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!

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...

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?"

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.