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!

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...

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.