Musings on the Plane

I have been flying on airplanes on a regular basis since I was very young. I lived and spent my summers abroad for a while, so I was used to getting on long flights and became a seasoned traveler from a young age.

And yet, I hate flying.

I hate everything about planes: the uncomfortable and narrow seats, being crammed obscenely close to strangers, the inedible and bland food, the overly cheerful flight attendants, the stale smell of the cabin air pressure. Turbulence makes me nauseous, in addition to the fact that I get slightly motion sick anyway which prevents me from doing most time-occupying activities such as reading.

I was so scared of the loud whoosh the airplane toilet makes when you flush it that for years I refused to pee when I was on a plane. This led to a lot of running out to the restrooms the second I got off the plane and almost peeing my pants.

(Ok, it still kind of scares me, so my solution now is to wash my hands and get the door open before I press the flush button. Therefore it doesn’t make the loud, scary noise until I’m out of there.)

Seriously, I hate flying so much that when I went to South Africa last year, I had to get my doctor to prescribe sleeping pills for me so I could make it through the 24 hours of traveling and insanely long plane ride.

(Side Note: Twenty-four hours of traveling plus Ambien plus my sister leads to some awesomely epic dance routines caught on video.)

(Side Side Note: My sister has a totally opposite attitude towards flying and tries to cram as much as she physically can into one flight. She always accepts the snacks and beverages that are offered to her, and usually consumes mine. On the flights that have private movie consoles, she literally watches movies back to back the entire time, to ensure that she gets as much entertainment and food as she can out of the airline. She also steals food at breakfast buffets to eat later. And rolls at Red Lobster, but that’s a whole different story.)

And this isn’t specific to just one route or airline. I have flown on almost all of the airlines out there and even in first class a handful of times. And I still hated it. I got so severely dehydrated and air pressure sick on a first class flight ten years ago with my family that when we landed I promptly threw up and fainted. Into my vomit. Like some Monty Python sketch. An emergency doctor had to come meet us at the hotel.

Until they invent that teleportation thing, though, it seems that I am stuck flying, so I have tried to come to terms with it.

I always get the window seat because I like to lean against it to go to sleep, the one thing that I can always manage to do on planes. But lately, I have been enjoying watching the take-off and landing, which has been a pleasant side bonus. As terrifying as those moments can be, there is something magical about seeing the twinkling of lights as you take off into the sky, or knowing that hitting the tarmac means you’re home.

Airplane Romance

I’m sitting in the airport because my flight to Atlanta has been delayed about four times due to inclement weather, and the scheduled departure is now about half an hour after my original arrival time, which is pretty exciting.

After figuring out that I was going to be stuck here for a while, and I had already bored of reading and listening to music, I thought the most entertaining way to pass the time would be to find some cute boys to flirt with in the waiting area.

Shockingly, there seemed to be a shortage of anyone that I would even consider conversing with, not to mention actual flirting.

Plus, this reminded me of the one time in my life that I have managed to meet someone on a plane, and boy, was that bad.

Years ago, I was on my way back from a trip to Florida with my family when this really, really gorgeous guy walked onto the plane. Right away I began praying to the Airplane Seating Gods that he was somehow seated next to me. And for the only time ever in my life, they answered my prayer and he plopped right down next to me.

It wasn’t long before we started talking. He worked relatively close to me, was a few years older, and had worked as a Ford model to pay his way through college. (Yes folks, that’s how gorgeous he was. This is what we call a SCORE!)

We talked all through the flight, and he walked with me to baggage claim, which is when he asked for my phone number. I got into a cab completely giddy over my luck.

We went out on our first date a week later, and started talking on a regular basis.

One Sunday, I was watching Dirty Dancing with my friend J when Plane Guy called. I told him what I was doing and he responded promptly with, “That is so dumb. I can’t believe you’re watching that movie. It’s just a stupid movie.”

When I told J this, he got very serious and said, “S, get out now! This guy is psycho.”

“Why? Just because he doesn’t like Dirty Dancing? How many totally heterosexual guys, other than you obviously, want to watch Patrick Swayze school Jennifer Grey in the art of the salsa?”

“It’s not about that. When you start dating someone, in the beginning, you don’t just put down anything they like outright like that. If he was normal and he liked you, even if he thought it was a stupid movie, he’d just say, ‘Oh that’s nice.’ The fact that he told you you’re dumb for watching a movie you like so bluntly implies that he is absolutely nuts. Trust me, in time it’ll show.”

I totally disregarded J’s advice, much to my chagrin later.

The following week Plane Guy and I had to plans to go out with a bunch of my friends so he could meet them, and mostly so I could show off my new man to my girls. He was in a mood, so right away the date was off to a rocky start. Throughout dinner, he just complained that I was on my phone constantly because I was texting my friends to confirm our plans for later.

Then when the bill arrived, he literally threw it in my face (yep, THREW it in my face) and said, “Hey there Princess, I paid last time, so why don’t you get the bill this time?”

No one had ever treated me like this before, so I just paid the bill in a daze, wondering what the hell was going on.

Then he said, “Hey I don’t feel like going out tonight, so why don’t we just stay in?”

I was flabbergasted and explained to him that I had been rallying my friends to go out and meet him, so I couldn’t just bail on them now.

“So you’d rather go hang out with your friends that you see all the time, then spend time with me?” he challenged me.

At this point, I was fed up, so I just said yes, and left him at the table to go meet my friends at a bar.

I stopped picking up his calls at this point.

About a week later, I started to get calls from a number I didn’t recognize. I didn’t pick them up but one day I got a voice mail and it was a laughing male voice saying, “Hey there S I met you the other day and I just wanted to let you know that you are a BITCH!” Multiple boys laughing in the background. “That’s right, you are a BITCH!” More male laughter.

It didn’t take long to put the pieces together. Plane Boy had gotten his friends to prank call me and they were all having one big laugh over it together. And this guy was almost thirty.

I saved the voice mail for as long as my cell phone provider would let me to remind me that J had been right. It had just started with making fun of a movie that I liked and blown into totally psychotic, immature behavior.

So now when a hot guy walks past me on the plane, I send out vibes to the Airplane Seating Gods to just let him keep walking. That’s right Buddy, keep going.

Low Expectations

Today I was talking to R about boys and we both expressed our dismay at the lack of even mildly appealing men in the city.

When I was younger, naive, romantic, idealistic, and whatnot, I was really picky about guys, and wouldn't even go out on a date with a guy that I deemed less than suitable. And the second that I found even a little something I didn't like, he was outta there.

Then, for a long period of time, I would talk to and hand out my phone number to anyone with a pulse. Really. In a totally non-desperate way, of course. I was just playing the odds and figured the more people I actually gave my number to, the higher the odds were that one of them would actually call.

Now, I've settled into a middle ground where I'll usually go out on at least one date with a guy, but once he starts to show any signs of psychotic behavior, I cut him out of life.

But, what is totally bizarre, is I've found that my actual requirements for a guy have dramatically tanked.

Whereas I used to have a list that would rival eHarmony's of the qualities that a person would need to possess to be worthy of my affections, I have now settled on four main questions.

1) Are you single, as in not seeing or dating or married to someone?

Yes? Check!

2) Are you gainfully employed?

(Hey in this economic environment, that's a very fair question, and a guy with a good job is more than a catch.)

Yes? Check!

3) Do you live with your parents?

(You would think that this wouldn't be so much of a problem at my age, but shockingly, it is. For some strange reason, every other guy that my friends and I come across seems to live with his parents.)

No? Check!

4) Do you have any strange fetishes or problems operating your machinery, if you get my drift?

No? DING DING DING!!!

And we have a winner!

But honestly, you'd be surprised how few guys actually satisfy all of these conditions. There was a time when I cared about things like sense of humor and education and age...but those days are long gone. After all, desperate times call for desperately decreasing standards.

So from now on, R and I are going to do what we call "border control" for one another, and make sure all potential male applicants can meet the above criteria before any actual time or conversation is invested in them.

And, we are done giving out our phone numbers to guys. At all. If some guy bizarrely comes along who can pass border control and I want to see him again, I'll take his number and call him when I damn well feel like it.

I can't lie, though. There is a part of me that wonders when I became so willing to settle for so little. At the very least, I should request that someone be equal to me; therefore the employment and apartment part should just be a given.

We'll see how this new plan plays out this weekend. At the very least, amusement is sure to follow. Keep your eyes peeled for S & R Border Control coming soon to a dive bar near you!

The Soulmate Question

I've always found the idea of a "soulmate" to be problematic. Mathematically and rationally, it makes little sense that there is only one person out there who is perfectly suited to you, and the one that you're meant to be with. And that despite the fact that this is a very large, populated world, you'll manage to find that one person who completes you, is the yin to your yang.

Because of this, I get a little squeamish when I hear people talk about how so-and-so is their soulmate, and how important it is to find your soulmate. Mostly I roll my eyes and contemplate how I can make out with the next cute waiter that walks by. Take that, universe!

Then I read Eat, Pray, Love by Elizabeth Gilbert. This book inspired me to travel and to write, and it opened my mind to many things I hadn't thought about before, including seeing soulmates in a whole new light.

In one of my favorite passages of the book, Richard from Texas explains what a soulmate is to Liz:

People think a soul mate is your perfect fit, and that’s what everyone wants. But a true soul mate is a mirror, the person who shows you everything that’s holding you back, the person who brings you to your own attention so you can change your life. A true soul mate is probably the most important person you’ll ever meet, because they tear down your walls and smack you awake. But to live with a soul mate forever? Nah. Too painful. Soul mates, they come into your life just to reveal another layer of yourself to you, and then they leave. And thank God for it.

Now that was an idea of soulmates that I could actually get behind. I have had relationships in my life that have challenged me so deeply that I am sure they affected the choices I made and the person I became. They all, inevitably, ended up in breakups and I know now that if I had actually stayed with any of these guys, we would have been miserable and ended up trying to destroy each other.

This is on my mind right now because the other day a reputable source told me that my ex-boyfriend, Goldsomething, is my "soulmate." And that even though it didn't work out last time around, someday in the future we will get our shit together and make it happen.

Now I haven't been this skeptical about something since the people on Lost started time traveling all over the island. Both circumstances seem equally plausible to me right now. Time travel or soulmate. Time travel or soulmate. I'll take Time Travel for 800 please Alex.

Try as hard as I can to laugh it off and forget about it, I can't seem to let it go. It's like that nagging itch in the back of my throat that I forget about for a moment before it hits me again and drives me insane.

Goldsomething and I broke up months ago when he moved away and we decided a long distance relationship just wasn't going to work. And although we remain friends and still care about each other, we've both moved on and are seeing other people. (Or in my case, seeing a very many other people in a not very serious capacity.)

So I guess the reason that this whole "soulmate" thing is bothering me so much is a while ago, for my own peace of mind and sanity, I had given up on the idea of Goldsomething and I ever getting back together. I told myself logically (as much as one can logically decide matters of the heart) that it just wasn't meant to be, and I had to let it go once and for all.

And then bam! With one little word, all these questions are back on the table and weighing on my mind.

Only time will tell if Goldsomething and I do ever get back together, but right now the forecast is looking very bleak. But even if we do, I still can't abide by calling him my soulmate.

I prefer to think of soulmates in the Richard from Texas way, that they come into our lives to force us to make a change, but then their work is done and you gotta let them go and cross your fingers for the best.

eHarmony

Every once in a while, you see an awesomely appropriate someecard that jogs your memory about something you'd been trying to forget.

In this case, it was my very brief eHarmony experiment.

After hearing one too many of my friends preach about online dating and how successful they had been in finding relationships through eHarmony and how so and so knows someone who got married to someone they met through the internet, I was close to giving in and just trying it, if only for amusement's sake.

What finally tipped me over the edge was I saw one of the eHarmony commercials that is supposedly about a real couple that met through eHarmony, and the guy in the commercial, "Joshua," was totally hot. And not only was he a beautiful specimen of a man, but some sort of scientist (nerd score!) AND an artist on the side. Done and done.

I mean, other than the fact that he was matched up with some woman "soulmate" on eHarmony and was happily married.

And, as my friend C pointed out to me later, "S, he's an ACTOR. He's supposed to be yummy and make you want to join. He's not actually on eHarmony."

I just ignored her (advertising never lies) and signed on to eHarmony to get started on finding my "Joshua."

And then came the questionnaire....

This thing is the most detailed, repetitive, annoying list of questions I have ever witnessed in my life. Seriously. I'd rather take the SATs again than the eHarmony questionnaire.

It was literally ten pages of 100 questions each that consisted of, "On a scale of 1 to 10, how funny are you? Smart? Sensitive? Punctual?" and so on and so on.

Directly followed by a page filled with identical traits, but this time asking you how important on a scale of 1 to 10 it is that your partner possesses these qualities.

I sat there for ten minutes wondering if it's a seven important or an eight important that my partner be punctual. And then I realized this was the most absolutely ridiculous thing I've ever done.

Look, I am not frowning down on people who use any sort of online dating site. In theory, I think it actually makes a tremendous amount of sense. This way you filter out people that are automatically incompatible with you, and are left with a series of choices who share similar priorities, and are hypothetically single and actively looking for a relationship, which hey, is half the battle.

However, I'm an old fashioned girl who believes in meeting a guy and feeling a spark before I agree to going out to dinner with him and sharing my ideas on religion and cleanliness. Isn't that part of the fun of dating anyway?

In the end, I gave up on the stupid eHarmony questionnaire around page seven. But I am still open to the idea of dating "Joshua" if him and that soulmate ever break up.

Better Late Than Never

I'm a little fuzzy on exact dates, but about a year ago I was in my dry cleaner's with L because he was getting some new jeans hemmed. I was waiting for him outside the dressing room when an insanely gorgeous guy walked in.

At this moment, I of course started sending out mental messages to L to stay put in the room unless he wanted me to hurt him.

I loitered closely by, in a totally not weird way obviously, while the hot guy gave the dry cleaner his full name and address (score and score). Of course, I began reciting this information back to myself. This wasn't that hard considering the address was the apartment building next to mine.

I managed to weasel my way into the conversation and exchange a few pleasantries with him before he left, disappointingly without my phone number.

L came out of the dressing room and said immediately, "I heard you giggling and flirting, so I thought it would be best to stay in there until you were done."

Just the idea of L sitting down in a tiny dressing room in his too-long jeans, waiting for me to be done hitting on a guy, still cracks me up to this day.

"He didn't ask for my phone number," I pouted.

"Well you can always stalk him," L pointed out.

Of course, this got my brain working. After all, I did know where he lived....

"Ok, this is the plan," I said, "I know which apartment building he lives in, so I'll just sit outside until he walks in or out and then pretend I accidentally ran into him."

"It's not like you have anything better to do," L helpfully contributed.

I was actually contemplating this plan, better known as stalking, when it hit me a few hours later what was an even better idea.

I got out a notepad and wrote him a note that said:

"Dear Guy, I am the adorably charming girl you met in the dry cleaner yesterday and I was wondering if I could take you out for a drink next week. Call me."

I added my name and phone number, put it in an envelope with his full name on the front, and the following day I walked over to his apartment building and left the note with his doorman.

Two days later, I got a voicemail from him:

"Errr S, I got your note and I wanted to give you a call. It was one of the ballsier things I've ever seen a girl do, so I wanted to give you props. The thing is I actually live in California and was just visiting my parents for the weekend. My mom got your note and read it to me over the phone..."

That's right. As if the entire stalking thing wasn't embarrassing enough to begin with, his MOTHER read him my note. Just picture it: his mother on the phone with him reading my remark about being "adorably charming" and then saying to him, "So Son, do you often meet girls at the dry cleaner's?"

I called him back to laugh about the whole situation and apologize, but then promptly deleted his number and never expected to hear from him again.

That is, until tonight. I got a call from a number I didn't know and when I picked it up, he said, "Do you remember me? I met you at the dry cleaner and then you left a note..."

And as the memories flooded back, he asked me if I'd like to go get dinner.

"Wait, don't you live in California?" I asked.

"No, actually, I moved to New York about six months," he told me.

"Then why didn't you call me six months ago?" Ok, yes it was blunt, but I think it was an entirely reasonable question.

He laughed and then said, "It's better late than never, right?"

This has to be some kind of record, having a guy call for a date a YEAR after I gave him my phone number, in one of the most bizarre ways I've ever given a guy my phone number.

My working theory is that he moved to NY for a girl, but they recently broke up, thus the phone call.

My only question is how the hell did he remember me after all this time? I had pretty much erased him from my memory banks and probably wouldn't even recognize him if I passed him on the street.

So there you go, never give up on someone calling because sometimes it takes a guy a year to get around to calling and asking you out.

Sick...Again....

So I know about a month ago around Valentine's Day, I seemed to have figured out that it's possible that going out and drinking all the time, staying out late, and making out with boys can lead to catching viruses and getting a girl sick.

But apparently I did not get the message, because this past month, I drank A LOT, stayed out late many times, and yes, I even made out with a few boys. So I suppose it was inevitable that I would wind up bedbound again with some icky virus and a fever of 102.6 with no one to blame but myself.

I'm starting to think that maybe I have a holiday curse this year. I was deathly ill on Valentine's Day, I was sick on St. Patty's Day, what's next? I'll get mono on the Fourth of July?

The good news is I've now gotten this being sick thing down to an art. I have everything a sick person needs within easy access: Emergen-C, TheraFlu, cough syrup, pain killers/fever relievers, the special tissues with aloe lotion and Vicks, etc, etc.

Plus I've been able to catch up on a lot of television. Seriously, what did sick people do before DVR and internet streaming was invented? I suppose those were the days when you HAD to watch the daytime soaps because they were all that were on at the time. But now, I can watch entire seasons of Gilmore Girls and the West Wing at the press of a button. Amazing.

I guess the only good thing that has come out of the constant sickness this year is that I've learned to cope with being sick all by myself so many times now that it's become easy. The first couple times I got sick without a boyfriend by my side, I felt so sad and hopeless that I didn't have someone to take care of me, someone to make sure I didn't die.

But now, I'm the one who runs out to Duane Reade to get the meds I need and to the grocery store to buy Gatorade and soup, and I'm completely capable. Plus it's nice being able to sleep whenever I feel like it, and not worry about waking someone up when I need to take some cough syrup at 4AM. Or worry about how unattractive I am when I'm in bed unshowered and surrounded by tissues.

Not that I'm saying being sick is fun in the slightest, because I hate it, and I am looking forward to the day that I can breathe out of both nostrils at the same time and finish a full sentence without coughing.

It can't be soon enough that I can resume my normal schedule of drinking, staying out all night, and making out with boys.

Just kidding. I obviously know better than that.

Right?

Places To Meet Boys

I am going to start a running list of places that I meet boys! I have a feeling "bar" is going to be on the list multiple times.

1) Bar (Sneaker Boy)

2) Restaurant (Army Boy)

3) Work (Coworker Boy)

4) High School (HS Boy)

5) Bar (Legal Boy)

6) Train Platform (Dirty Boy)

7) Work - Vendor of the Company (PBD)

8) Bar (J-Boy)

9) Bar (Finance Boy)

10) College Party at Bar - friend of college friends (Ph.D. Boy)

11) Bar - friend of high school friend (Logan Boy)

12) Hotel Bar (Cowboy)

13) Bar - friend of coworker (UES Boy)

14) Birthday Party (NJ Boy)

15) Bar - friend of friends (Slingarm)

16) Birthday Party at Bar - friend of friends (TV Boy)

17) Apartment - roommate of NJ Boy (Roommate Boy)

18) Bar (Moneybags)

19) Bar - friend of friend (Italiano)

20) College (McPreppy)

21) My Birthday Party at Bar (Accountant Boy)

22) Work - Ex-client (Client Boy)

23) College (Commercial Boy)

24) Bar (St. Paddy's Day Boy)

25) Bar (Alumni Boy)

26) Bowling - friend of friends (Lawyer Boy)

27) Bar (Ivy Boy)

28) Bar (Celebrity Connections Boy)

29) Work - Associate from a previous job (AGA - Almost Got Away)

30) Apartment Building (Neighbor Man)

31) Martha's Vineyard July 4 Parade (Vineyard Dude)

32) Bar - Friend of a friend (Goldsomething)

33) Bar - Friend of a friend (Georgia Dude)

34) Union Square - Friend of a friend (JewFro)

35) Bar - Friend of a friend (Old Fart)

36) New Year's Party (Epic Fail)

37) Bar - Friend of Epic Fail (Dirty Irish)

38) Bar (All American Idiot)

39) Bar - Bartender (F-List)

40) My Dry Cleaner (Dry Cleaner Boy)

More to come...

Pre St. Paddy's Day Fun

So yesterday girlfriend R and I decided to participate in a St. Patty's Day Bar Crawl across the city.

True to form, the city was filled with obnoxious drunkards roaming the streets, yelling, causing fights (self included, obvi).

Knowing it was going to be a marathon day of drinking, I had prepared vigorously by getting a full night's sleep and eating a large brunch in the morning, full of carbs to soak up the massive amounts of alcohol that would later be imbibed.

However, nothing could have prepared me for how the way the day would play out.

First off, drinking all day means that the second you stop, you are going to get massively hungover and pass out, which is how I wound up fast asleep at 8PM fully dressed in my bed.

Secondly, when you decide that you'll hand out your phone number to really anyone that asks, you should take into account that if his girlfriend is standing right there, she might get upset when you actually give it to him...

Thirdly, when a guy tells you that he'll give you pretty green St. Patty's Day beads if you'll rub bellies with him in the middle of the bar, and you actually do it thinking it's not a very big deal at all, prepare to be called "the belly rub chick" for the rest of your known association with him and his stupid drunk friends.

But perhaps the greatest thing about the day, other than seeing grown men and women fall down in the streets in their own vomit, was the plethora of odd lines I was the recipient of throughout the day.

One particular winner at a bar opened with, "Hey, if I actually knew your name, and we were friends on LinkedIn, I wouldn't write you a positive recommendation."

He followed up with, "Did you know one in five people in the US has an STD? I hate events like this because they give you these dirty plastic cups and you don't know whose is whose, there's always a chance you could pick up a communicable disease from the cup."

I just looked at him in stunned silence before turning to R and saying to her, in front of him, "Can you believe he just said that to me? In a bar?"

She just shook her head in disbelief.

He got the point and retreated to his group of equally loserish friends.

Then at another bar, I was talking to this guy and asked him casually what he does for a living and he responded, "I'm a tugboat captain."

I obviously didn't believe him so I turned to his friend for confirmation and the guy said, unprompted, "Yeah he's a tugboat captain. When I met him a year ago he wasn't a captain yet, but he got promoted."

The tugboat captain then said to me (I really couldn't make this up if I tried), "I'd love to take you out on the tugboat sometime. We have to take it pretty slow, but you can still feel the wind in your hair."

And then his friend turned to R and said, "If you gave me your number, we could all go out on the tugboat together!"

That's right folks, there MAY be a tugboat ride in the future for R and I. Stay tuned...

Mean Girls

I am ridiculously and embarrassingly addicted to Bravo's Real Housewives reality shows. I watch all of them religiously: Orange County, New York, and Atlanta.

And there seems to be one constant in all of them: women fighting with each other and talking behind each other's backs.

I don't know why, but I was always under the impression that once I was done with middle school and high school, female cattiness would be a thing of the past. And apparently not only was I completely mistaken about that, it continues well into your thirties and forties.

I mean these women are vicious. They call each other names both to their faces and behind each other's backs: slut, gold-digger, bitch, fat, ugly, fake. They are so mean and competitive even though they're all mothers and wives and they have really no reason to be.

Which got me thinking - why are women so mean to each other? I found out this past year that a few friends of mine that I thought I was close to were saying disparaging things about me when I wasn't around, and I felt like I was back in middle school having cruel rumors spread about me. And it didn't hurt any less than when I was an awkward twelve year old.

So I try my best to keep my distance from that kind of behavior, and I watch myself carefully to make sure I don't say anything about anyone that would potentially hurt them if they found out.

But a few weeks ago I was out with my girlfriend R at a bar and we were flirting with the bartenders when we noticed another gang of women trying to get their attention as well. And immediately the claws came out. R and I automatically went into bitch mode and glared them down and rolled our eyes until they cowered away. That's right. We showed them who the alpha females were.

I'm not particularly proud of this behavior, but I was slightly drunk and this was second nature to me in my inebriated state. And the real question is: why?

Perhaps all of us women have at one time or another been the victim of a vicious female attack and we are automatically on the defensive with one another. And after all, the best defense is a good offense so if we attack the other girl before she attacks us, it's just self-preservation.

But that's silly, right? Why can't we just all get along and be nice to each other? And yes, I do still believe in the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus.

I used to think this competitive spirit exists in New York because there's such a large pool of single women and a very limited number of datable single men, so we are desperate to take each other down any way we can.

But the fact that the married mothers of Real Housewives are just as cruel to each other, if not crueler, refutes my theory. On TV, they just come off as insecure, overly-botoxed, unclassy bitches.

So maybe this behavior is ingrained in us at a young age, and women never stop being wary of other women, and jealous of the prettier girl; thus feeling the need to say mean things until she cries to take her down a peg.

The only thing I can think of to stop this (literally) vicious cycle is to change my own behavior and try to surround myself with people who are trustworthy, compassionate, and kind, and don't engage in the petty behavior that I am trying to avoid.

Does anyone have the Tooth Fairy's number?

Creeptastic

There is only one word to sum up how I feel right now: exhausted.

After a full weekend of birthday celebrating aka drinking, the only thing I can really think about is how much I can't wait to get into bed.

But of course, it wouldn't be a birthday without a few sketchy stories.

On Friday night, the friends and I went out to the bar where F-List works on the weekends and didn't hesitate to announce that it was my birthday, which led to free birthday drinks and shots. There's very little that this girl loves more than alcohol on the house.

Plus, I was in a festive mood, so when F-List asked me what kind of free birthday shot I would like, I of course leaned over the bar and said to him, "Something dirty."

He grinned wickedly and said he only knew of one dirty shot before pouring some Bailey's into a shot glass, adding a dollop of whipped cream, and much to my confusion, leaping over the bar, perching himself on the edge, and placing the shot between his legs.

It was way too late to back out now, so I really had no choice but to take the "blowjob" shot, to the cheers of the bar.

Sufficiently humiliated for the night, I headed home to pass out and rest up for the big day. When I woke up, I had a slew of texts from friends wishing me a happy birthday, but by far the most amusing were those from All American Idiot.

I had been blowing him off for the past week, so it was actually quite surprising to hear from him at all, not to mention the texts were from 9AM. On a Saturday. That read as follows:

"Happy birthday hot stuff!"
"How are you doing?"
"Wanna come over for a bit?"
"I have a birthday present for you."

At first, I was just confused that he remembered my birthday and that he wanted me to come over. Then I noticed the very creepy undertones of the last few messages. Next, I expected him to inform me that he had cut a hole in a wrapped box, put his penis in the hole, and that was my present. Or that there was a candy bar down his pants and I just needed to reach down and jiggle it out. And I wasn't falling for that one again.

Now, on any given night past 10PM I would probably consider this a drunken mistake and/or booty call of sorts, but it's just unusual to receive a text of this nature at 9AM on any day, especially a weekend.

After confirming the non-innocent nature of the texts, R laughed at me and he explained to me that when a guy wakes up with "morning wood," I can't really blame him when he tries to get some in the AM.

Seriously, could a girl ask for anything more on her birthday?

Another Year Older

There are certain dates that are bound to make you introspective, such as New Year's Eve and Christmas, and for me, I can't help but to use my birthday as the day I evaluate the 364 previous days (365 in a leap year) with an impractical amount of scrutiny.

Every year on the eve of the day of my birth, I think back on the past year: what has defined it for me, what I have accomplished, how I have changed and grown, and what I hope is in store in the coming year. And this year is no different, so if you can't deal with sentimentality, I'd recommend reading something else.

I had a really, really interesting and eventful year. It was first full year that I was neither in school nor working a full-time job. This means that I got the requisite eight hours of sleep a night for the first time in my life, and I seriously have to recommend it to everyone. It's awesome. Don't hate me.

It also meant that I had the opportunity to live a full social life, which included far too much alcohol and going out too many nights past dawn. In the excitement of my lack of a job, I went out every night for a few weeks before my immune system and exhaustion shut that down. But boy was it fun while it lasted.

And I learned the very important lesson that Tuesday nights out can actually be more fun than weekends! There are better happy hour drink specials, the bars aren't crowded, and there are a surprising amount of groups of available men hanging out.

That isn't to say that I just met guys. I met some amazing people this past year and I made some great friends, who I'm excited to not only spend my birthday with, but many years to come.

I also met some truly shitty people and had to figure out who my true friends were. But even that was a lesson in itself. No matter how much faith you put in people sometimes, they are just bad people and no amount of kindness will ever make them change or regret their actions. In those cases, you just have to be the bigger person, cry over the pain that they have caused you, wish them the best, and move on.

There was a lot of moving on for me, with friends, with my parents finally accepting my choice to be a writer, with ex-boyfriends. I'm somewhat amazed that I got through it all; although I couldn't have without relying on my sister E and adopted brother L.

My accomplishments weren't limited to staying out late and drinking: in between all that drinking, I managed to squeeze in the time to write my first novel and a few short stories. And I am absurdly, obscenely, over-the-top proud of that fact. I had always wanted to write a novel, one I think is funny and smart and deep and interesting, all in one, and I hope that I attained that to some degree.

I fell in love this year, even though I hadn't been sure I was capable of it. But somehow, against the odds, I did. And the few months I spent with him were snippets of the healthiest relationship I've ever been in my life. And the week we spent together in the Canary Islands in Spain was quite plainly, heaven on earth.

I look back at the components of this year, so many events and feelings, trying to fit them into some cohesive picture of what my twenty-fifth year was, and in the end, even though there were some times I was devastated, overwhelmed, sad, and confused, for the most part I was pretty serene and...happy. This was the year that I learned how to be happy, happy with my life, happy with myself, just happy. It sounds so easy when typed out: happy, but it took me so long to get there. And I couldn't feel better now that I am.

And considering this is getting far too sappy for even my own taste, I would like to include a humorous anecdote but unfortunately the only one I can remember right now is the time I locked myself out of my apartment and had to ride down to the lobby in my pink flannel pajamas barefoot and of course had to ride up with a really hot guy.

He looked down at my feet and said, "Wow, you are daring to be walking around barefoot," and I had to explain I was the idiot who got locked out of her apartment and was still in her pajamas at 4:30PM. I got dressed and rode the elevator six extra times that day in the hopes that I would run into him while I was actually clothed and wearing makeup, but alas, he didn't show.

So now, I will go out with my loved ones and eat, drink, and be merry, and celebrate, this the day I was expelled from my mother's uterus. And my birthday wish will be that every year from now on just keeps getting better.

Happy Birthday to me!

I Don't Care

I'm not quite sure what has overcome me; perhaps the New York winter is catching up with me or perhaps I have finally reached my breaking point when it comes to flaky boys.

Either way, I've really stopped giving a crap.

Normally, I would be obsessing over why some guy hasn't bothered to call me or asked me out for the weekend. And as of recently, I would be secretly obsessing but pretending not to be on the outside because I'd adopted a laissez-faire attitude about the whole thing.

But this past week, something odd happened. I really stopped caring.

I didn't notice until today that there had been nary a peep from anyone I've been conversing with lately: F-List, All American Idiot, Dirty Irish, even Epic Fail.

And I was slightly surprised that I didn't feel one way or another about this fact. I wasn't disappointed, confused, happy, sad, nothing whatsoever.

It was oddly weird...and freeing.

So I had a quiet night in, had dinner and watched Lost with friends, and as I was about to head to bed, of course All American Idiot texted me to see how I'm doing and that he'd "love" to see me soon.

Leave it to a (stupid) guy to find me more appealing once I'd totally told him off and called him out on the fact that he hadn't been completely honest with me. And of course, it was my luck that he was contacting me when I had absolutely no interest in him anymore, versus a month earlier when I'd actually been looking forward to hearing from him.

After all of my preaching, it would be hypocritical of me to just blatantly ignore him and leave him hanging, so I texted him back that I'm unavailable and I'd rather not see him.

In short, I blew him off.

He responded with a terse, "I hear ya." (Did I mention he's eloquent as well as a MENSA candidate?)

I maintain my apathetic attitude about the whole thing.

I can only hope that it remains. It's really freed up my mind to think about more important things, like what I'm going to wear on my birthday and what color nail polish will match best.

Breaking Up

So I was catching up on one of my fave shows, Secret Diary of a Call Girl, which had inspired me this past summer to contemplate a career as a high-priced call girl. The plot line in season two consists of Hannah (not prostitute) meeting Alex, a guy she actually likes, falling in love with him, and then Alex inevitably finding out about her career as Belle (prostitute) and breaking up with her.

In her breakup grief, she makes a series of errors in judgements including sex with strangers, sex with her male best friend (who is actually not-so-secretly in love with her), and trying everything in her power to win Alex back.

The moral of the story is no matter where you are (London or New York City) or what the reasons are (be it lying about a secret career as a whore or...say, something else), breakups are not easy.

I've made my share of breakup mistakes, though to date there has been no sex with strangers and I'd never in a million years sleep with my male best friend. Mostly they involved a lot of alcohol, chain-smoking, and making out with random cute guys in bars.

I've also had a history of bold hair and fashion choices, probably because I channelled the lack of control I had over my love life into the control I had over my hair; thus explaining the multiple perms, the bangs, and the recent dye-jobs over the past few years. Hey, if I can't find a boyfriend, at least I can have awesome highlights and fantastic shoes. Put that on my tombstone.

But the greatest thing I've learned from my breakups, and the one they rarely highlight in TV and movies because it's far more glamorous for the guy to simply win back the girl with an unrealistic romantic gesture, is that just surviving the breakup makes you happier and stronger in the long run.

Plus, I think that a little heartache is good for the soul. When I was sick in bed a few weeks ago, all I could think about was how terrible I felt and how I would never get better again. Right then, I couldn't even fathom what being healthy felt like, and I appreciated it all the more when I eventually did get out of bed and found myself well enough to do little things like leave my apartment and see my friends.

And in a similar way, when your heart is broken, you wonder if you will ever feel some semblance of happiness again and want nothing more than for the heartache to cease. When it inevitably does, you're wobbly at first, but then you really cherish the things that get you through it, such as spending time with your friends, laughing loudly at funny movies, making out with random cute guys in bars, etc, etc.

If all else fails, I recommend spending an extravagant amount of money on shoes for no particular occasion and finding an amazing hair stylist.

Trust me.

Not a Lady

So yes, I am still on my not taking any shit kick, which means that I tend to be slightly belligerent when out in social situations, which probably implies that I shouldn't be allowed out in social situations.

On Saturday night, my attitude started right away when I was standing in line with girlfriend R waiting for the bathroom, and she stepped into the first available stall and the guy behind her said, "Excuse me?" I responded with a hospitable, "Hey, we were here first," to which he called me a "bitch" under his breath. R dragged me away before things could escalate.

Of course, my mood just got better as the night continued as I got drunker and I found myself jostled in an all-too-crowded club.

A giant meathead in a white t-shirt three sizes too small walked up to R and said, "Hi my name is (insert name here), what's your name?"

R just smiled politely at him and looked away. Since his brain was smaller than a pea, he didn't take her subtle hint and tapped her again and said, "What's your name?"

She continued to ignore him at which point I got really annoyed and said to him, "Hey, she's not interested. This is your cue to walk away."

"Excuse me?"

"I said, take your business elsewhere and get outta here."

"Wow you're a bitch."

Now I was REALLY steamed, so I pushed him (Yes, pushed him, despite the times that he was like three times my size. I'm like that tiny angry dog who doesn't realize that big dog could totally eat him for lunch, and continues to bark angrily) and said, "You heard me. Get the fuck out of here."

At which point I could SWEAR he turned away and called me a "cunt." I was thisclose to swinging a right hook at him, but he was already disappearing through the crowd. I, however, ran through the logic in my head, and if he laid a hand on me, I could easily play the victim which would mean he would get immediately arrested for hitting a defenseless little girl.

Given my charming personality, I'm sure my behavior was quite shocking to all the witnessing parties. But honestly, it wasn't that different from how I normally act. Usually I say the same things, but do them with a smile and a wink which disarms the guys before they jump to the accurate assessment that I'm a bitch.

Other than the excess amount of cursing and name-calling, I have no real regrets about my behavior. And as we enter into my birthday week, I have every intention of continuing with my newfound attitude.