August 11, 2011
I recently reconnected with a Scottish friend I met while studying abroad at the University of Edinburgh. He just moved to New York and we talked about my year of boozing and making out with men with cute accents. Man, can I just say how much I loved living abroad as an American; I felt like I was in a sitcom the entire time.
He asked if New York dating is really like it is on tv and the movies. I told him what I tell every person who asks that question: Imagine Sex and the City, make everyone less unattractive and much poorer, take away the happy endings and retain all the weirdness. There, you have New York dating. Patti Stanger of Millionaire Matchmaker described the perils of city dating perfectly–New York City makes Sex and the City look like a cake walk.
Scotsman: How is this so?
Me: Well young cricket, let me tell you a story.
Several years ago, I went on a few dates with a man I met at Brass Monkey. This was before the bar was considered cool and required a wait time. Really? Is that what the young kids are doing these days? Waiting in line to get into a smelly bar?
Our first date was amazing and I thought I had met my husband for the following reasons:
- We talked about books. HE READ BOOKS.
- We talked about art. HE LIKED ART.
- We talked about the opera. HE LIKED THE OPERA.
- We both liked Manhattans. HE LIKED BOURBON.
- His goal was to live half time in New York and half time in London. HE WANTed TO LIVE IN A SITCOM TOO!!!!
It was a while before our next date because he kept canceling. But man did he try to make up for lost ground. He got a private table at the Modern. And he mentioned the following things over a lavish five course meal and a $500 bottle of wine (yes, you read that right–$500):
- He thought he could introduce me to his parents.
- He said I was the classiest girl he’d ever met.
- He invited me to fly to England to watch a Manchester vs. Chelsea game.
But it all came crashing down when he asked me the following fatal question: How much do you think I’m worth in cash?
Me: Um, what?
Future husband: You know, how much do you think I’m liquid?
Me: I’m sorry, I’m not understanding the question.
Future husband: Well, I’ve done really well for myself . I mean, what do you think a guy like me, a young mergers & acquisitions investment banker who can buy a vintage bottle of Stagshead Leap Cabernet, is worth?
I still really didn’t get it. I felt like he and I were getting along because we had similar personalities. And I’d like to think that my personality would never tolerate such peacocking. If a friend of mine ever asked me that question, I would immediately assume that he/she was fucking with me. The answer would either be zero or ONE BILLION DOLLARS. And this billion dollars would have been obtained because of something amazing, like investing in Google stock early or winning a law suit that involved a severed pinky finger.
So I answered.
Me: FIVE BILLION DOLLARS! (with a shit eating grin)
Future husband: Um, no. (with a pissed off look)
Me: One billion dollars? (less enthusiastically)
Future husband: Less.
Me: One million dollars?
Future husband: Less.
Me: A half a million dollars?
Future husband: Less.
Okay, now it’s stupid. I’m never going to have a half a million dollars, but in New York, anything less is nothing to brag about. I bet you my building super has more than that (I’m serious).
Future husband: I actually have $200,000. (totally exasperated)
Me: That’s stupid. Why don’t you put down on an apartment?
Shockingly, he was not my future husband, nor was he even a future bang buddy. He was the future dunce who just spent over a thousand dollars on a date with girl who didn’t sleep with him and at the end of the night was worth less than $199,000.
July 22, 2011
Everyone has a local, whether it’s the Italian place that puts crab on their pizza or the dive bar known for cake batter shots. Having a local bakery, coffee shop or dry cleaner may not seem like a big deal to many, but in New York where one can find two Starbucks across the street from each other and three delis on the same block, it’s a big deal.
I don’t have many locals, but I was reminded of one of the very few I’m currently committed to when someone sent me the following picture.
For three years now, I have been a loyal customer of the Brazilian waxer around the corner from my apartment. Prior to discovering this spa, my waxing regimen was dictated by what Spa Week deal was in my inbox. I’m still poor, so I don’t go bare down there every month like them 20 year old Park Avenue gold diggers. I only wax the vaj around beach time and go about three times a year.
My most recent visit was definitely the most awkward waxing experience I’ve ever had. This is quite the feat given what a Brazilian already entails—being naked waist down in front of a relative stranger, having hot wax poured over your delicate private parts and then ripping out hair and sometimes skin. (I loathe being a woman at times.)
I walked in and the spa was dark. The receptionist said they had lost power and air conditioning (this was during one of those unpleasantly hot days), but she reassured me that the wax heaters were still functioning. While we were chatting, this woman walked in and asked if there were any available walk-ins. The receptionist politely said, “No, I’m sorry. It’s peak season and we are already behind with this client right here (she points to me). Usually at this time of year, you have to book two weeks in advance.”
This woman responded with the following: BAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. FUCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCCK.
Um, really? Were you really that upset about not getting waxed? Although, I fully appreciate the exceptional job these waxers do, I can only imagine not getting waxed at the time you planned is similar to your dentist postponing your cleaning. Sure you’re annoyed, but aren’t you relieved you don’t have to go to the dentist? And lady, this was your goddamn fault. If you are a jungle down there, just march your ass to the nearest Korean nail salon or take a razor to that shit. My god, it’s just hair.
But the most awkward moment happened later into the appointment. My waxer came out to greet me and asked if I had been to this establishment before. I said yes, and she didn’t believe me. I was adamant about me being a regular for the following reasons:
- When you’re a new patron anywhere, they make you sign up for stupid newsletters. I hate that shit so I always say that I’ve been before even when I haven’t.
- I really wasn’t new.
I entered the private room, de-panted and laid down on the table of pain. As soon as the waxer got a good look at my vaj, she exclaimed, “Oh you have been here before!”
If that doesn’t prove that I’m local, I’m not sure what does.
Maybe she recognized the fade she gave you last time.
July 5, 2011
First, apologies for the delay of this post. I’ve been on vacation canoeing, beaching and sunning. If it’s any consolation, I’m covered with deer-fly bites and burns. Yum, sexy?
Second, I have news: I have a crush on a boy.
Can you believe it? What poor human being has the unfortunate luck to be liked by me? Especially now with my skin being red, blotchy and bumpy. Before you start scouring my Facebook profile and yours to speculate who he is, I promise you will never guess correctly.Why is this worth mentioning? Well for me, having a crush on a boy is about as rare an occurrence as the appearance of an albino koala. It’s not crazy weird, but perhaps unusual enough that you would tell your friend, “Hey, today I saw an albino koala.” And to the delight of you, the reader, me having a crush usually ends in entertaining disaster. The last time I had a crush, the following happened (and I will go into further detail in a 3-part miniseries):
- Kickball empires were crushed
- My self esteemed seemed irreparable for a very long while
- And I ended up with a bruise that went from my upper mid-thigh to my mid-calf (don’t get any sick ideas)
Part of the reason why my infatuations often end in disaster is because I am so awful at flirting. By the time I have mustered up enough courage to say a mere “hi”, the entire world has smelled the pheromones wreaking from my pores putting undue pressure on both me and the object of my affection. For example, the last time I talked to the current crush, I was not subtle and my friend asked later, “Were you flirting with him?” Now, I am embarrassed and will never speak to this current crush ever again.
I used to be so much better at picking up boys. I don’t exactly know what changed, but I’m pretty sure it has something to do with me no longer wearing backless shirts and hot pants…well, outside any way.
Whenever I ask my dude friends about how to remedy this, they often reply with the following: JUST TELL HIM YOU WANT TO FUCK. I’m sorry, what? My friend Jacob clarified: “You have to make clear that hooking up is in the realm of possibility.”
Um, okay.That sounds difficult, and not within my communication skills.So everyone has these silly summer goals that often times seem unrealistic, like losing 20 pounds, reading 4 books a week, cleaning out the walk in closet. Mine will be to coyly flirt with at least 3 guys a week, randoms of course so that there is nothing at stake. Although with my luck, they’ll end up working at my place of employment.
So help me out. What’s your move?