Put on Your Game Face

Everyone claims to hate games. I say "claims" because deep down, we all play games. And to be completely honest with ourselves, most of the time we love games. When we're not that into someone, we hate if they don't play games because games are what keep us interested. When we are that into someone, we love when they throw the playbook out the window and we get to feel like all the rules are being broken-- it becomes a testament to how strong your love/like/karmic- connection/attraction is.

(If you haven't seen "Love & Basketball" yet, go out and rent it immediately)

Another thing that can go hand-in-hand with games is Types. Types are our teammates-- who we pick to play games with. People LOVE to talk about Types. What's your Type? Who's your Type? Tell me about your ideal Type. I've even been out with several guys who have asked me what my Type is. (Insert audience poll: Is that normal? Because I always just assume that if we're out on a date, I'M pretty much your type). And if you really think about it, about all the different Types out there, isn't it almost impossible to narrow it down to one? I like to think that depending on my surroundings and my mood I can be attracted to almost anyone...a hipster with a great personality and interesting ideas, an athlete with manly, outdoorsy hobbies (and no doubt fewer ideas), a banker who's sophisticated (with too many ideas), etc. But is it really possible to narrow ALL of the men in the world down to something so singularly small as to one Type for you?

Apparently, yes. It is for me at least. Well, wait. I lie. I have two Types. There are the men that make me fall head-over-heels, create an instant attraction, get our personalities clicking, and lead me to Future Planning (and you know we all do it. We all have those fleeting moments of insanity where in 4/10ths of a millisecond we picture a Kate Hudson/Matthew McConaughey [yes, I had to look up the proper spelling of his last name] "How To Lose A Guy In 10 Days"-style photo album flashing through our brains). For me, this first man is usually tall, dark, has a great sense of humor, and an athletic build. Inevitably, First leaves me with nothing but heartache. (Though I like to think I'm getting closer).

(But maybe you haven't pictured taking your kids yodeling, like Kate did)

My other type, or Second, is the guy that I almost ALWAYS date in-between dating First. Second has less of a physical description and more of an aura. Generally he is intelligent, highly driven at work (where he is able to maintain a presence for more than a year, and you can refer to it as a "career"), sweet, thoughtful, geographically unavailable (not always, but it helps if he's long-distance or has an impending move on the horizon), way more into me than I am into him, and mildly attractive. Don't get me wrong, Second is usually an attractive man, I'm just not normally attracted to him.

This lack of attraction is usually based on one of my picky neuroses. There's a current Second trying to make his way onto the court that I think is too skinny. Apparently, I really like muscular arms. If you asked me to describe physical traits of a First last week, muscular arms might not have made the list. After meeting New Second though, they mysteriously have. There's another Second who's about to go into retirement who has an abnormally large urethra opening. I didn't even know they came in sizes, but this one made the head of his penis resemble Audrey, the plant in "Little Shop of Horrors." I kept waiting for it to burst into song. (It hasn't). Today, I think "doesn't have freakish pee-hole" could be important for my future Firsts.

(Unfortunately, it was just an "average-sized" shop of horrors)

And don't get me wrong-- you can have a great time with Second. I usually get some of my best stories out of Second, most of which I'll share with you in due time. I guess my main problem with Second is that he wants to meet my parents, whereas First wants to hide from my parents. I mean on paper, Second is always hands-down the better guy, he just doesn't play the game as well as First. Second is too eager, calls too soon, is too friendly. First is the Latin guy they refer to in "Wedding Crashers"-- grinds up on you, makes you feel dangerous but also safe. First knows he wants to be with me, but makes me do some guesswork in the beginning, waiting for a call, delaying his response to my email (which was only a response to HIS email, but I emailed back too quickly to be cool, though I swear I calculated it out to be an appropriate amount of leave-him-hanging time...). I always assume First is everyone's First, that he's suuuuch a great caaaatch and I'm soooo lucky to beeee with him (which always leads me to be way too forgiving down the road). That just couldn't be though, because otherwise he wouldn't have been on the market to begin with. (I like to think I'm also exclusively a First, but I guess I just proved my own theory wrong).

So, is the problem that Second doesn't know the right rules to the game? Or do I change my rules for Second depending on my mood, on a whim, because I know deep down he's not First? And vice versa: Do I let First get away with not knowing the rules simply because I've deemed him a First? I suppose I do, truthfully. But I guess those are the rules to MY game...

Wascally Wabbit

I am the Elmer Fudd of apartment hunting-- I just can't seem to shoot anything good.

As the sun slowly sets on my current lease and rises on (what is becoming) my impending homelessness, I find myself reaching a fever pitch in my apartment search. And when you live in New York City, trust me, it is a SEARCH. They don't call it "apartment hunting" for nothing. Scouring the NYTimes, tipping doormen, asking friends/colleagues/strangers in bars if they know of anyone else looking-- after a while you're just a magnifying glass short of the whole Sherlock Holmes getup. I mean, deciphering Craigslist ads alone makes me feel like I'm running through Rome with Robert Langdon, cracking the DaVinci Code. (Ah, gratuitous pop culture references. Side note: I never really pictured Tom Hanks in that role).

(Whatever happened to the blonde guy?)

Here are some pearls of wisdom that I've learned during my years in NYC and am happy to impart: "Cozy" means small; "cute" means really small; "small but...[insert either bright!, with a huge common area!, great location!]" means really fucking small. And don't even dream about finding a "loft" apartment. They're like Moby Dick-- you read about it, you know it exists because you've heard stories of real friend's work friends living in them, but you've never personally seen one and they're always juuuust out of your price range. Any lofts I've seen have long ago been sliced and diced into an almost college dormitory-style apartment. Let's see....what else. Oh! If an ad DOESN'T mention a bedroom having a window, it doesn't mean that common sense implies all rooms have windows, it means the bedroom literally has no window.

Now I know what you're asking: "Who would...? how could...? why should...?" And the answer to each of those questions is "I have no idea." I learned the No Window Rule the hard way. After psyching myself up for an hour about the possibility of leaving my conveniently-located apartment and moving down to the ends of the earth in the Financial District, I took the 40 minute trip to check out the apartment of a normal-sounding girl. When I got there, she showed me a decent-sized room and continually directed my attention to the great closet space, but I just couldn't get a feel for the place. After leaving the room, I immediately realized what was so strange about it-- there was no window. She showed me the rest of the apartment and then asked what I thought about it. "I think there's no window in the bedroom," I responded. She looked at me like I was crazy for even noticing OR caring and said "yeah, but it's not like the air is stale. You have that AC unit." Where I come from, a room with no window is a closet.

Last night, I saw three other gems. The first one was a "loft" apartment near FIT. The building looked half-abandoned, but was two blocks from the subway that takes me to work so I decided to head on in against my better judgment. An insane-looking man met me just inside and led me up the four flights of stairs through the dirty warehouse-style building to the "loft" he had. (I only followed him because he had his incredibly normal, J. Crew clad girlfriend with him who was super friendly). On the whole, the apartment bordered on Fine and Shithole, and when he showed me the room it was a fairly reasonable size. As I lifted the blinds to check out the view, I found myself looking directly into the windows-- maybe three feet away-- of another building. When I asked if those windows were another apartment, an office, etc., the guy responded with "Oh yeah, an old man lives there. He collects stethoscopes or something." Uh, Hannibal Lecter, is that you? Next please!

(Check ya later, Clarice)

When I got the address of the next place, it didn't immediately ring any bells so I'd decided to go and check it out. Turns out, it was on the sketchiest street in the sketchiest area that I've been to in Manhattan. Naturally, I tossed my instincts aside and went in anyway. After being buzzed into the building, I immediately had to walk up a ski slope of a three story stairwell. (All I could wonder was a) if they would install one of those movable seats that senior citizens use to climb stairs, and b) how I would ever make it home drunk). I was...well not "greeted", because that implies some type of welcoming words, but "let into" a window-less apartment by a strange Asian lady talking about neuroscience, to a room full of other hunters. Swear on this blog that my very first thought was "Oh my god, they're going to try and get me into their cult!" My second thought was, "Why is this Asian lady coughing at me?" The cough, apparently signaled that I had to take my shoes off, as did everyone else there. To me, this was a sure sign of the brainwashing to come, and for some reason left me feeling extremely vulnerable and violated. She pointed me over towards a couch where a giant bear of a gay man was sitting cross-legged at the coffee table, surrounded by a large group of other baffled people. He was careful not to introduce himself or ask a single person about themselves, focusing only instead on how he's so sophisticated and a world traveler. Then, he asked a guy named Eros if he was Spanish. Now I was not a Classical Studies major, but hello? Greek god of love anyone?? I took the opportunity to quickly run to the bedroom, which held just a double bed and had no closet, and peeked around. Quickly, I mumbled my thanks and something about the inadequate room size, grabbed my flip flops, and ran the hell out.

The last place I wound up at was an apartment full of men looking for female roommates to occupy the two empty bedrooms they had. While phrasing my invitation to come over as just me meeting the current occupants, what I walked into was a group situation of several women drinking on the couches, all vying for the empty spots. It was one kiddie pool of baby oil short of a porno. Except it would've been the most boring erotic film you've ever seen because one of the girls monopolized the conversation to talk about door knobs the entire time. What? Door knobs? Yup, door knobs. She works for a company that makes them and apparently finds them quite interesting. Scan stage right to me, silently sitting on the couch drinking a beer wondering where I'd gone wrong in life that this was my evening because, let's face it, I was in no mood for KY wrestling and what the fuck would I have to add in about door knobs?? "I like the way they...turn. Also, they're super helpful when opening doors!"

An hour later I rolled up to my gorgeous building in a cab that pulled into the circular drive around the glowing center fountain and the beautifully landscaped flowers and the doorman opened my cab door and wished me a pleasant evening as I floated into my lobby that had fresh flowers and was well-lit and the concierge waved hello to me. I got in a nice elevator and was dropped off on my floor into a hallway that looks like a hotel and glided into my apartment to my big room with my own bathroom. All I could hear in my head was the song "Glory Days." I'm going to be clinging to the door handle here screaming DONT MAKE ME LEAVE on moving day. Actually, maybe then I'll finally have found an appreciation for a good door knob.

(I think Bruce knows what's up)

NUMB3RS

No, this post isn't about the history-making, record-breaking CBS drama about a genius mathematician and his FBI brother that literally owns the airwaves at 10pm on Fridays (I kid, I kid). However, I will take a second to give a shout-out to that show: While I've only seen you a handful of times, NUMB3RS, I applaud your bold move of making the Jewish guy who played Bernard the Elf in Tim Allen's critically-acclaimed cinematic masterpiece "The Santa Clause," the lead actor on your show. You've come a long way, David Krumholtz.

(This picture's for you, Grey & Red)

This post is about your nuuuumber. Like your real number. Like how many people you've slept with. That's right, I'm pulling out my soapbox. Girls, what I'm here to say is Screw Men. Literally and figuratively I suppose. Despite how far we've come with the Suffragettes, the 60's, Melanie Griffith in "Working Girl," and "Sex and the City" (my personal favorite...though not the movie, that just didn't live up to the hype), somehow we are STILL made to feel ashamed about s-e-x by m-e-n. It's time to O-W-N it. But enough with the spelling bee.

Personally, I've always wondered why the number even matters. I don't think I've ever asked anyone that I was in a relationship with how many people they've been with before me (though I do make them get tested...I'm not an idiot). This could be because I like to think of life as a journey. Without the women that came before myself (oooh, dirty double entendre!) "he" wouldn't be where he is now-- with me. Everything leads to something else, yadda yadda yadda, inspirational quote inserted here. Seriously though, every relationship we have, every person we bring into our lives (for friendship or sex or anything else) brings us a little closer to who we are becoming.

I spent more than the majority of the last year of my life with a man who always felt insecure about the number of men I'd been with before him. Very often he would make comments about my "past" or say he would wonder if he could trust me or he didn't know what kind of person I was or I gave a bad impression of myself to him in the beginning of our relationship. I felt like I was constantly defending myself, offering my life up as an open book, and ultimately yelling at him to see reason-- only the yelling at did he actually deserve, everything else was me being too nice. The best part about this whole sordid affair? HE NEVER ASKED MY NUMBER! He just decided, straight-away, that it was probably most likely to possibly be something that could perhaps make him uncomfortable were he to know it. Then, in the end, he was the one that wound up sleeping with someone else (and yes Ross, I know we were on a break, but it was hardly a week in and I didn't even kiss anyone else).

(Who else kinda wants to smack this stupid grin off of David's face?)

And it's not just me. Almost all of my friends have been with someone who has had a problem with their number. Shockingly low? Uh-oh, she totally wants a relationship. Too high? She's a slut. She's taking too long to sleep with me, I'm loosing interest. She slept with me too fast, now she's definitely a slut. And real life isn't Goldi Locks girls, there's no such thing here as "just right."

I'm not gonna lie...the numbers game is usually a deciding factor in ending the relationship. Why should anyone be with someone who doesn't make them feel good about themselves ALL OF THE TIME? What I say is that if you don't have a problem with it, how dare anyone else? I know that I'll never be with someone again who doesn't make me feel 100%, 100% of the time.

One friend of mine was sitting around with her boyfriend one night and he looked at her and asked "So how many people have you been with? Like 10?" She looked up at him and replied "Yeah...times like three." He started to balk and she said "Hey, if you're not complaining in there," and motioned to the bedroom, "I don't want to hear you complaining out here." You know what? He hasn't brought it up since.

That is because a Real Man is secure with himself and his relationship with you. An RM would never make you feel inferior or self-conscious or ashamed. It's time we start being Real Women. By no means am I advocating sleeping around (and if you do, do it safely please...wrap it up), but I am saying that we need to own our sexuality. Like one of my wise, wise friends says, "Everyone else is just jealous that they didn't have as much fun as we did!" So embrace your number, own it, write it on a piece of paper and whether its 4 or 40 or 4,000, pin it to your chest, smile, and shout out "screw men!" And mean it.

Love, Hate, and Facebook

Who are the people that have nothing better to do than sit on facebook and scan through the millions of strangers they don't know, friend requesting and/or messaging them? I mean, I've been known to stalk down a person or two in my day, but can I be totally honest here? Stupid question, of course I can. This is my blog. Anyway, if I don't know you, I probably don't give a shit about what you're doing. Truthfully, even if I DO know you I probably don't give a shit about what you're doing-- unless it's something way less cool/fun/successful than what I'm doing, in which case I'll freely check your page from time to time if for no other reason then to laugh at you and think about how great I am/have it. And come on, we all know that's true. It's so freeing to be self-absorbed.

But back to the random facebookers. What makes you think that if we've never met, don't live in the same city, have a single friend or group in common, that I'd want to accept your friend request? Please, tell me. I'm dying to know. Even more so, what makes you think that I welcome any uninvited contact between us? While I foolishly thought I'd gone to great lengths to remain hidden in plain sight (aka setting my privacy settings to "witness protection level"), I've not only managed to have been found by a complete stranger, but messaged as well.

True story: At 2am last night, I got the following message from "Mady Kaster." Now I put Mady's name in quotes not because I'm using a pseudonym to protect the true Mady, but because "Mady Kaster" sounds like the biggest bullshit name that I've ever heard.

Subject: No Subject
wooooo..
ur hot!!!

so hot..
damn girl watu eat?????????????

After reading this message this morning, I deliberated for about 30 seconds on whether or not to respond. I decided I wasn't going to ignore Mady as per my usual move, but put Mady in his/her place. (I've decided Mady is either a man, or a woman with a lower-back tattoo of a butterfly).

Dear Mady,

I maintain my youthful figure on a steady and well-balanced diet of urban slang. Thanks for the inquiry!

Now, as soon as I sent this, I felt a wave of nausea. What had I done? If Mady could find me on facebook, maybe Mady could find me in real life! Maybe I've angered Mady...and maybe, just like The Incredible Hulk, you don't want to make Mady angry. Or worse yet, what if I've started a gang war with Mady? And I don't even have a gang to back me up!! And I work in Harlem-- if I leave my office and Mady is waiting outside for me, as Mady has the advantage of knowing what I look like while Mady remains faceless on facebook, I wouldn't even know! Mady could hit me over the head with a bag of pennies before I even had time to waste my last breath crying out for help.

Don't fear though-- Mady responded four minutes later.

lol...urban slang........... funny.
no seriously, is there some sort of excercise you do...

btw, would u b intersted in a vip pool party the upcoming sat..
if u r...just drop me a message..

have a good one :)

Oh Mady, Mady, Mady. The only thing I would be "intersted" in is knowing how you so callously ignore the squiggly red line that spell check graciously provides for you. How ballsy to send an email written out as a text (b, u, r) and not even bother to spell the actual words correctly! Especially after I JUST MADE FUN OF YOU! You know what, Mady? I'm glad you don't have a picture. If you did, I wouldn't be able to picture your face looking as stupid as your emails. Also, if you were very hot I'd have to forgive you a little and then feel ashamed of myself.

My advice to you Mady? (And you know who you are, Madys of the world out there). Go back to myspace.