haven't had really good casual sex yet. Sometimes it's better if there are absolutely no feelings involved and it's just raw and physical.

Vanilla One: That's quite possible, but I don't plan on finding out.

Me (More confused than ever): OK then. Good talk. See you out there.

As if this wasn't baffling enough, a week later R and I met Vanilla Two for drinks at a party downtown. Somehow his ex-girlfriend came up and we asked him why they broke up.

Vanilla Two: She was just kind of boring, you know?

R: No, I don't know. Was she too vanilla for you?

Vanilla Two: Well we were together for four months and she just wasn't very interesting.

Me: Like what? In bed? Was she not exciting?

Vanilla Two: Excuse me?

R: You know, were things boring in the bedroom?

Me: Yeah, did she not spice things up enough? No handcuffs? No lingerie? No fetish closet?

And at this point, poor Vanilla Two was so shocked and taken aback by the dirty-mouthed New York girls that he toppled backwards off his stool and fell on his back, followed by the stool.

It made such a commotion that the entire bar turned to see what had happened and the guy at the table next to us had to ask R if she was OK because he thought she was having a seizure, but found out she was just laughing so hard that she couldn't breathe.

Vanilla Two (After getting up and sitting back down on his stool and regaining his composure): Good lord, I can't believe you girls are asking me about my sex life. I don't talk about things like that! I never kiss and tell. It's disrespectful. I would never do that!

Now on one hand, I think his behavior is entirely commendable although surprising. I don't know too many (meaning any) guys in Manhattan who refrain from having sex with girls they don't know and then discussing it afterwards. This is a legitimately nice, wholesome boy with morals and values and whatnot.

On the other hand, this is exactly the kind of behavior that takes away from any sort of sexual mystique whatsoever and why I could never be attracted to someone that innocent. I mean, I don't want to date manwhores, but at the same time I don't remember signing on to hang out with Kenneth Parcell from 30 Rock.



Clearly this is the type of guy that finds The Brady Bunch too raunchy because Mike and Carol didn't sleep in separate beds. So there is no way in hell that he could handle my lifestyle. I think one dinner conversation with my girlfriends would send him to the hospital with a massive coronary.

And the last thing I want nor need is the death of a Vanilla weighing on my conscience.

Ho Ho Ho!

Dear Santa Claus,

Although I am sure that I have done some things this year that would automatically qualify me for the "Naughty List," I would like to take this opportunity to point out the good deeds that should be factored into your in-depth evaluation:

1) I taught several assholes that they shouldn't make inappropriate and/or racist comments to strangers by hitting them in the nuts. Now, I know initially this may be mistaken for violent and unstable behavior, but really if you consider my motivations behind the ball-slapping, you will see that I am just a do-gooder trying to ensure that these douchebags don't offend anyone else in the future, and ideally render them infertile so they don't pass on their racist views to future generations.

2) If you don't count the guys who held back tears while icing their balls after I launched my stealthy attack on their gonads, I only made one guy (that I know of) cry. And I managed to avoid killing anyone, which is no small feat when you consider the fact that I spent a good amount of time in Murray Hill.

3) I single-handedly did my part to boost the economy out of a recession by repeatedly going into debt with my shopping problem and traveling around the US to exotic locations such as Puerto Rico, Miami, Chicago, Martha's Vineyard, Newport, and Pittsburgh. You haven't really lived until you've driven across the middle of Pennsylvania through miles and miles of farm-land and stopped at a Sheetz outside of Altoona. In fact this was the first year in about a decade that I didn't use my passport because I was only traveling within the good ole' USA.

4) Out of the goodness of my heart, I set up a guy friend on a non-consensual man date. This was clearly an altruistic act since I didn't even stick around at the bar to see how Operation: Bromance turned out. And even though I got a lot of amusement out of the whole thing and the parties involved weren't quite as enthused, I still think I am owed a thank you card or some sort of gift basket.

5) Over Thanksgiving, Little Sister E and I had a craving for cake in the middle of the night and decided to make some from scratch. Since we couldn't find the brownie pan, we were forced to use the bread loaf pan and subsequently made a delicious snack concoction that looked like pound cake, but had the consistency and taste of yellow butter cake; thus introducing into the world to what we have termed "Cake Loaf." If that's not a contribution to society, I don't know what is.

In conclusion, I think I did a pretty good job this year of behaving myself and doing unto others and all that other bullshit. And as a reward, all I would really like to find in my stocking tomorrow morning is that clutch I've been eyeing from Bottega Veneta. And some sort of hand-eye coordination so I stop injuring myself regularly. And a bottle of Peppermint Schnapps because you know how I love free booze. And Chris Pine or Corey Monteith. (If they don't fit over the fireplace, feel free to just send them up to my bedroom.) And a puppy. And someone to take care of the afore-mentioned puppy because I question my capabilities to handle that much responsibility.

Actually you can forget all that other stuff if you could just throw me a bone and relocate some cute, intelligent, not-crazy, single guys to Manhattan. And make me 22 again. You have that kind of power, right?

So Mr. Claus, enjoy the slice of Cake Loaf that we have left out for you and sorry about the 2% milk, but my parents decided whole milk was too fattening. And you're welcome for the kalhua that I may or may not have slipped in. I figure no one can be that jolly on the most stressful workday of the year without copious amounts of booze. Don't worry; it'll be our little secret.



Merry Christmas!

Until Next Year,

Official Nice List Applicant,

S

Meeeeee-ow!

So I constantly make jokes about how I am on the path to becoming a cat lady and will soon be knitting sweaters for my dozen cats in my apartment if this spinsterhood goes on for much longer.

But what I didn't realize earlier is that my guy friend T is actually not so secretly a wannabe cat lady!

One day, out of nowhere, girlfriend S and I were joking around about how we're going to be cat ladies and the following conversation ensued:

S: Ew, no, I hate cats.

T: What do you mean you hate cats? Do you also hate awesome? Do you hate freedom? Do you hate America?

S: Um, no I just hate cats.

T: What, you need a pet that's going to jump all over you and pretend to love you just because you're there? So when you walk in the door it'll wet itself? No way, I want a pet that I will have for ten years and then MAYBE in year eleven it'll let me touch its elbow. You have to WORK for a cat's affection; they make you EARN it.

S: Look, I'm not saying I like dogs either, but cats are evil.

T: So hypothetically let's say I buy you a pet kitten, an adorable little thing, for your birthday. What would you do?

S: I would drown it in my sink.

Me: Whoa that's slightly extreme. You wouldn't just give it away to like a child or something? You would have to kill it?

S: Yes that's how much I hate cats.

T: Wow. Just wow.

(In S's defense, cats can be pretty scary...)

S: The real question is if you know that I hate cats, why would you give me a kitten for my birthday? You would be the one responsible for its death!

T: Well I didn't know you would kill it. I didn't think anyone hated cats that much. How could you hate cats? They're such clean animals. I want to get in a bathtub with a cat and have it clean me.

S: Gross! What is wrong with you?!

Me: That is a disgusting image that I will now never be able to get out of my head.

T: Too much? Did I take it too far? I take it back...

So after that, it obviously became a running joke between all our friends that T loves cats and S hates them with a passion. We even started recruiting teams: Team T wants to adopt a litter of cats and bathe with them and Team S is not a fan of the proposition.

About a month ago, driving past a convention center in my hometown, we spotted a giant sign that said there was a "CAT SHOW" occurring, and immediately sent a picture of the sign to T. He got very excited and sent out e-mails asking if we all wanted to get dinner after the cat show, since we were obviously all going. And one by one we all made up excuses we couldn't make it (just kidding, I was out of town, but I wasn't going to go anyway...)

I did, however, have many questions about the whole cat show thing.

Was a cat show like a dog show where they were paraded around by breed? Was that even possible since I can't imagine a cat obeying the orders to walk around in a circle on a leash and have its privates examined without viciously scratching the judge's face? Were there prizes? Did the cats dress up in costumes and do a runway walk? Did you have to bring your own cat or could you attend cat-less? Did the human beings dress up as cats?

It looked as though I would never get the answers to these burning questions and would have to go through my remaining days wondering about the cat show when bestie R sent me a photo of a creepy old man holding a cat dressed up in a leather biker outfit, complete with sunglasses and hat.

It turns out one of R's "friends" owns a cat furniture business (yes, a business that manufactures and sells high-end cat furniture, such as beds and sofas that cost hundreds of dollars) and sponsored a booth at the cat show. He had also been recruiting for people to help out at the show.

So not only did T miss out on a chance to attend the cat show and spend a day with his beloved felines, he would've been paid to do so. And if that's not the American Dream, I don't know what is. Wasn't this country founded on the hope that someday its citizens would be able to do what they love AND get paid for it, even when it's something totally disturbing like hanging out with cats in creepy costumes?

Needless to say, T is still a little bitter about the whole situation, missing out on the cat fiesta and whatnot. I'm not sure if he's going to get over it anytime soon.

I'm thinking that a cat sofa might be just the thing to appease him though, and now I know where I can get a discount on some cat furniture.

In addition to the awesome Christmas present I already picked out for him, "Kitten Mittons" from Paddy's Pub, home of the original "Kitten Mittons." What more could a cat-lover want?! I mean, other than a pet cat...



Sorry T, maybe next year we'll get you an actual kitten. And I promise to keep S away from it, so there aren't any cat demises on my conscience.

A Story of Closure

Two years ago, on this exact day in 2007, I started writing a blog. (Happy anniversary to me!) The impetus behind it was that I had gone through a terrible, painful, earth-shattering breakup after a relationship of three years and was for the first time in my adult life learning now to be single and to date and I wanted to share my adventures with my friends and the rest of the world.

The relationship was, for the most part, bad. He was immature and obnoxious and a total mama's boy whose mother still did his laundry and asked him if his bowel movements were regular. But, as I learned the hard way, you don't get to choose who you fall in love with, so I just ignored the warnings from my friends and family for years that I was out of his league in every possible way and he would never be able to make me happy.

After he moved out of our apartment, leaving me with a slew of memories I wanted no part of, I moved onto my couch and cried for a month before I was ready to enter the outside world again. It pretty much resembled a Bridget Jones movie, minus the charming Brits.

And every small step was a giant victory, the first time I gave out my phone number, the first kiss, the first date, the first time I got caught dating a coworker, the first time I dumped a guy over instant messenger and posted the conversation online...

So in a way, this entire blog was a reaction to my painful breakup, my way of coping through the crazy guys in NY and the bad dates and the day I finally went to sell the ring he had knelt down and put on my finger. I suppose, then, that I have him to thank for this.

(Oh, and my friends and family were right all along; six months after we broke up, I found out through mutual friends that he had been cheating on me, and was now dating the girl he had cheated on me with. I wish her the best. Seriously. It's going to take a very resilient woman to put up with his bullshit. And his overbearing mom.)

Now, why am I giving this dry, rambling history?

Because a few Tuesdays ago, at a ChamPAIN Tuesday repeat, to be precise, I ran into this guy who I haven't seen since he broke up with me and moved out of our apartment over two years ago.

Now, being a writer, I had written this scene out a dozen ways, all of which obviously ended with me looking fabulous on the arm of Bradley Cooper or Chris Pine, while the Douchebag Ex whimpered and stumbled away in agony.

In reality, though, this is how the scene played out:

Douchebag Ex: Hi, I thought it was you.

Me: Yep, it's me, how are you doing? I heard you were laid off, did you get a new job?

Douchebag Ex: Yeah, yeah I have a new job, working for a French bank doing the same thing. I like it I guess. You? I know you left your last job...

Me: Yeah, I quit my job last year. I just really wasn't happy and I wanted to write. So I'm doing that now. Working on novels and my blog and freelancing for magazines and whatnot...it's really great work.

Douchebag Ex: That's nice. Are you still living in the same apartment?

Me: No, I moved, where are you living now?

Douchebag Ex: I live down here. I moved in with my girlfriend. What about you? Any dudes in your life?

Me: Many dudes.

Awkward Pause.

Douchebag Ex: It's weird to run into you like this. I actually thought of contacting you the other day.

Me (Hostile): Why would you do that?

Douchebag Ex (Taken Aback): Um...I saw this picture of you on Facebook - you were in a Halloween costume dressed as a sailor or something and you looked great so I was going to friend you.

Me (More Hostile): Yeah, please don't do that.

Douchebag Ex (More Taken Aback): Oooook...well do you want to get together sometime? Do you have the same phone number?

Me (Blatant Lie): Nope, I changed my number

Douchebag Ex: Can I have it?

Me: No.

Douchebag Ex: Well...mine is the same, do you still have mine?

Me: No I deleted that a long time ago, and I've been much happier that way.

Douchebag Ex: So I guess you really don't want to talk or let me explain anything my side of the story to you at all?

Me: Nope, I don't want you in my life. I think you're toxic and you clearly didn't care about me. I think you proved that with your actions, so the last thing I want is to have anything to do with you.

Another Awkward Pause

Douchebag Ex: Well you look really great, you haven't changed at all, I remember those jeans...but since this is what you want it I guess I'll go this way...until the next time we run into each other.

Me: Bye.

And I got to watch him walk away from me yet another time.

But this one was different; it was on my terms and it was because I had done my best to make him feel about thisbig, hopefully succeeding in that endeavor. And because I had laid out my ground rules and set incredibly clear boundaries, he left knowing in no uncertain terms to stay away.

After all, he lied to me, he cheated on me, and he broke my heart; so really I don't know why it ever occurred to him that he might be allowed back in my life in any capacity whatsoever. This is just further evidence that he is a complete moron.

So this time, I felt no regret watching him walk away. I felt proud and relieved and sad (the little sad is natural, I think), but the rest of it was good. I felt surprisingly very few violent urges as well; who would've seen that one coming?!

I think in the end, the lesson I can walk away from this is that closure will find you, one way or another, whether you want it or not. Whether it's pretty or ugly, you will get thrown together with someone you have issues with until they are resolved. And even though this meeting was two years in the making, it was a relief to finally see him and to let him know that I am doing fantastic in every way without him.

College Days Are Here Again!

A few weeks ago, bestie R and I decided to visit her alma mater for their biggest football game of the year and take part in some good old-fashioned tailgating and college-style partying.

The only flaw in this otherwise perfect plan was we had forgotten that we are both now five years out of college and therefore much, much older than the kids still attending. Like ancient.

On our first night in town, we went to get dinner with friends in town and the drunk guy at the table next to us offered me some free wine. Not one to turn down free booze, I accepted, and struck up a conversation with him. I obviously asked him if he was even of legal age when he told me he was a junior in college and asked me what year I was.

I then informed him I had already graduated from college. In 2004. To which he looked shocked and one of his female dinner companions visibly rolled her eyes. I exclaimed to R, "I think that bitch just rolled her eyes at me when she overheard how old I am!" Only two hours in and we already felt old and almost got into a fight...

After dinner, R and I headed to, that's right, a fraternity party. We had to sign in and show ID at the door and the older security guard who was working actually burst out laughing when he saw that we were well over 21. Later, just to mess with me, when he saw me holding a beer, he asked me for my ID again and then laughed at my bewilderment.

The party, of course, was packed to the brim with drunk underclassmen chanting their greek letters and freshman girls. The only refreshment available at the bar was Natty Lite, which I have not had the pleasure of being in the presence of for quite some time. (Well, after we sweet-talked one of the underclassmen, he offered us shots of Banker's Vodka, which is equally low on my alcohol barometer. We politely declined.)

But the highlight of this party was that there were familiar faces present. First we ran into Murray Hill, the same classy fellow who talked R and I into a rousing game of Spin the Bottle over the summer. He was (surprise, surprise) thoroughly involved in hitting on every freshman girl in sight, with no shame whatsoever.

A little later, when R and I decided we couldn't stomach any more Natty Lite and needed to head to a real bar to get some real booze, we ran into Zygote, the same 23 and a half year old who broke my foot on ChamPAIN Tuesday.

Well it turns out Zygote has a girlfriend, who he has been with for the past two years, meaning yes, he cheated on her the night he broke my foot. Therefore, he was none too excited to see me. After he did a double take to confirm I was indeed, the very same girl he had tossed off his bed, the little shit had the gall to INTRODUCE HIMSELF TO ME. As in he stuck out his hand, told me his name, and shook my hand. All while looking over his shoulder, worried, to make sure his girlfriend wasn't suspecting anything not kosher.

R and I took off, feeling old and full of laughter, and decided to call it a night since we had to wake up absurdly early the next day to tailgate. At 2AM, both R and my phone started ringing over and over again. I finally picked up to put an end to it, and on the other end was Murray Hill:

Murray Hill: Hey, where are you girls? Let's hang out.

Me: We are SLEEPING.

Murray Hill: Why would you come down to college only to sleep like old women? Come out and party with us?

Me: Who's us?

Murray Hill: I'm with my friend, you'd like him.

(Aside to his friend): Yeah I'm on the phone with two hot girls. Which one do you want, the Asian one or the other one?

Friend: Yes.

Murray Hill: Cool, cause I'll take either of them.

Me: You are disgusting. Stop calling. Good night.

The next morning R and I woke up to the following texts:

"Come over, I have booze and coke."

"Are you at the Comfort Sweets? We'll come over."

"Don't tell her, but I want to bang you."

And yes, he typed in "sweets" as in candy, not "suites" as in a room one may be staying in for the night.

When we ran into Murray Hill a few hours later at the tailgate, he wasn't even remotely embarrassed about what had elapsed over the course of the previous night; instead he didn't hesitate to brag to his friends about it. And luckily for me, Zygote was present, this time without his girlfriend.

R and I started screaming at Murray Hill about his sketchy behavior and R turned to Zygote and said, "Have you met my friend? She couldn't walk for a month after she hooked up with you."

Obviously, her choice of wording was not fantastic because Murray Hill turned to Zygote, impressed, and commended him on his conquest, all while I protested he was misunderstanding R's words.

A few hours later after the game, R and I decided to take a nap to rest up for the night when Murray Hill started texting R again that he wanted to meet up. This time, R and I decided to have a little fun with him. I called him and told him we wanted to hang out, both of us, so to meet us at the Comfort Suites in room 410 (we were staying on the opposite end of town).

The idiot boy actually ran over there and five minutes later called to say, "I'm knocking on the door, why aren't you guys answering?" to which we replied, "Just knock harder. We can't hear you!" before dissolving onto the floor laughing. About ten minutes later he finally gave up and texted us that what we had done to him was "not cool." Well, kid, that's what you get when you interrupt my sleep to attempt to pimp me out to your friends.

Our last night out, we were intent on keeping up with the college kids and stayed out all night before we finally called it quits and passed out. The highlights included:

1) Sake bombs.

2) More frat parties, including one at the football fraternity where the quarterback was getting a belated pep talk about what a great job he had done on the field earlier that day and started charging through the house, narrowly missing killing me and R (he was twice our size, combined).

3) Bar-hopping through town and hanging out with some very creepy local townies.

4) Me punching an asshole in the nuts and then yelling at him that I hadn't even hit anything substantial since he had "nothing down there."

5) A dance party under blacklight at someone's deserted house.

6) A snack and sandwich run in the middle of the night.

R and I didn't get up until 2PM the next day, but found ourselves surprisingly not hungover, due to the pacing of our shots throughout the night and the 4AM snacking.

All in all, we relived the glory of our college years and kept up with the college kids, but with the sophistication of city girls who have been drinking for much longer. And we managed to get through the weekend with minimal confrontation and awkward situations, one awesome prank on a deserving patsy, and the ability to brag that we can still hang with the twenty year-olds.

And that's nothing to sneeze at. Especially at my age.

You're So Blah

Months ago at a bar out with my friends, I met a guy who I went out on a date with (dinner and a movie, he paid, talked too much during said movie), and decided there was absolutely no potential there (partially because of the movie-talking), but continued to see him anyway. What, he's got a really good body AND pretty eyes! And I've already discussed how those are my weaknesses.

Well every time I sat down at my computer in an attempt to write something funny or anecdotal about him, I ended up sitting here and getting weirded out by Lady Gaga music videos (Seriously, I love her music, but why does she have to be so weird?). Basically, the kid is not particularly bright and even worse, not particularly interesting in any way, which is why I affectionately refer to him as "Yawn."

Even now, I'm trying to think of something funny Yawn said or did at some point ever, and I really got nothing. This one time he told me that his family business makes neon sign lights. And he's really proud of being from the Mid-west. And he owns the DVD of "The Notebook" because he thinks it's a surefire way to get a girl to sleep with you. Ha, ok that last one was kind of funny, but also sad.

Once again in my defense, he's tall. And has REALLY pretty eyes. And fantastic arms and shoulders. And if he didn't talk at all and was about fifty IQ points higher, he might actually resemble someone worth dating!

Unfortunately, though, I seem to be meeting dullards more than anything else. The only guys who have asked me out in the past couple months have been incredibly generic, nice, blah, white guys. And yes, there is far worse out there in the world.

Far, far worse.
- Like Chad Ocho Cinco.
- And that guy who yelled BAM! and karate-chopped my face any time he said anything he thought was amusing, Shmucks.
- Oh, oh and I can't forget Epic Fail, who made out with another girl next to me on our first date and cried when I said I just wanted to be friends after knowing each other a month.

Yeah that's right. You take a look at those guys and a boring guy who owns "The Notebook" to score with chicks doesn't look so bad anymore, now does he?

So then last weekend I went out to meet a friend of mine from college, G, who is now a lawyer, so I knew the party was going to be an assortment of his law friends. It turned out that I was the only person present who was not a lawyer, which seems like the set up to some sort of joke. But when I asked them hypothetically if I was to get arrested, how quickly they could take care of the situation, all of them told me they were corporate international lawyers, so they couldn't do anything to help and would basically leave me rotting away in a holding cell. Lame.

After listening to a few conversations filled with words I didn't understand, I pulled my friend G aside to ask if there were any single, nice guys that he knew. G and his fiance thought about it, saying that they know so many single girls but so few single guys (story of my life...) when she suddenly said, "Well what about Ohio Guy? And G lit up and said, "Yes Ohio Guy is really nice and he's single; he is really, really a nice guy."

Well it had been quite a while since I heard so many "nice" adjectives peppered into the description of a guy, so I assumed Ohio Guy had to be something special and from across the room looked quite cute, so I let G's fiance introduce the two of us.

Ohio Boy is from Ohio (duh) and actually currently lives in Cleveland right now because he is doing his clerkship there and will return to the city to work at a firm in the middle of 2010, not too far from now. And right up front let me say that G was true to word and Ohio Guy is completely, absolutely, just really nice.

I think the niceness is partly due to growing up in the Mid-west, where they tend to be bred nicer than New Yorkers. But it's also partly due to the fact that he is very, very, very innocent.

The first hint of this was when we got into the cab and he fully strapped himself in in the backseat. In all the years I have lived in New York and climbed in and out of hundreds of cabs, I have never EVER seen someone put their seatbelt on. In the backseat of my friend's cars, I can't remember the last time I wore a seatbelt. It's just baffling behavior. Very safe, very punctilious behavior, but so confusing.

Anyways it just got stranger after the seatbelt act. He then told me he had never drank alcohol before he turned 21 and he celebrated his 21st birthday by having a beer with his parents. One beer. To which my mouth fell open and I asked him what the hell he did during college. Apparently it was a lot of weekends home and movies.

(I, on the other hand, had already puked in a cab from alcohol when I was 15, and spent my freshman year of college taking shots of grain alcohol and Absinthe because it was cheap and potent. I have no idea I was thinking. Oh, to be young and hangover-free again...)

In the midst of me asking questions about when was the first time he had ever gotten drunk and what was that like, he tried to divert me by volunteering the fact that he didn't lose his virginity until he was 23. That's right. TWENTY THREE. He's 27 now which means he has been sexually active for FOUR YEARS.

Curiouser and curiouser...

Now I don't know about you, but that knowledge rocked my world. He finally lost it to some girl when he was drunk. And he admitted he was awful. At this point I obviously stopped picking on him about the drinking and pestered him with questions about his lack of sexual activity until he was clearly uncomfortable and kissed me, pretty much just to shut me up.

Of course, the whole time we were making out all I could think about was how I have been having sex for twice the amount of time that he has, and that I could probably outdrink him on any given day. Which, of course, led to me bursting into a lot of giggles, really sexy I know.

So needless to say, poor Ohio Guy met an obnoxious NY girl on his weekend visiting from Cleveland, she made fun of him all night about his slow social-development, and all he got was a little making out interrupted by laughter and sleep.

What can I say, I'm a great date.

Ohio Guy flew back to Cleveland the next day, and just to prove how ridiculously nice he really is, has already texted me to say he got in and would like to hang out again when he's in town. Any normal guy would already have deleted my phone number and headed for the hills, but no Ohio Guy is not freaked out by my tormenting him and not putting out. He actually wants to make plans to see me again.

Now, this is just me being a bitch, but I feel like even the niceness would get old after a while. I like my people to have a little bit of an edge to them; after all we are in New York.

So while I am definitely not advocating bringing the douchebags back into my life, I am somewhat bored by the amounts of blah I've been encountering lately. Is there a happy medium between fun douchebag and boring nice guy? I mean, they have managed to make an animal hybrid of a lion and leopard, so I definitely think there's hope for me.



(And no, that picture isn't photo-shopped, it's an ACTUAL leopon. What are those crazy scientists going to come up with next?!)

Happy Thanksgiving!

Amen to that!

I plan on stuffing myself to the brim with turkey and stuffing, and hoping that I don't get so drunk at dinner that I puke up my whole dinner before dessert has even been served (two years ago) or wake up the day after with the worst wine hangover I've ever had (three years ago) or find myself in the corner polishing off a bottle of Chardonnay by my lonesome (four years ago).

Obviously, Thanksgiving to me means time with my family, copious amounts of food, and the combination of alcohol and tryptophan leading to either the best night's or worst night's sleep I have all year.

And if that isn't something to be thankful for I really don't know what is...

Do Not Date These Guys

My guilty pleasure is crappy reality TV. I watch it all from the melodramatic contrived crap on MTV like The Hills, The City, The Real World to the almost legitimate talent competitions like Bravo's Top Chef and Former Bravo/Current Lifetime's Project Runway.

And yes, before you ask, it does occupy a great deal of my time and take a great deal of commitment to watch every single season of The Real Housewives of Insert State, County, or City Here. And yes, I am already aware that I should get out more.

But you know what? Watching MTV fake reality TV even though I am probably a decade over its target demographic has given me a wonderful basis for laying out the kind of bitchy girls that exist out in the world that you should not associate with, as well as the guys that you should never, ever date!

And, lucky you, I have decided to share my knowledge with you. So, as follows, the lustrous guys from horrible MTV reality shows that are stereotypes of guys to run far, far away from should you ever have the misfortune of encountering someone like them.

1) The Manipulator, Spencer Pratt from The Hills



I think Spencer Pratt is one of the most reviled reality characters to ever hit the airwaves, which either makes him a genius or just a really, really sleazy dirtbag. Considering I have no evidence for the former and a plethora of proof for the latter, I'm going to go with the sleazebag theory.

He first entered the scene by dating Heidi Montag on the second season of The Hills, back when she still resembled a nice, albeit idiotic, girl from Colorado just trying to make it in LA. Multiple plastic surgeries later, I can only blame Spencer for the transformation she has made into full-on Playboy bimbo, aspiring singer, and butt of jokes all around the world.

But what makes Spencer a Manipulator instead of just a regular old sleazy weirdo, is the shit he has managed to pull in order to coerce her to stay with him, marry him, and break off ties to her friends and family.

First, he made sure she didn't have a friend left in the world after he pressured her into moving out of her pad with ex-bestie Lauren Conrad to move into an arcade room with him. Then he spread sex tape rumors about Lauren Conrad to ensure that Heidi and her could never be friends again.

Next, he sabotaged her job by repeatedly making scenes at "events" for the "PR company" MTV claimed she worked at. She eventually got demoted and permanently screwed up any chances she ever had of having a fake MTV career.

The final denouement occurred when he alienated her family to the point where Heidi's mom was in tears over the prospect of her daughter being attached for life to this vile human being. When Heidi's sister moved onto their couch while trying to find a job in LA, he gave Heidi an ultimatum that it was "him or her sister," because sister was monopolizing the time that he wanted to lounge around on the couch, which resulted in Heidi tossing her sister out on her ass. And I didn't even mention the time he poured tequila shots down Heidi's throat in Mexico so that he could coerce her into eloping with him (knowing that her family would disapprove).

There are some crazy guys out there (read: wife beaters) who can't bear the idea of their girlfriends/wives having a life of their own. And should you ever run into one of these guys, you would be wise to change your e-mail address, phone number, and identity as quickly as you can (think Julia Roberts in Sleeping With the Enemy).

Unfortunately, I think it's too late for Heidi Montag, since she is clearly too stupid to get a grip and reclaim what little bit of a life she once had. But that's ok, because who really ever cared about her anyway?

2) The Douchebag, Freddie Fackelmayer from The City



If Spencer Pratt is representative of the typical LA sleazebag who will do anything to get on TV and "famous," then Freddie Fackelmayer is his East Coast doppelganger, the New York douchebag that thinks he's the hottest shit the city has ever seen and will take any opportunity he can to brag about his summer home in the Hamptons.

Facts:
- He's from Greenwich and uses the word "summer" as a verb as in "We summer in Nantucket!"
- He "works" in real estate.
- He is always immaculately groomed down to his orange fake tan, super white caps, and shiny coif.
- He wears gingham shirts.
- He brought his father on his second date with poor, clueless Whitney Port.
- He dated Whitney despite the fact that he already had a secret girlfriend.
- His uber white teeth against the background of his orange, shiny skin give me nightmares.

Assumptions:
- He probably grooms more than any girl I know, maintaining weekly fake and bake, waxing, teeth-whitening, hair, and manicure appointments.
- He almost definitely wears Lily Pulitzer seersucker suits in the summertime, not only for the perfectly-coordinated family photos in Nantucket.
- He spends his weekends at Ten June ordering bottle service and talking to his friends about how superior and awesome they are since they don't have to order drinks at the bar like those poorer, less-orange folk down below.
- He reeks of Cool Water and, to quoth Jack Donaghy on 30 Rock, "self-tanning cream and teeth whitener."

Unfortunately, most New York girls have made the mistake of dating a typical New York douchebag at least once (in my case, it's been many of a variety!), but if a guy's teeth are that white, I think it's a fair statement to say that you should run as fast you can in the opposite direction. As much fun as it is to say "Fackelmayer," it's definitely not worth the summers in Nantucket you would have to endure while his dad calls his mother "Bunny" and asks the butler to fetch more ice for his 30-year-old scotch.

Plus he might be a vampire...and not the hot kind.

3) The Cheater, Jason Wahler from The Hills/Laguna Beach



Jason Wahler, during two seasons of Laguna Beach, managed to cheat on pretty much every girl he got within a 10-foot distance of. He would cheat on one girl with another, start dating the other one, and then the new girl would actually be shocked when he then (gasp!) cheated on her!

Really? You didn't see that one coming?

But the most blatant of these infidelities happened while he was dating the aforementioned Lauren Conrad. The idiot made out with his ex-girlfriend, Jessica at the backstage of Lauren's fashion show right in front of her. And then lied about it and said, "Well she kissed me Babe..." The nerve! You're on national TV Babe!

I almost have to give him props for his brazen disregard of TV cameras. And logic.

What's truly unfortunate is that even after Lauren did the right thing and tossed his lying ass to the curb, they later reconciled and she forgave him for that whole "cheating right in front of me at my own event" thing, and even went so far as to forgo a dream job opportunity in Paris to shack up with him on the beach for the summer.

(To be fair, that was her own fault. Feminists all over the world screamed at their TV sets that you never choose your crappy boyfriend over your career. At least the feminists that watch The Hills. Ok by feminists, I obviously mean just me. And yes, I have already acknowledged that I get too caught up in this faux melodrama and I need to get out more!)

Not too surprisingly they ended up breaking up after he had a violent outburst that forced her to move apartments. Oh, and he got a DUI and wound up in rehab. He's a real winner, that Jason...

4) The Bad Boy, Justin Bobby from The Hills



He rides a motorcycle. He wears leather. He doesn't know how to shower. He apparently has no concept of what a razor is. You kind of want to force him into a SuperCuts and tell them to lop it off. Everything, you say, I have no idea what his face looks like under all that mess.

And in addition to these totally attractive and redeeming qualities, he is also a total flake! Because his bad boy image entails disappearing for days at a time without contacting you to maintain his mystique (I mean what kind of street cred would he have if he was volunteering at animal shelters in his spare time), meaning that you will be stood up multiple times and he will not respond to your multiple texts/calls, but just expect you to put up with it when he shows back up on your doorstep.

I get the attraction to the bad boy. They look dangerous and hot and like the sex would just be so dirty and awesome you would never look at a bar of soap the same way again. And when they actually do something nice, like break into your apartment to make you dinner or give you a promise ring, it means all that much more than it would coming from a nice guy because you think he's finally reformed and is going to settle down for you.

But it never really works out that way because he never actually changes and you just end up feeling dirty and used and itchy.

So there you go, folks. My comprehensive guide to the guys that MTV and I don't want you to date. Be wary, and for God's sakes, if Freddie Fackelmayer asks if he can blind you with his magically white teeth, JUST SAY NO!

Just Call Me Sloth

As my FORMER friends have pointed out to me, my last blog post was lackluster and anti-climactic. My explanation is that my life has been considerably less exciting as of late, partly due to a nasty cold that lingered for two weeks, a sprained right foot, and a standardized test slash grad school applications.

So aside from ranting to my friends about how the standardized testing system is clearly an elaborate pyramid scheme invented by some greedy psychopath and watching every minute of the World Series, I really haven't been getting out that much.

Therefore, instead of booze and boys being a prevalent part of my existence for the past few weeks, my life has pretty much revolved around:

1) Reruns of 30 Rock. Who knew that Alec Baldwin could be so funny? And that Tracy Morgan could have a real career?



2) The discovery of curry fries, a delightful synergistic combination that I cannot believe I didn't discover years ago. The scarfing down that ensued would make Liz Lemon proud.



3) New vocabulary words. I don't care how much my friends make fun of me. Imbroglio (definition: a complicated and embarrassing situation) is quite possibly my new favorite word in the English language. And no, when you look up the definition in the dictionary, there is NOT a picture of me present. But there really should be...

Also genius, the sentences I came up with to help me memorize vocabulary words, such as:

Truculent (definition: argumentative, belligerent): My friend S tends to be very truculent when people root for a different college football team than her. It scares boys when she gets in their faces and yells at them aggressively in bars.

Punctilious (definition: careful, concerned with precise accordance with the details of codes and convention): Ha, my sister is such a law-abiding citizen she refuses to cross the street unless the light turns green. She once stood at a light that was broken for a full minute after I had crossed; how very punctilious of her!

Impecunious (definition: penniless, poor): Ew, if any dude I meet is impecunious, he is immediately put in the rejection pile

I think I should definitely run an SAT-prep class for teenagers. My vocabulary memorization strategy is the best!

4) Glee. I like everything about it. The hilarious Jane Lynch. The guest appearance by Kristin Chenoweth. The yummy but not particularly bright Corey Monteith (awww honey, girls can't get pregnant from hot tubs). And especially all the music, which I cannot stop listening to.

Glee - Don't Stop Believing

5) Sudafed and Mucinex. The real stuff that I need a pharmacist to give me from behind the counter to prevent people from cooking up crystal meth in barns. I made the mistake of taking the recommended dosage of two pills one day and couldn't understand why I felt so cracked out. I cleaned my entire apartment, including the kitchen and bathroom, and did two loads of laundry, all while talking really fast to myself.

Later, after I made the connection, I contemplated taking three pills the next day to run the marathon. I'm not sure if Mucinex counts as a "performance-enhancing drug," but I guess Andre Agassi would be more qualified to answer that. (Oh, SNAP!)



(Also really hilarious: when I explained to little sister E that I needed to give my driver's license so the pharmacy can track consumer purchases in an attempt to stop people from making crystal meth out of Sudafed, her response was, "I'm confused. Why would someone take Sudafed to get high? What, do they just get really, really decongested? Do they tell their friends, 'Hey, I can breathe so well through my nose now, it's the most amazing thing ever, how clear my sinuses are, you gotta try this!'?")

6) Shopping. Hey, a girl needs a little something to take the edge off when she's sniffly and has been trying to squeeze 26 years of her life into two single-spaced pages. And that is where online shopping and excursions "just to see what's in stores" have saved my mental health.

On a totally unrelated side note, I also learned that when I venture within ten feet of a store, I will inevitably purchase something that I "have to have". I think it's a sickness.

7) More awkward conversations with my father. My parents are going away in the beginning of 2010 and when I asked if they will be back for my birthday in March, my dad responded, "Ooooh, are you still celebrating that? Don't you think you're getting a little too old to tell people that it's your birthday?"

He also complained that I never cook for him (which apparently is some sort of obligation since I'm a daughter and not a son, but don't get me started on that) and when I countered that he hasn't ever cooked for me either he said, "That's not true! I cooked you dinner that one time when your mom had to go somewhere at night. Remember? I made you noodles?"

No, I don't remember - when was this? Oh, that's right, when I was THREE years old. Apparently in the past 26 years my father has cooked for me once and expected me to remember it even though it occurred 23 years ago. He was shocked that I have no recollection of this monumental event.

8) Enjoying the last of the mild autumn weather because as soon as it dips below 30 degrees my natural instinct is to hibernate. That's also my excuse for eating all that curry fries; I am fattening myself up to survive the cruel winter.

One for Trouble, Two for Booze

I think the movie Mean Girls summed it up best when they described Halloween as follows:

"In the regular world, Halloween is when children dress up in costumes and beg for candy. In Girl World, Halloween is the one night a year when a girl can dress like a total slut and no other girls can say anything about it."

What's not totally accurate is that even on Halloween, girls still talk shit about other girls who are dressed sluttier. But in general, since I entered college, the entire point of Halloween has been finding the most revealing outfit I can get away with wearing in public on one night of the year. I think my sophomore year costume took the cake: I dressed as a Victoria's Secret angel, donning only white heels, white fishnet stockings, white boy shorts, a white corset, and wings.

So this year, well before Halloween, the process of finding a slutty costume commenced.

R and I spent a Sunday at the costume store, picking out our costumes. We had decided to go as the Village People; I would be the sailor, R would be the cop, and whenever we walked into a bar we would do the YMCA. Personally, I thought it was a genius idea.

This being Halloween, though, we were obviously going as a slutty sailor and a slutty cop. R was using an old police costume of mine that read "Sergeant Sexy," and fuzzy handcuffs I had gotten as a joke present (really, I swear).

I found a slutty sailor costume at the store that was so short that I was having qualms about wearing it in public, especially since I'd be climbing in and out of cabs all night and had no intentions of pulling a Britney. That is, until I found out girlfriend A had actually purchased her French maid getup at a lingerie store. As in it was meant to be worn as a sexy role-playing costume. Amazing.

So there R and I were, standing at the sock aisle picking out appropriate thigh-high stockings (mine, white with little red bows and metallic anchor charms; R's, black fishnets with tiny handcuff charms) when a random stranger approached us.

He eyed our purchases and said, "Wow, I hope you girls are going out on Halloween with some guys. Big ones. Otherwise you are going to get so harassed."

"Excuse me," I asked.

"I just meant with those costumes, you girls are obviously looking for trouble," he said.

Taking his warning under advisement, we bought S a sexy referee costume. The logic behind this was that she would be able to regulate any trouble in her very official-looking costume. Later, it occurred to R and I that giving the loudest girl we know a whistle probably wasn't the best idea we've ever had.

To take advantage of the whistle, we came up with a plan that every time S blew the whistle, it was a sign to follow the sound and find her. If it was one long chirp, it would mean she had been cornered by some weird dude and was in need of rescuing. Two medium chirps would signal that it was time for shots. And three short chirps, the ultimate, would let us know that she had found attractive guys that we should immediately come flirt with.

In short, one for trouble, two for booze, three for men. Wouldn't want to get those signs confused and commit a foul. Especially since the referee costume didn't come with its own yellow flags...

So all in all, despite the initial concerns, the whistle ended up coming in quite handy and I'm not altogether convinced that we shouldn't all carry them even when it's not Halloween. I think a little whistle-blowing would save a lot of guys from dealing with sore testicles, and me from the legal fees involved in my assault lawsuits.

The Best Laid Plans

It was once wisely pointed out that the best laid plans of mice and men often go awry.

(Fun literary trivia: The original quote, "The best laid schemes o' mice an' men / Gang aft agley," was from Robert Burns's poem, To a Mouse, and it was the inspiration for the title of the John Steinbeck classic Of Mice and Men. And yes, I am a literary nerd and proud of it.)

When Burns wrote this, I don't think he was talking about a twenty-something girl in the city with a sprained foot on the verge of getting a cold who was planning on taking the night easy by meeting her friends at a bar to watch some sports and call it an early night. But this is how I have chosen to interpret it anyway.

The PLAN was just to meet my friends for dinner and a little football-and-baseball-watching before heading home early to catch up on sleep and fight off this impending cold.

Granted, this was not one of the best plans I have ever had because the girls and I agreed to meet up at the bar where I had previously made out with the hot bartender in the back room of the bar in front of the wait staff.

He was, therefore, incredibly attentive to us and kept replenishing our free drinks when they were only half empty (half full, whatever), in an attempt to get us to stay longer (and possibly for me to make out with him again).

Despite this excessive alcohol replenishment, I was doing a good job of staying sober and vowing to go home soon.

That is, until a group of rowdy and attractive men with accents entered the bar and sat down next to me.

(Side Note: There are a couple of attributes that make me lose all rationality whatsoever and transform me into a puddle of drool. They consist of:

1) Pretty eyes, especially of the green and blue persuasion.



2) Chin dimples and smile lines. Some people call them crow's feet; I call them George Clooney bedroom eyes.



3) Uniforms. Yes, it is totally cliche, but I'm still harboring that Richard Gere "An Officer and a Gentleman" fantasy.



4) Muscles. I'm not quite sure there's anything sexier than the cut of a man's hip into his lower abs when he is totally ripped.



5) Accents.



That's right. Uh oh.)

So needless to say, I immediately made friends with the group of guys who turned out to be a mixture of Brits and Aussies who live in New York.

They were charmed and amused by my antics after a guy at the bar asked me to dinner and attempted to give me his business card. I pointedly rejected him (in my defense, he was bald AND creepy), and when he continued to insist that I take his card, I finally got so frustrated that I took it from him and tore it up in front of his face before tossing the bits into the trash.

One of the Brits turned to me and said, "I can't believe you just did that. He looked like he was about to cry! Why didn't you just take his card and then throw it out after?"

"Look," I explained, "I don't do bullshit. I'm not going to tell him I'm gonna call, take his card, and then never call. I have no intention of calling him or ever seeing him again because he's a weirdo, so I wasn't going to pretend just for the sake of it. It's not how I operate."

My new British friend just looked at me in awe and said (without a hint of sarcasm), "Wow, it's simply shocking to me that you don't have a boyfriend."

That's right. Shocking. Have I mentioned he's my new bestie?

He then introduced me to his Australian buddy with crinkly blue eyes and a six-pack. That's right - if you had put the kid in a Navy uniform, I probably would've had sex with him right then on top of the bar in front of all of the other patrons. I'm not particularly ashamed to admit that either.

The Aussie proceeded to make me laugh for about the next two hours. As if it wasn't enough to seduce me with his adorable accent, he actually had a sense of humor and intelligence. Ridiculous, right?

Which is how it suddenly became 4AM and I realized that my friends had long since retired to their homes and I was aching for my bed and some Sudafed. I told the boys that as fun as they were, I was in dire need of some sleep. The Aussie then asked me if he could "take me out for a bite to eat and get a peck on the cheek?"

Now, it's a fact that if anyone without an accent asked me for anything resembling a "peck on the cheek," I would be more likely to slap him in the nuts than consent to his request. But for some reason, when this entreaty is made with an accent, it comes off as endearing instead of vomit-inducing.

So yeah, yeah, I let him put me in a cab and gave him a kiss on the cheek and my phone number. After this, I don't think my hot bartender will be such a fan of mine anymore and the free booze isn't going to be flowing my way quite as much as it did before...

Which I can live with. Because I made new friends.

With accents.

Boobies!

Now every girl out there has body insecurities and could probably tell you within five seconds exactly what she would like to change about herself. For most girls, the first answer would probably be weight. Having been fortunate enough to inherit a ridiculously high metabolism from my father, my main area of insecurity is probably the second most popular answer, boobs.

Having been a late bloomer, I didn't develop ANY breasts whatsoever until I was about 17, and even then I was still an A cup. This meant, of course, that I spent years stuffing my bra and then once I was old enough to, doing the more sophisticated version of bra-stuffing, working the Victoria's Secret ultra-padded bras.

(This, of course, led to an embarrassing encounter where I let a guy get to second base with me in the tenth grade and he emerged, confused, with a fistful of tissue paper. After that, I switched to socks.)

Once I was old enough and sick of buying water bras, I contemplated getting a boob job for a while. I even went so far as to get a plastic surgeon reference from my doctor. However, I eventually chickened out because the idea of having voluntary surgery to put something alien into my body was too terrifying for me to reconcile.

Plus, given my luck, I was pretty sure I'd be one of those rare people who had a deathly allergy to silicon. Or one of the implants would pop, and I would have to be rushed to the hospital at the most inconvenient and mortifying time ever, like in the middle of a massive family function. I can almost picture my father's face while his daughter is strapped to the gurney, clutching at her left boob and screaming obscenities...

Plus I really couldn't justify the financial costs. Do you know how many pairs of shoes I could buy with a couple grand? And not only that, I would have had to replace half my wardrobe since there was no way my extra small clothing would accomodate double D's. Seriously, who has that kind of time and money?

So, eventually, I just came to terms with the fact that I would never be considered busty by any means, and embraced the positive aspects of being breastily challenged. It meant that I never had to wear a bra, and I could pull off low-cut and backless styles without looking like a tramp. And that I never had to worry about a guy staring at my chest while talking to me. And I was happy with everything else, so who cared if I had the body of a 12-year old boy, right?

Then, miraculously, about a year ago, for no reason whatsoever, my boobs started to grow and I went up to a C cup. It was obviously noticeable, so I joked with my friends and family that I was a very, VERY late bloomer. Apparently 25 years old was the lucky year I finally hit puberty. It was pretty exciting, and don't worry, my girlfriend R already ran through with me the other changes that might be occurring now that I am a woman.

Other than the awkward conversation where my mom told me my boobs looked bigger and asking me if I had put on weight, the most memorable incident occurred when my friend told me that Goldsomething had asked her if I had gotten a boob job. I confronted him about it and he confirmed it, telling me that "they look really good."

Instead of the natural reaction of being offended, I told him it was the nicest compliment I had ever gotten. And you know what? It was. Totally wrote it down in my journal that night: Dear Diary, Tonight someone thought my boobies were fake! It was the best night ever!

This isn't to say that old insecurities never surface. My breastier friends still joke around that I'm the one with no boobs, but I can laugh along now, instead of wanting to run to the plastic surgeon ASAP.

One night, my guy friend T found out that our other friend had gotten a breast reduction because she had been having back problems. Immediately T went nuts on her and said (to quoth Superbad) that she had slapped God across the face by making her breasts smaller and that he was ridiculously disappointed in her.

To emphasize his point he ranted, "Look at S! She has no boobs! Do you know how much she would kill for boobs? When I become a doctor, I'm going to forgo any fees and give her a boob job because she needs it that badly! And you go around spitting in her face by making yours smaller?!?!"

Instead of running to the bathroom to cry in a stall, as I probably would have ten years ago, I laughed about it. And if you think this is not a big deal, imagine telling a girl that is insecure about her weight that she is fat and anticipate her reaction. Or asking a guy with a small penis why it's so little and does it get any larger (not that I've ever done that). That's right: it was pretty momentous of an occasion.

Am I still jealous of my friends with large boobs? Yes. If T really does offer me free breast augmentation surgery, will I at least consider it? Absolutely. But am I happy for the most part? Count on it.

ChamPAIN Tuesday

I love champagne. I used to stock bottles of my favorite vintage in my fridge, just for a pick-me-up on a bad day (drinking problem much?). So when my friends and I found out that a bar downtown was having unlimited champagne on Tuesday nights for $25, served out of a giant bathtub by a midget in a pirate suit (don't ask me why), we obviously made immediate plans to go.

As I should have earlier anticipated, the night turned into an absolute shitshow. Apparently a case of champagne + my friends + a midget= just a complete and utter disaster.

Since this is Manhattan and we pretty much can't go anywhere without running into someone that one of us has slept with, of course this guy that bestie R may or may not have had sex with, Vanilla, walked into the bar. It turns out that he was there for his girlfriend's birthday party. The second Vanilla spotted R, he looked like he wanted to poop his pants and appeared constipated for the remainder of the night.

The girlfriend and her friends were clearly not fans of ours after they figured out the situation, which resulted in a little bit of a turf war. Thus, on top of the readily available champagne, we drank even more in an attempt to combat the awkwardness. This accounts for the multiple blackouts that occurred later that night.

I thoroughly blame the midget for what ensued. He took a hankering to me, so much so that at some point when I indicated my glass was empty, he responded by blowing a raspberry on my belly button. Luckily I was sufficiently inebriated and did not respond by kicking him in the balls. The (maybe) positive outcome of his affinity was that my glass was rarely empty, since he kept topping me off.

I noticed that Vanilla was nearby talking a very, very cute boy, so I injected myself into the conversation by discussing the baseball game that was on TV. The moment Vanilla's girlfriend saw him casually talking to me and R, she came over to claim him and give us dirty looks.

The boy and I hit it off, which really wasn't a hard task since at this point in my drunkenness I could have hit it off with a bar stool. When R asked him what year he had graduated from college, he told her 2010, which raised some eyebrows since that would mean he's still in college. He then corrected himself and said 2008, and red flags should have gone off, but once again, I wasn't thinking clearly.

S and R decided it was time to take shots, which seemed like a good idea at the time, but I have come to the conclusion now that hard alcohol and champagne DO NOT mix. This, of course, made us even rowdier than we were before. I have little doubt that we were the loudest, most obnoxious people in a twenty block radius.

Very very drunk at this point, I found out that the boy's apartment was a block away, which was much closer than mine and so I announced to him that I was staying over but he wasn't getting any. His reply was less than enthusiastic, but I don't think he realized that I meant it. Or maybe he was just optimistic.

I don't know what it is about me that makes guys lie about their age, but it's definitely a recurring theme in my life. Curious about the boy's vagueness about his graduation year, I asked him how old he was.

Him: Er, 25.

Me: Really, so what's your birth date?

Him: October 4, 1984.

Me: Really?

Him: Uh, yeah.

Me: Well, show me your ID.

Him: Why?

Me: Because I don't believe you. If you're telling the truth and that's really your birth date, I'll have sex with you right now.

Him: No....

Me: Why not?

Him: I just don't feel like getting my ID out.

Me: I may not know much about guys, but I know this much. If you are not willing to do something effortless like pull out your ID for the guarantee of sex, then you are clearly lying.

Him: Fine....I'm 23 1/2. I didn't want to tell you how old I am because I know girls like you and you wouldn't talk to me if you knew how old I am. You think you're so cool just because you're older.

I made a mental note to remember this conversation so I could tell my friends and make fun of the fact that he still counts his age in half years and then crawled into his bed, entirely intent on going to sleep, and hoping that the morning-after hangover wouldn't be terrible, when he kissed me. I was exhausted, but figured that a little making out couldn't hurt. Boy, was I wrong.

In his over enthusiasm while we were making out, he ended up tossing me off his bed. I am a little fuzzy on how it went down, but I landed on my foot and ended up howling in pain on his floor. Drunk with a throbbing foot, I demanded he bring me painkillers and a glass of water and then was so annoyed that I wouldn't let him touch me again and went to sleep.

In the morning, he woke up to go to work, awkwardly gave me his phone number, and left me alone in his apartment. When I woke up a few hours later, the hangover hit me like a brick wall and I found myself prostrate in his bathroom puking my guts out with my foot swollen to twice its normal size and black and blue.

I called S to let her know that I was still alive and the zygote had not kidnapped me, but that I was trapped in his apartment because I couldn't walk and I was seriously sick. After laughing at my predicament, S responded by yelling, "You're still at his apartment? Go home! Grab a plastic bag, steal one of his socks to wear over your broken foot, get your shit together, and get in a cab. If you puke in the cab, you puke in the cab. We've all been there. Just get the hell out of there!"

I did as she said (minus the sock-stealing) and eventually stopped puking long enough to limp my way out of his apartment and literally hop into a cab. The entire ride home I kept repeating to myself, "Don't puke. Just make it home and then you can puke. Just make it home. Then puke." I was a hot mess: nauseous, hair a disaster, clothes wrinkled, pants unbuttoned, hobbling on my left foot. My doorman took one look at me and burst out laughing.

I spent the remainder of my day dividing up time between the bathroom and my couch where I iced my foot and tried to keep it elevated to lower the swelling.

I called my soon-to-be-doctor friend T to get his advice and he reassured me that my foot wasn't broken but it sounded like I had severely torn a ligament so it would take a few weeks to fully heal. And then he asked me if this was a sex injury. I laughed outright and told him this was absolutely not a sex injury to which he responded:

"Well then it serves you right. When you go home with a guy, that is a verbal agreement that you are going to have sex with him. You didn't follow through on your side of the bargain and so you got punished with a sprained foot. That's a fact."

And shockingly enough, even taking into account my limp and the fact that my friends have started calling me "Gimpy," I was not the worst off on Wednesday. Girlfriend A woke up on her floor, fully clothed, in a puddle of vomit, covered by a slew of bruises and cuts of indeterminable origin. After careful examination, we have reached the hypothesis that she fell into a bush on her way home, before getting sick and passing out on her floor.

To sum up, what did I learn on ChamPAIN Tuesday?

1) There's a reason the word "pain" can be heard in "champagne."

2) Champagne and hard alcohol together are astronomically evil.

3) A midget pouring champagne in a pirate costume is just as ridiculous and extraneous as it sounds.

4) Boys lie about their age all the time.

5) When you renege on agreements by going home with a guy and then not sleeping with him, you will be punished with physical injury; in my case, a bruised foot and the inability to walk normally for the next few weeks.

But clearly I haven't learned my lesson because as soon as the foot heals, we're definitely going back again.

Bring on the (cham)pain!

I Hate: Therefore I Sex

To cope with multiple years of being single in New York City, a while ago I came up with a brilliant policy that some people find anti-intuitive and baffling: I don't sleep with guys I actually like. I only sleep with those that I am thoroughly uninterested in dating.

What? Huh? Does she have that backwards?

Nope, absolutely not. A guy is more likely to get into my pants if I hate his guts than if I want to spend the rest of my life with him.

The reason is pretty simple. I don't want to let myself get attached to someone by sleeping with him. Therefore I only sleep with the guys with whom there is no remote possibility of affection.

Biologically, women more so than men associate emotions with sex due to a hormone called oxytocin that is simultaneously produced as a result of sexual stimulus AND causes feelings of intimacy. Therefore, as much as most single girls would like to deny it, it's much more likely for sex to mean something to us than to the average single guy.

I guess this explains why really good sex can be a drug, just as potent and addictive as any other mind-altering substance. I mean this is all well and good for women in longterm committed relationships, but where does that leave the rest of us?!

So for years, after being brainwashed that this was what I was supposed to do, I would only sleep with guys I had actual feelings for. Such a rookie mistake. Seriously...

And after one too many situations where I slept with a guy I really liked (you know, imagining what our babies would look like and counting the hours until I heard from him again, which I obviously now blame on that damn oxytocin) and then he stopped calling or disappeared off the face of the earth, I'd had enough.

It was at this point that I figured out if you just have sex with someone you don't even like to begin with, the chances of actually getting attached are slim and then you don't have anything to worry about when it inevitably ends and/or when you find out that he's a total skeezeball who's already sleeping with half of Manhattan. Just a hypothetical example...

Once you think about it this way, my policy actually makes a great deal of logical sense and works out better in the long run if you want to avoid messy tears and hysterical breakdowns and emergency 3AM phone calls to your girlfriends bitching about what an asshole he is and how all men suck.

So how does this work in real life situations, you're wondering?

Well when I am dating a guy, at some point I assess whether I like him and have any desire to date him in the future and if the answer is a resound NO ABSOLUTELY NOT, then I just take my pants off right then and there.

For example, when I was on my second or third date with Dry Cleaner Guy, I had the following internal dialogue:

Wow, he's such an idiot. And totally arrogant. And has a totally unrespectable job. Is he really serious right now bragging about how he has the most Xerox sales on the east coast? He cannot be telling me this for real. Am I on Punk'd? Where is Ashton? Nope, looks like this is for real...

AND on top of all this, he is younger than me and lives with his parents in Long Island. I pretty much abhor absolutely everything about him with the exception of his blue eyes and biceps.

Hmmm...so I have no desire to go out with him again and I definitely don't want to date him because that would involve, I don't know, actually spending more time pretending to listen to him and one of us wouldn't live through that. In fact, I'd be perfectly happy if I never had to be in his presence again for the rest of my life.

Ok I guess in that case I might as well sleep with him. Hey, want to go back to my apartment?

And because of that, I was in no way disappointed when his brother confirmed my suspicions that he was completely not worth my time. Which made it all the easier to delete his phone number and forget that he ever existed.

No crying. No regrets. No feeling stupid or ashamed about myself. No emotional baggage. In many ways, it was the perfect encounter. I got some free dinners and booze AND a funny anecdote about picking up a dude at my dry cleaner's out of it. If only all of my relationships were that productive!

On the flip side, on the very, very rare occasion that I go out on a date with someone who isn't a gigantic bandanna-sporting idiot, my logic is as follows:

Hmmm, I might actually want to go on another date with this guy and/or use him for one of the following: free food, free drinks, cute friends, good credit. Therefore, I should probably just yawn, make up some bullshit about an early day tomorrow, and bail. Sorry guy, looks like you just spent $100 on me tonight for a romantic night with your left hand. Good luck with that one.

I am aware that there is one glaring rational inconsistency in this otherwise logical behavior, which is that the douchebags get rewarded for being totally undatable jerks with sex and the ones who might actually just be nice guys walk away with nothing (if you don't count blue balls and the pleasure of my company...so basically, nothing). It does seem like quite an unfair situation the way I've set it up.

All I can say to that is: tough.

I mean if I were to meet someone who I thought I might have a future with, and has already proven himself worthy of seeing me on a regular basis, I'd probably eventually let him into my pants. But really, how often does that happen? Especially given my track record of losers. That's right, it's even rarer than a blue moon.

I've been advocating this policy to my friends, so far with varying success rates of implementation. Of course my guy friends have joked that they should help out the guys I meet by giving them anonymous tips to act like huge jackasses if they want a guaranteed way to get in with me.

True fact. So if you know a semi-attractive guy who has an absolutely repulsive personality and/or no prospects whatsoever, please do us both a favor and send him my way!