Pick Me Up

Don't ask me why or really, why, but I'm now officially obsessed with that pick-up guy who goes by the retarded name of Mystery. I know, I know, I know, he's going to be overexposed in about a minute due to the endless promos and replays on VH1, but I still find him incredibly sexy and weird. I never thought I would find myself fantasizing about a man who paints his fingernails black and wears goggles with big furry hats. Is this what the New York nightlife scene has done to me? I've been perusing through his site, Venusian Arts, and I find it embarassingly fascinating. It's sort of a study in social behavior, social norms, social groups, a.k.a...THE NIGHTLIFE SCENE.

Mystery reminds of my 22 year old British tourist boy. Speaking of, British Boy is coming to New York for a visit in a couple of weeks. I feel frenzied, yet excited to see the hunk of a specimen who I randomly met three months ago. Has it really been three months?

I think women can learn a lot from Mystery. I've learned that all of the men who have been pursuing me over the last two months have NO game, and are, well, a bit on the slow side.

There is an art to seduction, mating, courting, dating, whatever you want to call it, and I think this Mystery guy is sort of bringing it to the forefront.

His show The Pick-Up Artist, has actually scored more female viewers than male viewers...I guess that explains my fascination.

Kumfumbled

Why does everyone have to flash the peace sign when they pose for a picture? Do they want world peace? A coworker commented on my phone today. "Wow that's schmancy!" Since when has schmancy become a word that you can use to describe something, an adjective, per se? Did I miss out on the "schmancy" bandwagon? A friend of mine often says "Hell to the yes" when she means yes. Why can't she just say yes? What does "hell to the yes" mean? Who started all of this nonsense?

I recently stumbled across this:
whore
noun
1.a prostitute.
2.a promiscuous person, usually female.
3.a greeting, usually between males.
What's up, whore! A friendly insult, usually between males. Leave me alone, whore!

Since when do men greet each other with the word "whore?" I've never heard any of my male friends call each other whores. Am I missing out on something? Tell me, WHERE HAVE I BEEN?

abso-fucking-lutely
adverb
1.absolutely. The insertion of "fucking" places emphasis on the use of "absolutely."
I have abso-fucking-lutely too much homework.

REALLY? The word FUCKING can emphasize?

AFU
adjective
acronym of "all fucked up." A shortened version of snafu.
That is totally afu, dude!

AFU indeed!

air biscuit
noun
a fart. One "floats" an air biscuit. See float an air biscuit

How creative. When you want to blame your "air biscuit" on someone:

Barking Spider
noun
an imaginary creature to blame flatulence on.
Speaker: Did you just fart?
Response: No, there must be a Barking Spider in here.

How about all of those hot women?

chank
noun
contraction of "chunky skank," that is, a fat, promiscuous female.
That chank ate all of my candy.

I've REALLY got to keep up with all of this COOL talk!

kumfumbled
adjective
confused or lost, typically when thinking or trying to figure something out.

Maybe I'll learn all of this slang soon!

Keep it real y'all! PEACE!

An Interview. (Oldie But Goodie!)

July 25th, 2007

She Likes it Hot

Editor's Note: This is an excerpt from Genius Times'recently published piece on the lives of New York female bloggers.

Richard Ashnell recently had the pleasure of sitting down for a one on one, tete a tete with Bunion Flever blog dominatrix who goes by the alias of DonnaBella.

RA: So, you've been toying with the idea of emptiness in your blog lately. Why?

DB: I live in New York. (laughing) No, no. I am trying to date in New York.

RA: Who have you been dating?

DB: Losers mainly. And a few liars strewn in there too. But, I like to mix it up and hang out with some alcoholics too on occasion.

RA: Sounds like everyone else here in the city. But what makes you different?

DB: I'm naive and I believe what people really tell me.

RA: Hence, one of your posts titled "CEO Liberation Day= Long Ass Post." So it really has taken you longer to understand that everyone lies in New York?

DB: Yeah. I'm afraid so.

Log Me the F*** In

If I have to create or remember another username and a password for ONE more fricking website, I'm going to literally rip off my own head and shit down my neck.

I can't remember all of my passwords or usernames to the 50 gazillion websites I "have" to log on to on a minute-by-minute basis. Some sites require at least seven characters. Some sites require seven characters, plus a number and a sign language hand signal and the nickname for your mother's ass. Then, there are the sites that like you to mix it up and periodically change your password and/or username just so you can shuffle your brain around into one big hemorrhaging mess.

Yes, I know you are thinking, when she tries to login, why doesn't she just check the box that says "remember me?"

Oh, the "remember me" trick will only go so far. This invention thing called computers will occasionally and only remember my username, so, when I attempt to log on to my important shopping-social networking-bill paying-bank account viewing-dating-email-blogging-job hunting WEBSITES, I can't remember my password and my mind becomes jumbled and I start to hear voices in my head so I can RETRIEVE my password:

"No, no, no! This is the site where you had to tell them your favorite color, remember? But what was my favorite color at that time? I think it was purple. Yeah, purple. Wait, no. Maybe I said blue? Oh yes! Now I remember. This was the site that asked where my mother was born. Did I say the city or the state where my Mother was born? I think I said the city. Hmmmm. Wait! Maybe this was the site where I gave them my middle name and favorite number as my password and username? Or, was it the other way around? But, I have more than one favorite number. Was this the site where I had to pick a three-digit security number? I know I don't have a favorite three-digit number. I only have a favorite one-digit number or two-digit number but not a three-digit one. Who the hell has a favorite three-digit number anyway?"

By the time I figure out the "security" question answer and the computer looks back at me and says that my password and username information has been sent to my registered e-mail account for the site, I can't REMEMBER which e-mail I gave the site.

"Was it my junk e-mail address? Or did I give them my new one or the old one that I have on AOL? No I think it was the Yahoo one. But I can't remember the password anymore to my Yahoo account, so Yahoo will have to send me my password again. But what alternate e-mail did I give at my Yahoo address? Was it my AOL e-mail address? I think I gave my work address. But they just gave me a new password for my work address through Outlook so I can't access the server from home! What am I going to do? OK OK. Calm down. Breathe. You really don't need that book on different sex positions. You can figure the positions out just fine. Oh! NOW I remember. I gave my old Hotmail address to Yahoo! Yeah, the one with that old password you used to use when you lived in Italy! But wait, that password was in Italian I'm sure. And remember you have an American keyboard now so you can't put the accent mark above the letter E!"

I currently have eight different windows open on my desktop and I'm trying to buy something with PayPal but I can't remember my PayPal account information.

"Was it my credit card or debit card? If it was my debit card, which debit card was it? Was it my Citibank or Washington Mutual? Maybe I gave them the old one from Texas? But what was the security number on the back of that card? There's NO way I can remember that. I can't even remember the pin number to that card! Does my Mom maybe have it? I think the security code might be in that old wallet in that small box that I finally brought here to NY from my parent's house! But wait. Didn't I throw that box away?"

OK. Now I'm logging OUT.

NYC Men: The Club Owner

Each week, I've decided to take it upon myself to dissect the anatomies of the different male species running rampantly in circles throughout New York City, like chickens without heads. This week, we'll focus on The Club Owner.
A BRIEF DESCRIPTION
The Club Owner has the latest Blackberry strategically strapped to his pants for quick drawing, and a slim expensive digital camera in his back pocket to document the Girls Gone Wild atmosphere in which he loves to lavishly indulge. He constantly checks his Blackberry device so he appears to be busy, swiftly coordinating who is let through his velvet ropes and who sits at his coveted table.

The Club Owner usually dresses in a ridiculously hipster-like fashion and isn't afraid to take risks. Such risks include dressing like it's 1982 with high-top sneakers and headbands. He also wears his sunglasses at night so he can see. If the Club Owner is African-American, he will usually grow his hair out into a slight, yet well groomed Afro. If he is white, he will experiment with funky hair streaks of blue, red or green. He appears cool, calm, confident, withdrawn and indifferent as he sips endless bottles of champagne at his permanent table at the center of his club. It doesn't matter if The Club Owner is attractive, unattractive, young, old, short or tall. He WILL sleep with a different woman every night because he CAN.

The Club Owner oozes sexuality. He is a Slut Magnet who isn't ashamed to bump, hump and grind with obscenely young, hot, desperate, frivolous Tarts who shop at Forever 21 and Strawberry and have high-pitched voices. These Tarts usually attend NYU and major in Journalism or some other pretend trade where they could have the possibility of becoming famous. There are also many of these Tarts who are hairdressers and attend cosmetology school. These Tarts are also too trendy and study fashion design at FIT. It is rest assured though, that these Tarts will have an intricate pimped out MySpace page with at least seven pages of "modeling" pictures of themselves in bikinis and lingerie.

The Club Owner loves to indulge these Tarts and The Club owner has at least four of the Tarts at his side while gyrating his head to hypnotic house music.

HOW TO INTERACT
I just recently got myself out of a tangled, sticky situation with The Club Owner species in which I found myself a bit confused. I couldn't figure out if I liked The Club Owner as a real life person who had feelings or if I was just blatantly using him for the gallons of free drinks, table service and VIP treatment. I felt like his Queen and he was my King as we would stand above the crowd at his palace kissing and laughing, laughing and kissing, as my ears would bleed from the piercing music.

When you find yourself involved with The Club Owner, you MUST establish distance from the get-go because actually dating The Club Owner is a tricky situation. If you piss off The Club Owner, or, reject The Club Owner in ANY way, you will NEVER be able to attend his club AGAIN. Yeah, sure, maybe The Club Owner would let you in his club again after the messy break-up, but, do you REALLY want to stand among the peasants on the dance floor at HIS club, watching HIM grope another Tart? It's a very big catch-22 when you think about it. Sort of like if you're a hooker you're NOT supposed to kiss on the lips.

What if you really like his club? What if your friend has a birthday party at his club? What if a future date likes to hang out at his club? What if...you really NEED his club? What if his club has become like a psychedelic drug, a hit of Ecstasy, a sort of uncontrollable addiction and permanent fixture on your nightlife scene?

I found myself sickeningly drunk many nights at The Club Owner's club, intoxicated by the music and the flashing smoky lights...and the vodka...and the champagne. The Club Owner would whisk me through the packed crowd...upstairs to his hidden locked office...

I embraced my inner slut whilst with The Club Owner. (It's important to note that even if you are a virgin or a nun, you will BECOME a filthy whore when you over- engage with The Club Owner and you will do things that even YOU didn't think you would EVER do).

It has taken me months to gradually ween myself off of The Club Owner's club and The Club Owner. Slapping my own hand and quickly deleting his messages from my phone has not been an easy thing to do.

So, trust me, DO NOT DATE The Club Owner.

DANCE with The Club Owner
FLIRT with The Club Owner
INNOCENTLY KISS The Club Owner
OCCASIONALLY RESPOND to The Club Owner's phone calls/texts
HAVE FUN with The Club Owner

That way, when you are stumbling around downtown in NYC you can happily hop into his club...no strings attached, with free drinks and dancing...all night long...

Simplicity Anyone?

I stumbled lately out of bed this morning and tripped my way to the subway, eyes half closed with no makeup to find a massive hoard of angry people hovering at the subway entrances. Everyone looked like cavemen scratching their heads and groins. The man wearing socks with sandals next to me couldn't understand the police officer when he told us "THERE ARE NO TRAINS RUNNING IN ALL OF MANHATTAN." The socks and sandals man then proceeded to go down the stairs to the subway station only to emerge again, looking overly pissed off and confused. Like the police officer hadn't told him that "THERE ARE NO TRAINS RUNNING IN ALL OF MANHATTAN."

All 24 lines to the marvelous NY Public Fucking Transportation System were apparently flooded from some blazing thunderstorm tornado that ripped apart Brooklyn last night.

I am really convinced that the Locusts are definitely on their way.

In a period of three short weeks I've experienced an EXPLOSION, a building COLLAPSE near my apartment(I'll explain later), a SHOOTING in front of my apartment door (I'll explain later), and now, a massive FLOOD. What's next? Are these signs from some God or a Higher Power or the Allah Global Warming?

I managed to squeeze onto a smelly bus and then I walked 40 blocks in high heels to midtown Manhattan with sweat beads dripping from my crotch to my toes. I then had to share a cab with some leathery old lady with frizzy hair from Connecticut:

"Nothing works anymore. This country is falling apart! They can't even hold a bridge up! The infrastructure of this country is collapsing from within!" she spewed. Driver! Can you please hurry!"

As Connecticut leather bags continued on her soapbox, I studiously looked out the window at the thousands of people frantically walking to work with their briefcases, backpacks, I-pods, Blackberries, bluetooths, Gameboys, laptops and Grande Frappucinos. It occurred to me that just 100 years ago people didn't need all of this shit. We didn't even HAVE public transportation.

In the world of television programming, there is a well known concept called "Feeding the Beast." Basically, the concept's theory is that a television viewer becomes increasingly sophisticated and demands more and more from a show.

The catch is that the MORE you feed the viewers, the MORE they want, and thus the cycle of dissatisfaction begins and ratings start to drop.

Will we ever have enough? Will we ever be satisfied? When public transportation fails us I've realized that the only true remedy is a teletransporter, that way, we can instantly be anywhere at anytime on time for that important conference call in between instant messaging our potential clients so we can sell them more stuff to communicate with.

When my Blackberry Pearl 8100 dies and I can't get to one of my TWO chargers (one for work, one for home) I feel lost, empty and alone, like Tom Hanks in Cast Away. When my cell phone dies, I die with it...

This morning I set up a web domain for my blog and here are SOME of the instructions:

Open the Domains tab and select My Domain Names. You'll be directed to the Manage Domains page.
Click the domain that you'd like to use with your blog.
Click the Total DNS Control And MX Records in the box entitled Total DNS Control.
Click Add New CNAME Record. If you've already created a CNAME record for your blog's address, click Edit next to the existing CNAME record.
For the Name, enter only the subdomain of the address you want to use for your blog. For example, if you picked www.mydomain.com as your address, enter www here.
Enter ghs.google.com as the Host Name.
Click Continue, and then click Add. If you're editing an existing CNAME record, click Continue and Update.


Really? Is that all?

Explosions and Sobriety

Do you ever feel that you have exhausted all options and all of the options you've been pursuing lead to nowhere, nothingness, emptiness? Well, that's the idea I've been toying with over the last weeks. That is, after I experienced the explosion in midtown Manhattan.

Everyone in the city has a story. Everyone in the city has a shtick.

On that frightful day, I was on the phone with my Mom, furiously debating on whether or not to attend a "Margarita Madness Singles Happy Hour" when a huge, booming, thundering ominous sound filled the air. I looked above my building and saw what looked like an enormous cloud of white smoke billowing from the top floors. "RUN! RUN!THE BUILDING IS COLLAPSING!" everyone was shouting and crying.

I quickly began hauling my ass toward the East river, hyperventilating and praying that I wouldn't die in a terrorist attack.

As I was running:

I WASN'T thinking about what I would wear to the big party I had on Friday.

I WASN'T thinking about why the guy I had had a good time with a few days earlier still HADN'T called me.

I WASN'T thinking about the fact that I needed to stop binging on Chinese food and exercise more.

I WASN'T thinking that my roots were showing and I needed to get my hair highlighted again.

I WASN'T thinking about getting a pedicure.

I WASN'T thinking about how much money I WASN'T making

I WASN'T thinking about how I wished I had a new apartment in Soho.

I WASN'T thinking about the piles of laundry stacked in my room.

I WASN'T thinking about my lack of direction or laziness.

I WASN'T thinking about getting into another exclusive NYC club.

I CERTAINLY WASN'T thinking about sex, men or relationships.

I WAS thinking that I wanted to live, and, the only person I wanted to talk to was my Mom, to tell her how much I loved her.

****

They say everything goes in cycles. I haven't drank a sip of alcohol since the blast, and, my social life has gradually (kind of) fluttered out the door, past the velvet ropes. Keep in mind of course, I'm the kind of person who, at nine years old, would call my Mom at three in the morning to pick me up from a "fun" slumber party just so I could sleep in my own bed.

I don't want to be in a clique. And... I like sleeping in my own bed.

A friend of mine once told me: "Honey, everyone has slept with everyone here in New York." Living here long enough, I've began to realize it's really true.

Everyone in the city has a story. Everyone in the city has a shtick.

****

Writing this blog has been a bit like sitting on a teeter totter. On one end I'm teetering on revealing TOO much. On the other end I'm tottering on NOT revealing enough, and reading my previous posts usually sends me into a self-conscious frenzy.

What if people find out who I really am?

What if I'm too honest?

Do I really have to elaborate on EVERY detail of my sappy and confusing drunken dating (night) life?

I guess blogging is like dating. A love/hate relationship on facing one's own idiosyncrasies and still trying to come across as lovable and witty on occasion.

After the random, freakish steam pipe explosion that happened at the building where I work, I began to feel angry at myself for the superficial red flushes of emotion that I've splattered across my blog. But now... I've realized that I'm just human, trying to make it in New York, and, unsuccessfully trying to decode the crazy men AND women that I stumble upon on a daily basis.

It's safe to say that BECAUSE of the blast, I haven't been drinking. And BECAUSE I haven't been drinking, I'm not attracted to the men who have been pursuing me, anxious to get in my pants.

Since the explosion, I've ignored the calls and texts and invitations from ALL of the boys and instead have chosen to hide out at home and watch bad reality TV with my cat.

****

This morning as I was walking to the subway, a homeless man in a wheelchair screamed at me, "Miss, miss! Can you help me cross the street?"

I chose to ignore him, afraid he was going to ambush me if I attempted to help him.

The homeless guy then screamed: "You fucking bitch! I hope you break both of your legs!"

Everyone in the city has a story. Everyone in the city has a shtick.

Maybe, since I survived a random, freak explosion, AND, I have both legs, it's safe to consider going go to the next "Margarita Madness Singles Happy Hour?"

Members Only (PART III)

The thought that such an evil, treacherous violent cokehead "movie producer" was THAT close to kidnapping me made me feel raw, extremely violated and exposed, like an open, oozing wound. What could I have been thinking to hop into a cab with a complete drugged out stranger?

It occurred to me that when I become attracted to someone, anyone, it's what's on the inside that illuminates who they are, not what's on the outside. Even though this guy was a Richard Gere twin, the anger and heaviness of his personality made him...ugly.

Everyone in the city has a story. Everyone in the city has a shtick.

At 4:30 in the morning on that Sunday night, I started laughing and crying hysterically at the same time. I felt pulled and confused between the sweet, innocent, honest little girl that I knew was screaming inside of me to come out and play, and this sexual, catty, vixen woman howling inside of me, who loved to taunt and tease men.

Which one was the real me? I felt relieved when Uber DJ Boy called and asked me if I was ok.

I told him I was ambushed by some guy at Cipriani's and I was just happy to be home. It was half lie, half truth. I was attracted to evil RG Boy, and I was so ashamed of myself for this fact. It was my fault, my action, my responsibility that I had stepped into a cab with him. RG Boy could have cut up my body into a billion tiny pieces and stored my head in his freezer.

Maybe I'm exaggerating, but I'm a writer, so I'm really sensitive. Or is it, I'm really sensitive, so I'm a writer?

I fell asleep at 5:30 in the morning, still half drunk, the salty tears crusted to my face and my plum eye-makeup smeared across my cheeks. I was jolted up by my alarm at 6:30 a.m. It had been a long time since I had pulled an all nighter on a work night. This excited me, made me feel young and frivolous, like I was in college again and I had stayed up all night partying and I had an important exam to pass.

I stumbled into work, the pungent smell of vodka still on my breath. Luckily it wasn't too busy of a day so I slithered behind my computer and pretended I was working. I was still so confused and exhausted.

Did I really like this 5'8" midget Uber DJ Boy? Is that why I wanted to flirt with as many men as I could, to block off the little crush I had for him? And, WHY did I have a crush on him? Because something seemed so real and normal about him? But, he seemed so possessive, controlling, overbearing and insecure. WHY was I attracted to this? Was it because I thought he had the golden key to this sort of underground high society? And, why the hell did I even care about these empty people with money?

Everyone in the city has a story. Everyone in the city has shtick.

Uber DJ Boy was guest DJing that night at one of my favorite haunts in the city, Le Souk. I could barely stand up by the time 5:00 rolled around, so I told him I couldn't make it. Again, the thought of being a DJ Fucker made me want to run for the hills. I was NOT a groupie.

After a long night's sleep and some alone time, I woke up Tuesday feeling a little more refreshed, a little less confused. But I still couldn't quite pinpoint the strangeness that I was feeling. I checked my phone messages to find that Kosovo Club Boy had left three messages on my voicemail telling me how sorry he was about not returning my call Saturday night, and that he had been stuck in Boston with his sister, and blah, blah, blah, blah. I didn't even remember who Kosovo Boy was at that point.

It's amazing how one's emotions or feelings for someone can flip 180 degrees in a period of 72 hours. Was I being shallow?

Did I like Uber DJ because he was the first guy in a long time to come on to me THAT strong? Did I subconsciously feel obligated to reciprocate his "feelings" because I didn't want to hurt him?

I couldn't understand why Uber DJ had targeted me. There were hundreds of amazingly exotic super-supermodel women who undulated through Cipriani's every week. Couldn't he go bother some of them? Or, did he just want sex so badly that he was willing to do or say anything just to get it?

I was perplexed because I thought he was so real, yet, so full of shit at the same time. I've had a few men in my life like this cross my path, and every time, it's as if they come barrelling through like a tornado and leave an emotional mess behind them. It's as if Uber DJ was this Tazmanian Devil spinning through my life, dredging up all of these uncomfortable emotions inside of me.

ALL in a period of 72 hours.

****

Uber DJ asked me to come to his apartment on Tuesday after work. I was hesitant because I wasn't a booty call and I didn't chase men around the city and go over their apartments. But, I really wanted to see him. I really wanted to understand what I was feeling. I wanted to see him in the daylight, away from Cipriani's, away from the nightlife, the booze and his, his...music.

I showed up to his apartment that he shared with his cousin from Algeria in midtown. I was in my suit from work, hair pulled sleekly back in a ponytail. I looked more corporate, different than the glamorized, beautified version of myself on hot Manhattan nights.

Everyone in the city has a story. Everyone in the city has a shtick.

Uber DJ met me downstairs. He was more quiet, more reserved, more serious than what I'd seen the weekend before. Was it because he had witnessed me sucking the evil Richard Gere boy's face? I was still so confused.

He had to move his car from some parking garage because the price was about to double, so we walked over to his car. I thought it was weird that he hadn't thought about this before, so we ended up spending 45 minutes trying to find a new parking place for his car.

After the car drama, he turned to me and took my hand and looked me in the eyes:

"You know, I really, really like you," he said ever so sweetly.

"I like you too," I said over-excitedly, still not knowing why it was that I liked him.

We walked back to his apartment and found his cousin downstairs fixing something on his motorcycle. Uber DJ boy put his arms around my waist from behind and told his cousin, "I'm soo in love with this girl."

I said to his cousin, "He's in love with all women," and laughed.

Everyone in the city has a story. Everyone in the city has a shtick.

We went upstairs to his apartment, but not without having the relationship talk, again.

"Well, I guess you'll get tired of dating four guys. You'll start to filter through them and weed out the bad ones," he said grabbing my hand.

Why did I feel so guilty when he said that? Why did I feel like such a shit for being so damned boy crazy? I managed to squeeze a smile out with no comment.

His apartment was tiny but cute, and he started fumbling around his kitchen.

"Would you like to stay for dinner?" he asked sweetly.

"Um, sure," I responded hesitantly. I was supposed to meet a guy for a drink at the Maritime hotel later that night so I knew I couldn't stay too long.

"Do you have a date tonight?" he frowned.

I laughed and said that I was meeting some friends for drinks later. The guilt pangs were beginning to grow and grow. But WHY? Here was this midget man who appeared in my life THREE days ago and suddenly I felt guilty about all of the other men. Was this a sign from God? Was I supposed to drop all of these other men and have a relationship with Uber DJ? WHY? Why did I feel so guilty?

I felt like Uber DJ represented my conscience and seeing him was like a vampire being exposed to light.

Uber DJ began to cook steaks as I watched him closely in the kitchen. We hugged and kissed and everything felt so...so...domestic. So boyfriend/girlfriend.

"Baby, anytime you want to come over, let me know. Just call me and I'll have dinner ready for you. Anything you want," he whispered to me.

Was this guy for real?

As we were eating he proceeded to ask me about Sunday night.

"So, did you kiss that guy? It's ok if you did, just tell me, that's all," he said sort of quietly.

I nearly choked to death on my steak as the meat chunks lodged in my throat. He went on to tell me that one of the waitresses/whores had told him that I was making out with some guy at his table.

"He ambushed me!" was all I could spit out. "He was crazy! I didn't know what to do!" My guilt was swelling into this huge fire pit in my stomach. I felt like I couldn't hide the fact that I was attracted to the evil Richard Gere Boy.

And, I still couldn't figure out if Uber DJ was one big bullshit artist or just a simple, sincere honest hardworking guy who really was putting his heart on the line. Why was he acting like I was his girlfriend when I had really only known him for three days?

We awkwardly finished dinner and he offered to drive me home.

On the way to my apartment, we held hands and talked about the meaning of life and he said to never smile if you don't mean it. He then asked me if I liked him. I said of course and I kissed him and he told me I was the most beautiful girl in the world.

I felt guilty for not inviting him in and I felt guilty and I felt guilty and I felt guilty.

I hopped up the steps to my apartment and cracked open a beer once inside. The thought of meeting another guy for a drink exhausted me so I decided to take a raincheck. I was confused.

A comment that Uber DJ boy had made on the first night at Cipriani's kept replaying over and over in my head like a broken record:

"I don't like bullshitters."

Was I a bullshitter? Had I become a bullshit artist since living in New York? How did I let the bullshit get this far? And, if I was a bullshitter, why was I a bullshitter?

The next day, Uber DJ left me a message:

"I miss you beautiful woman..."

TO BE CONTINUED

For Your Oral Fixation

Again, I have no legitimate excuse for not typing my meanderings, except for the sheer fact that I haven't really wanted to face the intricate maze and tangled web of crazy happenings I've experienced over the past few weeks.

In between the glamorous parties and gallons of free drinks and cute boys and phone numbers and high heels and "you're hot, you're beautiful" and business cards and dancing and being invited to join this somewhat exclusive snobby site... I am trying to take these days to let it all absorb into my being, like a big frothy wet soaking sponge.

I'm trying to comprehend the actual point of manifesting so many men at once.

Could it be for business networking? For a new job that I keep hoping and fantasizing will land in my lap? Fun? Frivolity? Or is it a form of masochism? Am I subconsciously trying to make such a complicated mess with these men that soon I will want to pack my bags and go live in a cave for the rest of my life?

I have gotten to the point where all of the men I've met have morphed into some insane, spinning devilish beast, screaming and howling at me in my dreams to have a drink and go to dinner and come to his party or art opening.

On top of the erratic, deeply unsatisfiable boy craziness, I'm STILL continuing to see suck-my-face Kosovo Club Boy. The words "I Love You" have come out of his mouth four times.

It's really a mystery to me.

Not only has he shown up to a party and witnessed me licking an Italian boy's face, but, sometimes I don't call him back and accidentally "miss" his text messages, and I innocently flirt with other men in front of him.

And, I stood him up last week because I drunkenly got too drunk and ended up THROWING UP IN THE BACK SEAT OF A CAB.

That's right. I can now say I stupidly mixed rum and vodka and my stomach swelled to the point of explosion and I BLEW CHUNKS onto the floorboard of a cab at 4 in the morning.

I'm 27 years old.

Not that that means anything, but, I'm 27 years old. I think it was long overdue that I finally regurgitated my insides out onto moving public property.

I feel extremely ashamed and mortified, yet, so proud and accomplished.

After all of the vomit, on an oral note, I felt so guilty about the lack of attention and care that I have given sweet, precious Kosovo Club Boy that last week, I finally, finally, finally gave in and gave him oral sex out of gut wrenching guilt.

Is it just me or is oral sex a bit awkward? Embarrassing? I know, I know, there's supposedly a glorious art to it, but really, it's just a penis. How artful and creative can you get? What's next? Should I knit the thing a hat too?

I much prefer sex.

Kosovo Club Boy hugged me tight after our awkward rendezvous and looked me in the eyes and said: "Just be yourself."

WTF? Have I not been being myself this past month? Is that what he meant? And, why did he say this after...after...a blow job?

I frankly don't know where this is going with Kosovo Club Boy. He might be getting too close.

He just might see the real me and my vulnerability and my shyness and my sensitivity and my worriedness and my seriousness and my obsessive ability to question every circumstance and overlook the fact that...I have become compulsively self-centered.

I often debate the fact on whether this city has caused my self-centeredness while thinking about myself as I chain smoke on the front steps of my apartment, a sort of gathering place for all of the weirdos in my building.

One of the weirdos, a 50-something, balding 5'2" ego maniac of a man who thinks he's god's gift to women, loves to interrupt me every time I'm blissfully enjoying my nicotine.

The Old Gimp loves to tell me stories about all of the famous people he knows (which implies that he doesn't know them) and he talks like he's on speed.

I thought it was a bit odd that the day after Kosovo Club Boy came over and told me to "be myself," The Old Gimp handed me a grape-flavored Blow Pop.

Then, yesterday The Old Gimp gave me a handful of Starbursts as he muttered: "For your oral fixation."

I then suddenly remembered that I do sort of have see through curtains in my bedroom.

Maybe I should start scoping out some caves where I can hide.

Or, maybe I should really start being myself. Whatever that means.

Life is Messy

I hurriedly arrived on time to my date with Cancer Boy last Tuesday to find an attractive yet slightly balding man waiting for me at the cramped bar at the dimly lit trattoria in midtown. I was just relieved because he wasn't unattractive. In retrospect, why was I relieved that he wasn't unattractive? He wasn't really attractive, but he wasn't unattractive. But, that didn't necessarily mean that he was attractive.

Was I just justifying the weirdness that I felt by being set up by a matchmaker?

Me and Cancer Boy talked and talked and talked about everything including the dreaded infamous Religion and Politics, and I couldn't help but getting the vibe that I was being over analyzed, like I wasn't Stepford Wife-ish enough. I managed to blurt out my strong leftist flaming liberal views after the second glass of wine and Limoncello.

Cancer Boy was nice and engaging, but I started to pick up the vibe that he had a closet dose of Obsessive Compulsive Disorder.

Moi: "So, do you like animals? Have you ever had any?"

Cancer Boy: "No, I've never had any animals, but a friend of mine has a dog and it smells. I don't know about animals, it's just...you know...they smell...and...aren't they messy?"

Moi: "Well, you know, you like... bathe them."

Cancer Boy: "Yeah, but still...they seem...so...so...messy!"

Moi: "Well...isn't...life messy?"

Cancer Boy: Silence.

After the comment about animals being smelly and messy, I knew I wasn't dealing with the "average" man. Here he was, almost 40 years old, lonely and paying thousands and thousands of dollars to a matchmaker to date...me.

Here he was, a leader in the field of the latest complex, dizzying cancer treatment, "very very very" successful by the world's standards yet he had never been around...a dog? A cat? A hamster? A fish? A snake? A rabbit? A bird? Something that would imply he had some sort of beating heart inside his body, some sort of connection with the frivolity of a playful, messy, smelly being other than a human?

I had just recently moved into my friend's apartment with her 12 year old diabetic cat.

Yes, there is now cat hair all over my clothes.

Yes, occasionally the cat throws up sticky, gooey chunky chunks on the carpet.

Yes, the chalky odor of a pissy litter box wafts through the apartment.

Yes, it is messy.

But, when I look into the kitty's eyes, I know he knows something that I don't. He's in tune with some higher realm that we, as jaded cynical humans, can't comprehend.

The kitty makes me feel something deeper than shopping and sex and men and wine and parties and hair appointments and bank accounts.

As Cancer Boy and I were leaving the trattoria, I started to feel sorry for him, like I needed to have a little compassion for this man who had never experienced being messy, as if everything in his life was carefully planned and scheduled and sterile and nothing was smelly. I mean, did he even know how to have sex? I realized he hadn't touched me once during the entire evening.

The thought of a bacteria free, carefully planned existence made me want to roll naked in a field of dirt, exposing all of my seemingly vulnerable imperfections.

*****
On Thursday, I met the founder of HotEnough. He wore a Yankees t-shirt, jeans and running shoes. I was in an evening dress and stilettos, bubbly on champagne, fresh from an event at the Waldorf.

Although t-shirts and jeans and running shoes on men usually create the most vile distaste in my mouth, a sort of pungent vomiting sensation if you will, I was a bit relieved to see him dressed so...so...casually New Jersey.

After the date with Cancer Boy, a big foaming beer, a NJ boy and a dive bar sounded well, more real, more messy.

We ended up taking the subway (gasp!) to the shitty Upper East Side to some dark wooden hole-in-the-wall-bar. Mr. HotEnough turned out to be rather funny, a bit goofy and quirky, even though he loved loved loved to talk about his business model for his website and how he was getting loads of advertising offers and how he was genius for thinking up the idea for the site and blah blah blah.

I was really drunk.

After the bar and beer and nachos and more beer, we took a walk at 4 in the morning on the outskirts of Central Park.

He said he loved cats and he pulled out his phone chalked full of photos of his aging, sick female cat named Bella.

"She's my baby," he said.

I told him I was caring for my friend's diabetic cat for the summer. He paused and looked into my eyes...

"That's, that's... like, the sweetest thing I've ever heard," he said smiling.

Such a huge gaping contrast to stiff Cancer Boy.

Mr.HotEnough hailed me a cab and I quickly jumped in. He had to take the subway (gasp!) all the way back to Nutley, New Jersey, wherever the hell that is.

I then got a text from him that said, "You know you were supposed to invite me over so I could have bought you breakfast tomorrow!"

Um...he was mad because I didn't have sex with him?

He has yet to call me after our drunken night.

Let's see... A rich oncologist who hates animals and thinks sex is dirty or, a sex addict poor Jersey boy with his own shallow website who loves animals?

I think it would be safe to say...neither.

Oncology with Cigarettes

I decided to dry my alcoholic ass out this week and let my fever break and let my cough turn into a mere hack instead of a deep lung cancerish cry for help. Although I'm still addicted to Advil Cold and Sinus and now, Mucinex, I feel ready for round two three four and five of my big city manifestations and adventures. I just hope I eat enough before I violently chug a bottle of Grey Goose this weekend.

Suck-my-face Kosovo Club Boy has been calling and texting me and asking me out every day. He's such a genuinely cuddly sweetheart but now I know he really likes me and that means I can't like him because, well, where's the challenge?

My favorite phrase is "Ignore Me and I'm Yours."

I met him for a Frappucino yesterday and it almost seemed like our electric chemistry had subsided.

My gay male Broadway singer roommate told me my problem with men is that I subconsciously feel sorry for them when they like me or are frustrated by me so I become too nice with them. The men take this as reinforcement and continue to ask me out and I can't say no because I feel guilty and I don't want to hurt anyone but I still really want to have a lot of unadulterated wild sex but the problem is...I just can't.

I think my delicate heart strings are too intimately intertwined with my vagina.

After the awkward Starbucks rendezvous, I came back to my desk at work feeling a bit perplexed. Why did I have to feel so awkwardly weird? Why couldn't I just treat him as a cool new friend I had met? For some reason the thought of licking his face endlessly began to make me feel ashamed, like a trashy filthy dirty whore.

At that moment, as I was thinking about volunteering to feed the homeless to compensate for my drunken sexual guilt, my matchmaker phoned me.

She told me a "very very very" successful clinical oncologist who is half-Italian "really really really" wanted to meet me. He's apparently 37 with brown hair and brown eyes and he's 5'10" which really means he's probably 5'8".

"Well, can I see a photo?" I asked her eagerly.

"We have to respect the privacy of our clients, so, I'm sorry sweetie, but we have to keep everything strictly off-line," she said, ever so politely.

I guess if I paid $200,000 to a matchmaker I wouldn't want my photos splashed everywhere either.

The clinical oncologist, let's call him Cancer Boy for short, called me one hour later. He sounded a bit dry, straightforward, sort of like, "Hey, this dating stuff is serious business and I need to find a wife who can breed asap."

But on a contradictory note, he also sounded really intelligent and nice. I'm meeting him Tuesday at some Italian trattoria.

What if I get there and he's fugly? Surely my matchmaker would at least pair me off with someone remotely attractive?

On my commute this morning I began to look at every guy with "brown hair and brown eyes." One guy had no chin, protruding bug eyes and a red mole on his neck. The next guy had flaky pale skin, a booger hanging out of his nose and bifocals so thick I thought they were windows.

Then, I suddenly realized that this apparent match is an oncologist. Did I mention to the matchmaker that I have the tendency to chain smoke like a chimney especially when I'm roaring drunk? Oh, and that I also burn myself to a crisp in an artificial tanning bed twice a week?

I'm from Texas.

And, that I think the Western approach to medicine is overly, ragingly, blindingly violent? If the cancer doesn't kill you, it's guaranteed that the chemotherapy and the endless rounds of toxic, bitter radiation will send you swiftly over the edge.

I'm more into the Eastern, non-intrusive holistic approach to medicine, even though I poison myself with carbon monoxide and potent UV rays on a regular basis.

Surely these could be only minor discrepancies that could emerge with Cancer Boy?

Suddenly the idea of a highly intoxicated make-out session with Kosovo Club Boy followed by a thick pack of cigarettes doesn't sound so bad...

Matchmakers, Secret Agents and New Digs

I am still sick as a dog but full of hope and wonder, hoping my body will catch up to the fun that I've been having this past month. Maybe I've created the cold and flu just so it would force me to slow down and stop being so damned boy crazy? On top of the horrific body aches I've been bleeding like a hemopheliac from my never-ending period. Maybe I've wanted to jump on top of every man I meet because my phermones are sending out invisible signals: "Attention attention, calling all men, she's ovulating! Move in quickly!"

But, despite the massive amount of blood and sickness, I feel like I've finally taken charge and I'm creating the life that I really want, even if that life does include brief frivolous flings and "lost" weekends. I keep thinking about the impermanence of things, like if I were to die tomorrow, what would I do differently? Would I call that guy meet that person apply for that job go to that party give lots of hugs lots of kisses realize we're all beautiful we all want the same thing nothing is by chance take enormous risks or make that move?

****
I met with the head of the matchmaking service (Selective Search) at the Sherry Netherland hotel on Friday. That Barbara Streisand song from Hello Dolly! kept playing over and over in my head as I was stuck in traffic nervous as hell in the pouring rain on my way to meet her:

"Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match! Find me a find! Catch me a catch!"

The rain was coming down in sheets and the cabdriver was playing some zitar hypnotic Euro pop Indian music monstrosity that caused my heart to palpitate as I applied my plumping lip gloss and my expensive perfume samples over and over. My hair had swelled up to the size of a big afro because of the humidity and wetness.

The head of the company met me in the lobby and we went up to her ginormous gorgeous suite and she gave me a glass of sparkling French water. I had to sign a confidentiality agreement and a thing that said I'm not crazy and everything I say is true and I'm currently not taking any medication.

I wondered if binge drinking and popping pseudoephedrine pills every few hours counted?

We chatted for an hour about what I'm looking for, what the company was about and my background. The director, who lives in Chicago but comes to NY twice a month, kept saying, "Gosh, it's just so expensive here in the city. I just don't see how people live here!"

I felt like she was trying to get a reaction out of me, to see if I was a golddigger. I opted for the response of a little laughter and the standard "Yeah, it is expensive." I left by giving her a kiss on the cheek and she said she had five or six men that she wants me to meet. I was just relieved that I hadn't accidentally signed up for an escort service.

****
Suck-my-face-Kosovo club boy drove up to my apartment Friday night. He brought me some expensive red wine and hard to find Italian chocolates. We made out in every conceivable area of my apartment in between deep discussions of Religion and Politics. Both he and I think 9-11 was an inside job...he's Muslim. Apparently, (news flash!) 90% of Kosovo "people" are Muslim. He said he's not a practicing one though, whatever that means.

There's something mysterious about this boy. Like he's into the black market or has some big secret, and I can't quite put my finger on it. I told him:

"There's something shady about you, but that's kind of hot," hoping he would divulge some more info about what he really does. I mean, c'mon, a "restaurant manager" can't live the lifestyle he leads. With labels on his clothes of Armani and Kenneth Cole?

He then mumbled something about the FBI and his face sort of flushed and then he changed the subject. When we got into our 9-11 discussion he needed a $20 bill to demonstrate the twin towers burning trick. He pulled out A WAD of cash from his pocket. I've never seen that much cash in someone's pocket. Ever.

Could this boy be a secret undercover agent for the FBI? He is well traveled and knows a little too much about the world. Is the "restaurant manager" thing his cover?

That's so totally hot I don't even know what to say.

****

My friend called me this morning and asked me to move into her apartment for the summer to take care of her diabetic cat.

It looks like I've manifested a new apartment...

Closer to downtown.

Where all of the boys are.

I think I'm going to make that move...and catch me a catch.

Extended Midget

Well, here marks another week of boy craziness and erratic hormones. A new series of sparkly epiphanies have manifested.

Last night was my first official internet date since I re-joined my shiteous dating site. The internet guy turned out to be a pretty cool guy with a Black American Express Card. Not that I really cared what color his American Express card was or anything.

He told me his last internet date was with a woman who turned out to be a former midget. He found this out over lots of drinks and crying on the former midget's part. She had gotten her height extended to 5'2".

I thought, aren't we all, in a way, former midgets? We used to be small when we were younger but now we're trying to act so big and tall with our jobs and degrees and dates and bank accounts and addictions and hair colors?

****
British tourist boy left last Saturday morning. He showed up at midnight on Friday to a party I was at. He looked Hugh Grantish and amazingly hot and innocent. He was carrying a Bloomingdale's sack. He had bought me Narcisso Rodriguez perfume and a DVD. I felt like I was in elementary school and my boy crush had given me a paper Valentine.

We kissed passionately and took photos together in one of those photo booths like the movie Beaches...Knowing he was about to get on a flight back to London... feeling such an intense connection...with a boy...who lived thousands of miles away... His lips were soft, his eyes twinkling as he told me he had never had such a connection with a girl like he did me in all of his short 22 years... so exciting and forbidden, the loud club music pumping, our hands softly brushing each other's faces.

He called me from London and I could hear the loud British noises in the background, a world so different from mine. He had told the cab driver on the way to the airport that he had made the biggest mistake of his life by leaving New York...He started to talk about green cards and moving here and how gorgeous I was and... intensity...honesty...freedom...unplanned.

I still feel a bit relieved that he left again...sort of like I didn't have to face such intense emotions on an ongoing basis...my soul mate wasn't supposed to be like that? Like him?

I am an extended midget.

****
On Sunday I signed up for this other thing. It's apparently a matchmaking service for wealthy men. The men on this site spend up to $200,000 a year for this company to find them matches. I'm doing it for journalistic purposes I swear.

The people from the site called me eight hours later and asked me to meet with the head of the company at this swank hotel near Central Park on Friday. I told my boss I had a gynecologist appointment. Wonder if she'll notice that I dress up to go to the gyno?

Will I meet the man of my dreams through this site?

I am still seeing suck-my-face Kosovo club boy. He's fun fun fun.

And...I'm still an extended midget, but I'm an extended midget who is now addicted to Advil Cold and Sinus. I somehow manifested a cold.

Think Forward Cack

Yeah yeah yeah, unlike other bloggers who have legitimate excuses for not blogging, like, say, they were on some spectacular expensive vacation or they've been so extremely unbelievably busy-busy, I have no excuse. Although, a lot of shit has happened to me over the past two weeks. Although I would like to encapsulate you with sordid, succulent, vibrant, juicy details, I'm going to recap the basics. I could write a novel:

1. I continued to exchange e-mails with Mr. CEO for lack of better judgement. We were this close to meeting about two times, and then I stopped responding 4 days ago. He e-mails me every day asking me to meet for a drink. Now, I've just become creeped out. Like I was this close to meeting a serial killer.

2. I met a gorgeous GQ modelish British 22 year old tourist boy. I despise 22 year olds, but he ended up coming over, and staying over at my house for like three days. We discussed the meaning of life over steaming hot chinese food and bitter wine holed up during the NY monsoon. He took lots of candid photos of me with his new camera. I was sure we were twin souls, meant to be together, separated by thousands of miles and I told him he should move to New York and become a model. Then, I realized I was a bit relieved when he finally left my house.

3. My new favorite word is cack. I like to add it to the end of everything I say.

4. I met a 30 year old blonde hair blue-eyed boy from Kosovo who is a manager of some restaurant on the Upper East Side. He buys me expensive lunches and drinks and I met him at some club and we ended up sucking face all night and he lives near my work and I've spent the night with him twice and... he aims to please. It's nice to walk to work in the morning. I think he might be a member of the Russian mafia. He has lots of cousins.

5. I met some guy named Omar who is a civil rights attorney. He keeps calling me. I think I accidentally gave him my number. The name Omar makes me laugh.

6. I've become a binge drinker. I like to get to the point now where I have the same conversation over and over with the same people just because I can't remember that I had the same conversation two minutes before. Sort of like self-induced amnesia.

7. I've become a quick change artist. I store all of my "going out" clothes in a closet at work and when the clock hits 5:30 I hit the handicapped bathroom and brush my teeth, smear my deoderant, spray lots of cheap perfume and put on a revealing top. I'm learning how to get free drinks. All I have to do is walk in a bar and stand there.

8. The founder of HotEnough.org who lives in Nutley, New Jersey (Nutley? Parsippany? Hoboken? The names kill me every time) has been asking me out. I think I might meet him next week. That'll definitely make a good post.

9. I found a good yet-what-seems-like-shady accountant who manipulated a good tax return for moi. I'm hoping to go shopping soon.

10. I'm exhausted. All of the going and coming and taking action and visualizing has worn me out. Like I could sleep for days.

Have I created a monster? Or, am I finally just being a fun, frivolous 27-year-old living in the city instead of my usual 80-year-old grandma self?

I don't know...but I do have a new motto:

Think forward. Always.

CEO Liberation Day = Long Ass Post

For the past two weeks, I've been in sort of a flux, a sort of standing still yet moving forward? But, today is an important day. I will mark this day on my calendar for years to come as CEO Liberation Day. The day everything came to me at once. The day the meaning of it all came flashing before my eyes in dazzling bright lights.

Today, at exactly 5:05 p.m, I chose to end this CEO-am-I-going-to-meet-him-or-am-I-not-going-to-meet-him thing. I say chose, because well, I was kind of forced to. It doesn't sound so profound, but let me explain...

Ever since I got back into this online dating thing a month or so ago, the thought of actually meeting a guy for a drink, or the thought of a man's hand slightly touching my leg, or the thought of his faint breath tingling down my neck has sent my hormones spiraling and my semi-anorexia and semi-obsessive compulsive "Am I Good Enough?" disorder into full force.

I haven't had an appetite (trust me, it's a good thing because my McDonald's Double Quarter Pounder With Cheese ass handles are slowly beginning to melt away) and I've been exercising like one of those coked-up exercise guru infomercial presenters.

I also stopped biting my nails so my hands would look more "feminine" in front of a man, and I've started to put some effort into what I look like.

I bought some under-eye concealer. I started to deep condition my hair. The years of coloring, flat-ironing and violently, furiously blow drying my hair had really begun to take its toll.

I thought the heaviness of winter was starting to dissipate... Well, kind of.

Since this online flirtation with this CEO man, who seems like he's somewhat important, has begun, I've never known what to expect.

I've convinced myself in my tiny little head over the past few weeks in my vivid, colorful imaginings that this guy, who has done nothing but send me one-line e-mails, could be "the one".

It reminds me of that commercial where the woman and man get into the elevator and they glance at each other. In a period of 30 seconds, she has imagined their entire life together and then...the elevator chimes in and they both go their separate ways. I'm exactly like that woman in the elevator.

Yet, I don't even see "the man"

I get an e-mail from "the man" and I think about having his children and living in a mansion with walk-in closets the size of my apartment:

"Oh sweetie, don't touch Mommy's diamond necklace. She needs that for the Charity Ball tonight. Your Daddy and I will bring you home a surprise. Would you like a new pony?..."

First, this CEO had a "business trip". It was in this period of his one week "business trip" that I decided I could like this guy. Maybe he's so discrete because he's important? I thought.

He looked rather attractive in his photo, if it even was his photo. He had sandy blonde hair, glowing skin and a fresh linen Polo shirt. (He sent the photo to my private e-mail address. He didn't even have a photo posted on my dating website. Hello, Hello, I know).

Then, there was "no response" when I told him I could meet this past Saturday. It was after this "no response" this past Saturday that I got mad...fighting mad. But, it was the good fighting mad.

I felt like the song I Will Survive was subconsciously pumping through my veins and I knew I was better than that, better than him, better than this I'm-just-so-fucking-tired-of-being-alone-that-I-will-meet-some-strange-Internet-guy-who-looks-like-he-could-be-promising syndrome.

It was in my blinding rage on Saturday that I decided to take action. I RSVP'd to an Italian Meet-Up group here in the city for Monday night.

I found the phone number to my long lost best friend in high school. I had heard SIX MONTHS AGO that she was living here in the city.

At 15 years old, she and I would lie upside down on my bed in my room side by side, high as a kite on marijuana, staring up at the glow stars we had meticulously placed on my ceiling...giggling at each other...talking about how weird some of the boys were at our school...dancing to the song Are You Strong Enough to Be My Man by Sheryl Crowe...innocent...free...happy...full of hope...freedom...promise...

Her voice on her answering machine sounded exactly the same as it was in high school, yet, more grown-up, more serious.

Is this what adulthood has done to us? I thought. Are we no longer the happy, young optimistic girls who allowed ourselves to dream?

I left a long, awkward and flustered voicemail on her answering machine. I thought, here we are, me and my precious best friend, who I adored more than 10 years ago, both from a small, obscure town in Texas, trying to make it in the Big City.

Then, on Sunday morning at exactly 9:35 a.m., Easter Sunday morning I might add, a day that could be, should be, filled with profound epiphany, I awoke to an e-mail from Mr. CEO asking me if I could meet Tuesday or Wednesday. I had just woken up with a funny feeling in my stomach, a sort of heaviness, uneasiness, still perplexed as to why this Mr. CEO guy never responded to my Saturday availability. And, I also had a deep uneasiness as to what the hell was I thinking RSVPing to some Italian thing I didn't have the time and energy for? And, really, what the hell was I doing calling my old best friend who probably is still mad at me for stopping talking to her because I felt we had just grown apart? What was I thinking? What was I thinking?

I felt a bit relieved that Mr. CEO sent me the one-line e-mail to meet on Tuesday or Wednesday. I felt like I had momentarily lost my mind on Saturday because I was so mad at the "no response" from him.

I don't handle rejection well.

I told him I could meet Wednesday and I began to fantasize about him even more. I imagined what his soft, manicured hand would feel like as it brushed up on my shoulder. I imagined laughing hysterically at his not-so-funny jokes. I imagined what it would be like lounging on a beach chair at his house in the Hamptons this summer, my body looking painfully perfect from the months of starvation and sheer "love".

On Monday night, I forced myself, literally dragged myself, to attend the Italian Meet-Up thing only because I RSVP'd, and, my spiritual guru Mom kept telling me:

"Go. You have to go. The Universe supports action."

I was wearing my pants that desperately needed to be dry-cleaned and my hair was a mess.

Of course, all of this, in between my fantasies of Mr.CEO and I.

The chill in the air was biting as I lost my way in Times Square on my way to the Italian Meet-Up. I paused for a moment and looked up at the hundreds of flashy fluorescent billboards, the frozen wind stinging my face in April.

I'm here. I thought. I'm at the center of it all, the center of the Universe, and I don't know where I'm going...and I don't know where I've been.

The thoughts were so overwhelming at that moment in the piercing bitter cold, smack dab in the middle of Times Square, that I had to shake them off and focus my attention back on Mr. CEO.

I started to think about what I could wear to our little rendezvous on Wednesday. I needed a new pair of jeans. I needed some more lip gloss. And, did I feel a zit developing on the side of my cheek? That's all I needed was a big whitehead pulsating from my face as I met my future sugar-daddy husband.

I arrived at the Meet-Up and started chatting in Italian with an older, tall, balding-yet-tanned Italian man from Florence. Our conversation flowed, and it was natural and unforced. He got my jokes. I was 100% positive he was gay. That's why I felt so free with him.

I was myself.

He bought me too many Pinot Grigios as the night progressed...

Then, in walked a spectacularly beautiful woman, a kindred spirit, and she and I started to talk. I felt like I had known this woman before, a profoundly familiar feeling. I had so much in common with her...

I had so much in common with this man and with this woman.

At this party.

That I didn't want to attend.

Because I had to prepare for the Mr. CEO date on Wednesday.

I felt so uncensored, unprepared with messy hair, dirty clothes and all.

I walked out of the event a bit drunk, anxious to delve back into my fantasy world of Mr. CEO: My black stilettos with jeans on Wednesday would look sexy. But what about the top? Pay day was another week away, but I needed to buy a new top. The other tops I have aren't good enough. Must buy new top. Must buy new top. And how about those Crest White Strips? I need to do those so my teeth will be extra white.

I paused to check my phone messages before I got on the subway. My best friend from high school had called me back. She left a long, awkward message too. She sounded so relieved:

"I can't even begin to tell you how glad I am to hear from you. I can't wait to catch up..."

At that moment, listening to this message in the whipping cold, the noise blaring in Times Square, as hoards of people zoomed around me...time stood still.

All of the hurts, regrets and frustrations of my completely normal, troubled youth...went away.

I was relieved to hear back from her.

I came to work on Tuesday to find two beautiful e-mail messages from my two new friends at the Meet-Up:

"It was so great meeting you...it would be great to see you again..."

No games. No drama. No are-we-or-aren't-we-going-to-meet-and-am-I pretty-enough, sexy-enough-for-you?

I could have sworn that Italian guy was gay...maybe he wasn't? Like my Italian friend once told me, all Italians are just a little bit "gay."

Then, Tuesday night I put myself through the ringer. Not only did I beat myself to the pulp with exercising, but I also skipped dinner just so I would look extra gaunt for Mr. CEO on Wednesday.

It occurred to me that Mr. CEO and I had confirmed a date and a place...but not a time? I thought we would figure out the time on Wednesday afternoon. I did say after work didn't I?

All the whilst these thoughts racing, hoping I was one day away from finding my true love, I still had that heavy, foreboding sour feeling in my gut, like something wasn't right.

Then, today, I frantically bought a top I couldn't afford on my lunch hour, thinking I'm just a few hours away from meeting Mr. CEO. I thought about what his lips would feel like pressed against mine. I started thinking about what should I drink tonight? I can't drink anything too strong because I might faint or get sick from no eating and hard liquor. I'll have wine. That should be good.

But, we still hadn't confirmed a time?

Then, I sat the rest of this afternoon debating whether or not I should e-mail Mr. CEO and ask him what time we're meeting. Would that seem too anxious? Didn't I need to know WHAT FUCKING TIME WE'RE MEETING?

Finally, the acid in my stomach swelling from no food and nerves, I e-mailed Mr. CEO.

I told him I could make it at 6:30.

Then, half an hour later, I got this:

"Can we meet tomorrow night? It would work so much better with my schedule..."

I had to do a double-take.

I felt dizzy, not believing the words I read screaming at me from my computer screen.

HIS schedule? What about MY fucking schedule? What about the weeks I had been preparing and fantasizing for this meeting to take place? What about all of the "nonsense" I'd been through the past few days trying to use anything as a distraction to not think about this?

THIS.

THIS...THIS...THING. This over-grandeurized meeting THING with some shady guy from the Internet.

At that moment, at exactly 5:05 p.m. this afternoon, I chose not to respond to his quite revealing e-mail.

I knew I was finished with this CEO illusion. It was a powerful, exhilarating, freeing, yet scary moment.

I chose to get off of the merry-go-round. The merry-go-round of insecurities.

On the ride home on the subway, I was so exhausted from my pre-date beauty routine the night before that I just wanted to sleep. A homeless man on the subway started to mumble to me with a sparkle in his eye:

"Your eyes are so beautiful. There's something in them. There's something about you.
You have a good heart...Better than the rest of 'em."

When I got home, I found that I had received my first message on HotEnough.org.

The founder of the site, who lives in New Jersey, winked at me.

Why, could this mean...a new project? A new man to look forward to? Another CEO?

I think not.

For today, I declare CEO Liberation Day, meaning, well... everything happens for a reason.

If I had not been so blindingly mad about this phantom CEO man online, I wouldn't have RSVP'd to some party I didn't care about, wouldn't have met two amazing new friends, wouldn't have let go of my past hurts and took a risk and reconnected with my "old" best friend, wouldn't have tapped into that young teenage girl part of me that I know is still there, dying to come out...innocent...free... happy...full of hope...freedom...and promise.

Hedge Funds and Dive Bars

So I got an e-mail this morning from Mr. CEO asking me to meet him Tuesday or Wednesday of this week. Interesting. Maybe that's when the wife and kids will be busy? I still don't know this guy, yet, I'm strangely attracted to this dark side, the mysteriousness of this person who is so discrete online. I've convinced myself to go and meet him strictly for journalistic purposes. It seems like a fun experiment. Of course, I will bring my mace just in case.

When I do research on his name, a lot of hedge fund stuff shows up. Before I moved to New York, I didn't even know what a hedge fund was. Basically, a hedge fund is a way for the rich and corrupt to get more rich and corrupt. Since there is such a disparity between the rich and poor here in Manhattan, guys who are deep into hedge fund operations are usually pretty weird, yet insanely rich. But, not "good" rich because they are usually pretty reclusive and snobbish. Like they think you are crazy if you're not in the Hamptons all summer. Or, the word "dive bar" doesn't exist in their vocabulary.

There are tons of these hedge fund cronies trolling around for pretty arm candy dates online. They are lonely, overworked, and a bit desperate, if not socially stunted.

The last hedge fund guy I dated used to zoom up (uninvited I might add) to my apartment in his new Porsche (not his BMW because it was too slow) at 5 in the morning after long nights of clubbing. He was hyper, obviously on something, and he seemed so alone, so scared, and he would grab onto me tightly. It was my first NY experience that money doesn't equal happiness and it scared the shit out of me. The emptiness I felt when I was with him was overwhelming.

How can these men, who obviously could have anything at their beck and call, be so unhappy, so empty, so devoid of life? Money is just paper that we, ourselves, have invented. It's not real. We can't take it with us when we die.

I found myself spending more time with this lonely hedge fund crazy because he always took me to the best restaurants, the best clubs and he knew New York inside and out. It was exciting to speed down the West Side Highway in his Porsche, the wind blowing in my hair, frivolity and drunkenness taking over my rigidity and innocence. He knew the owner of the best gourmet Indian food restaurant here in the city, and it was there that we would chat over wine, the Samosas melting in my mouth in the seductive candlelight. It was in his expensive Gramercy apartment that we would stay up all night, him showing me photos of his past loves tucked into his nightstand drawers. He confessed he went to therapy and his mom recently had a nervous breakdown. They found her wandering the streets in her nightgown.

The bitter taste that this man left in my mouth has still to go away, because I have realized that having money brings whole other sets of problems, and, money alone will not attract me to a man.

I can take myself to the best restaurants. I can take myself to the best clubs. It might break my budget, but if I really wanted to, I could. And someday, maybe if I want it, I will have a Porsche.

My grandfather used to say to me: "Honey, we're all the same. Everyone still has to eat and shit. Don't ever forget that. Ever."

Maybe Mr. CEO's wife and I can go shopping together.

The Disappearing Act

I think men disappear from our lives for a reason. Well, I say that but I still look back at certain situations from my past and wonder "WTF happened?" Was it something I said? Something I didn't say? Was there something in my teeth? Was it what I was wearing? Was I not charismatic or charming enough? Was I too charismatic and charming? Did he prefer a silent type? Was it my aloofness? Or, was I too eager? Was it my voice? My slight Texan accent? Was it when I pulled out a cigarette and smoked, inhaling deeply? Was it when I laughed at something that wasn't funny? Or did I not laugh enough? Was I not pretty enough? Did I not dress slutty enough? Was my ass too big? That's it.

He saw my ass.

He SAW my ethnic ass and the way it jiggles when I walk. It was too big. Way too big for him. I knew it.

Maybe I wore too much perfume.

These are all assumptions that I used to ponder late at night, during the pangs of loneliness and chocolate overload and watching too much television. But who the shit knows know why these men stopped calling? I used to imagine calling these "lost" men and saying:

"Hey. I know you were kind of weird and stuff and I really didn't like you all that much anyway, and you're really not my type, and you're not tall enough, but, why the fuck did you stop calling? I mean it would have been nice to have somebody, anybody pursue me just to say I was being pursued. So, what the hell was wrong with me? You're the one who had a slight lisp and bad breath on occasion. C'mon. Just tell me. What did I do wrong? I just need to know, so, next time, when a potential man comes into my life, of course, who's cuter, smarter and well, has more to offer than you, I won't make those same so-called mistakes."

Then, there are the online phantom men I NEVER see in real life flesh and blood, just have mild flirtations with and the semi-intention of actually meeting.

I'm really learning that if two people are supposed to meet, they will fucking meet.

There have been so many men in my online dating realm who have seemed absolutely perfect on the screen with good looks, charisma and what seemed like a job. I never met these men. They exist in the realm of 0's and 1's, HTML or JAVA script programming gleaming from my computer screen. They ask for my number. We chit chat for brief or long periods of time on the phone. We say we're going to meet next week or the week after. He may call again and we may chat again and we may have a date scheduled and he may cancel or I may cancel. And, I may never answer his call because I don't like the sound of his voice or something in my stomach tells me it isn't right, something is off.

I like to call the first encounter of meeting someone online "Date Zero." To actually get to this "Date Zero" is a miracle in itself, if not incredibly dissapointing.

My favorite part about actually meeting these men is being able to watch their lips move when they speak. You can't tell from their photos that their lip twitches or is slightly crooked and sort of caves in when they smile. Or you can't see the way their eyes sort of squint or jiggle when they try to laugh. Or, how about the slight limp when they walk and the tapered leg jeans that look like floods? Who the hell wears tapered leg jeans?

I just got an e-mail from some other CEO guy. He's supposedly back from his "business trip." He said: "I am now back and I am excited to see you." He then put a smiley face and his name.

How the hell was I supposed to respond? I said: "Thank you, that's sweet- you too." even though I don't know who the hell this person is. My theory is if a guy sends me a one-line e-mail, he gets a one-line e-mail right back. He then wrote: "When should we meet? I think you are going to like me..."

I told him Saturday might be good for me. I said Saturday because it's a prime time day and if he's married, he definitely can't make it. Also, why the hell would someone write "I think you are going to like me?" Reverse psychology if you ask me because it really implies that I wouldn't like him.

I have yet to hear back from him about meeting on Saturday. I feel like I'm a journalist on that "To Catch a Predator" where I throw them the bait and they show up to find camera crews and and I have a microphone taped to me and I say "So, why are you doing this?" Married men who troll for online dates are the scum of the earth. It is so disgusting and desperate it makes my skin crawl.

How will I ever know if he's married? Were my responses too brief? Maybe it was my height. I should have checked off 5'6" instead of 5'4".

WHO CARES! Who really gives a shit what these strange men think of me! These men disappear and flutter back away into their cyber world nerdy caves. I'm learning to appreciate and savor my alone time with my chocolate and bad television. For, it is in these moments that I am discovering who I really am, what I'm really about and what I really want. I am becoming more intuitive, more perceptive, more aware of what I stand for...and dishonest men will automatically disappear from my life.

But, maybe it could have been the crinkle on my forehead when I looked surprised to see how unattractive they were?

Fiction and Isolation

Everyone here in the city seems to be up on the latest fiction bestseller. Everyone (even their dogs) has a book to read on the subway. When I steal a glimpse of what the person next to me on the subway is reading, I get slightly amused and delve into a fantasy world of my own. I like to imagine what the person next to me is thinking as they devour the words on the page.

People here eat while reading books. People here walk while reading books. People here talk while reading books. People here sleep while reading books. It seems like whatever book you're reading is a fashion statement. The "in" thing to do.

The irony is that the people who look the stupidest are usually reading something deep and complex. The people who look the smartest, i.e., studious and well-dressed, are usually reading something simple. Aren't appearances deceiving?

I've had trouble getting into fiction or anything over three pages since I moved here. I will start a book and suddenly become disinterested because it doesn't move me, doesn't shake me, doesn't make me feel something. I just don't understand my tastes because every time, I mean every time someone recommends a book to me and says "This book is sooo amazing. You'll be hooked from the first page," it usually ends up underneath my bed gathering dust, bent and crumpled.

Last night, a miracle occurred. I picked up a book, and, drumroll please, I was hooked. It's called "Namesake" by some Indian author. It's about Indian immigrants who come to America in the early 60s. Probably doesn't sound too different, but the intricate, overlapping themes of the book have really resonated with me.

After I moved back from Italy in 2003 I had to finish my Bachelor's degree. One of the courses I had to take was Contemporary American lit. My teacher was this bitchy, menopausal psychopath who wanted us to interpret the stories from her point of view and parrot it on the exams.

One day, as I was discussing an exam with her in her office, she started to talk to me about my experience of living in Italy and being married to an Italian. It's a conversation I'll never forget:

Teacher: "Gosh, you had so many themes of isolation going on when you were in Italy. Have you ever thought about writing about those themes?"

Me: "Well, um..."

Teacher: "See, the first theme is being so far away from your family. The second theme is not knowing the language, the third theme is that your husband was away so much and the fourth theme is that you were new to marriage. All at one time! Amazing!"

Me: "Well, um, I've never really thought about it that way..."

As I read this book about the Indian immigrants, I can't help but think of that conversation with my psycho, yet brilliant professor. I can't help but think of all the themes of isolation that have repeated over and over in my life... Aren't we all immigrants in some form or another? I'm an immigrant in New York.

Don't we all feel like strangers?

One of my favorite quotes is: "We're not human beings having a spiritual experience. We're spiritual beings having a human experience."

I guess I shouldn't be so hard on myself because I haven't followed the status quo and read the latest fashionable book. Just like the dating thing, I'm sure the right book will come to me...Hey, it did last night.

A Big Glass of Water

I received an e-mail this morning from an old friend of mine in Texas. It was a forwarded e-mail, but I really think it was something I needed to hear at this moment. It said that when you hold a glass of water, it doesn't seem too heavy. When you hold it for an hour, your arm starts to hurt. When you hold it for days, it becomes a burden and the pain becomes impossible to bear.

The e-mail then went on to compare the glass of water to our work lives. It may not seem like much, but bringing home all of your burdens from work will eventually become impossible to bear. We are NOT our jobs. We are more than that. I think that's what I realized this week. Even though I have a fairly easy job, the constant task of going and going and going finally took its toll.

Today marks my one year anniversary of living in New York. It's been a whirlwind, a constant push to make ends meet, a constant questioning. I've learned a lot about myself since being here. Things I could have never known if I would have never taken the risk and jumped on that flight and said, "Let's try it out for a year."

Some of the things I've learned:

1. I''m just like my father. I have strong sense of self that I usually don't share with many people.
2. I'm just like my mother. I have learned to say "fuck it" when I need to.
3. I'm just like my brother. I can be a chamelion and take on other people's personalities when I'm around them.
4. I can commute from one tip of Manhattan to the other and find my way around.
5. I will always bounce back spiritually. No matter how "off" I get, I will always find the meaning and lesson in everything.
6. I kind of know Microsoft Excel.
7. I understand office politics more. Don't gossip.
8. There are no accidents or "random" meetings. Every person in this city meets who they need to meet, at exactly the right moment.
9. Honesty really is the best policy. In a city of lying liars, it's refreshing to be yourself and take the pressure off.
10. I need my family. Always. They are the constant rock in my life. They are on this journey with me, inside my heart.

It's impossible not to have a job here in the city. I've been going non-stop since day one here and consciously or subconsciously, I have to say, I am very very tired. It feels like I am on this merry-go-round with the same stuff regurgitating itself over and over, every day. I am ready for a change. I'm not sure what that change will entail, but I think am ready.

Who knows where I'll be in the next few months. Maybe I'll still be at my same job, doing the same things. But, I think something in me has changed. I still have a twinkle in my eye and I still see the good in people. I might be a little crazier than when I left Texas, but, I think crazier can be good thing.

I think I'm going to set that glass of water down now.