Small (fat) signs from the universe

I got this e-mail recently.















Even my insurance company thinks I'm fat. I mean, true, the skinnier and healthier I am, the less they have to pay to take care of my fat ass - you know, pesky medical bills associated with stroke, heart attack, large FUPA, etc. - so it could totally be a selfishly motivated e-mail.

But still, damn. I get it, universe. Stop eating candy at work. Stop eating wings at football games. Stop eating pizza on pub crawls. And for Christ's sake. Stop. drinking. so. much. In my defense, I haven't had a burger in months. Well, maybe like uh month.

Mmmmmm burger. Lunch time!

Monday's mystery solved, or this artsy photo essay is probably too long

I know you've been waiting with remarkably (un)bated breath, so here it is. The explanation of the photo from yesterday, and the ridiculous weekend I had.


In Harlem, it begins. I'm really not sure why "borough" isn't written out here.


















This is how my arm looked when the day started. Soft, white and pure. We were keeping points based on the fact that we actually made it to each borough, how many drinks* were consumed and various other acts that were considered point-worthy, such as dancing.


















This was our first stop, a restaurant/bar in the Bronx called Bruckner's. Our server was awesome, and he snuck into this photo unexpectedly. The result is one of my favorite photos of the day.


















We then walked across a bridge from the Bronx back to Manhattan, where we caught a bus to Queens. This is Z looking all snooty about walking across the bridge.


















Here we are at the beer** garden in Queens. The deuces we are throwing represent that Queens was the second official borough of the day. 25 points.


















25 points I say!!!!!!1


















We then made our way (via train) to Brooklyn. My friend C was a badass and decorated her entire t-shirt for the occasion along the way. Here is the back. We all signed it, natch.























From Brooklyn, we took the train back to Manhattan to catch the ferry - yes, the fucking ferry - to Staten Island. We ran - and I mean ran - from the subway station to the ferry station. Upon our breathless arrival, Z did this and I caught it on my camera. One word: epic.
























Staten Island: the fourth borough, or the fourth circle of hell? You decide.


















I got really into it. I'm such a badass y'all!


















We were very tired, as it was about 8 p.m. We started at noon, so that's like a full work day.



















Back to Manhattan, undoubtedly the best of all possible boroughs. Don't blame me, Voltaire said it! Or stole it from Leibniz, whatevz.


















In case you are curious, I lost. I had 155 points, coming in a solid fifth place. The number on my arm says 160 because we miscounted.

Also, this photo is from 2009:


















And this one is from 2006:


















Some things never change.

*no alcohol was consumed on this day
**totally non-alcoholic

When epic events just become "life"

I have a huge post in the works detailing the events of my (once again) epic weekend, but having not had a chance to upload any of the real photos yet, I just give you this, a photo taken late last night via iPhone, as a little preview.























Some things worth noting:
1. Pants on the bed.
2. That is my arm.
2. The crossed out "5".
3. Those numbers don't actually add up to 160.

I promise to bring you the real post explaining all these things soon. If you have to wait too long you may actually stop breathing in anticipation, and I can't very well have all my beautiful readers dying off, now can I? Leave your highly educated guesses about what the fuck is going on in this photo in the comments.

New Blog Feature: Schmom B. Says

I am an emotional person. I know that I sometimes come across - especially on this blog - as increasingly flippant and irreverent, but really I can be the most emotional, dramatic, ridiculous person you've ever met. Proof: I once left my ex in a restaurant, mid-meal, because he told me something I found to be very upsetting. I just got up and walked out. And I don't even watch that much dramatic television; it's just how I am naturally. Good or bad, whatever, it's just the way it is.

People who know me well know this about me, and know how to deal with it. Foremost amongst these people is my beautiful, smart, funny mother, who perhaps personifies the NSA I wrote about recently. As such, I have decided to start a new weekly (or mayhaps twice? thrice? weekly) feature called "Schmom B. Says," in which I will post her latest wisdom nugget (sometimes sweet, sometimes tangy, sometimes hilarious) doled out - via e-mail, text message, phone call or actual snail mail - when I'm feeling emotional. My friends lovingly refer to her as Schmom B.*, which is a derivative of one of my many high-pitched nicknames, Schmeg B. So, without further ado, the woman who birthed me.



Schmom B. Says: Follow Your Dreams

Meghan: Ughhh A and I broke up. I'm feeling sad because I'm scared I lost the love of my life and I will never find someone again. Waaaah my life sucks blablablabla insert more dramatic statements here.

Schmom B.: Always be you - that brilliant, assertive, confident young lady who got on a plane to pursue her dreams. Always follow your dreams and go around any bumps in the road. I love you so much. Ralph Waldo Emerson once said: "Do not go where the path may lead, go instead where there is no path and leave a trail."





Yeah, my mom quotes Ralph Waldo Emerson. Moms are the best.

*When I asked her via text if I could put a photo of her on my blog, her initial response was "No, because you don't have any good ones." She later conceded it was OK as long as I found a photo "that doesn't make her look 100 years old and definitely one with makeup." I succeeded, no? Isn't she pretty?

Ho ho ho

I thought long and hard (like a whole 15 minutes) about posting this to my blog, because it outs me as a participant in online dating. And I'm not going to write a diatribe in defense of myself, because I don't feel like it's something I need to defend; however, I will simply say that I know of at least one (married!) couple that met on Craigslist. Craigslist, people. The same web site where it's not difficult to find ads like this.

Anyway, this arrived in my inbox yesterday.























See why I had to share? Some things are just too hilarious/ridiculous to keep to myself.

I could make a million Christmas puns right now, but I will restrain myself and simply ask: Soulmate, is that you??

The pen is mightier than the ... word?

I wrote this as a guest post for the lovely Jessie Rosen and her blog 20Nothings. You can see it here.

I'm not gonna lie: I'm quite the virgin when it comes to this whole "being single in the big city" thing. I've spent most of my (admittedly young) adult life in some form of committed relationship - running the modest gamut from being hardcore in love with my high school boyfriend to having an exclusive relationship based mostly on sex - and as such I've never been big into the bar/singles scene. I've met plenty of people in bars, but never gone home with anyone. In fact, I'd never even been to a bar by myself. Until last week.

I was trying to figure out my evening plans last week when I learned that all my friends already had other commitments. Left to my own devices, I normally just spend my evenings working out, making myself dinner (or ordering Chinese food, LBO) and watching TV online. (My Netflix account is tragically neglected.) But this particular day, I was feeling adventurous and empowered - it's the fucking dress, I swear to God - so I started Googling free stuff to do in New York. I stumbled onto Time Out New York's site, and at the top was a headline that read "5 Things To Do Today." Naturally, I clicked.

Second down on the list was a listing for something called a Quiet Party. Very intrigued, I read on and discovered that it's basically an event at a bar where people are not allowed to speak. You pay a minimal cover charge to get in, and you communicate with other people via writing notes. That's right - absolutely no talking allowed. Just like high school during the PSATs. Obvs I had to go. After work I stopped by the store to get some Jolly Ranchers to fold into the notes* of people I liked - on a ballsy tip from my host blogstress - then I headed uptown.

I felt amazingly confident as I made the trek to the bar. My high-heeled feet pounded the pavement, and I feared no one - not man nor woman nor empty bar. But as I crossed Sullivan and Thompson Street - ahhh only one block away now - a knot took hold in my stomach. Fuck, what am I doing? Who do I think I am? Going to a bar full of strangers by myself? What if no one "talks" to me? What if they're all fat/ugly/creepy? Or - GASP - old?!?

I took a deep breath, opened the front door and scaled the stairs into the room that had been reserved for the party. It was very - sigh, OK, obviously - quiet. I approached the bartender, whispered my drink order and took a seat. I sipped nervously as I watched people around me passing notes. The crowd was fairly attractive, but mostly older; probably late 20s and early 30s . People were snickering and giggling as sexy piano music tinkled out of the bar speakers. The wallpaper and lights were quite red, and the artwork on the walls complimented the music - think nudity, and lots of it.

The oldest guy in the bar - ugh, of course - approached me and handed me a note: This is sort of awkward isn't it?

Yeah, I wrote back. It's really... quiet. Hahaha. A truly brillz moment, self.

After this first note exchange - which stopped there - I no longer felt timid or nervous. Everyone was passing notes with everyone else - men with women, women with men, women with women - and everyone was smiling and laughing and seemed to be having a good, mostly innocent time. I jumped right in, walking across the room to deliver a note to the one guy I thought was remotely young and cute. He was sitting on a couch with another girl, and - figuring I may as well stick with the high school motif - I wrote, directly, Hi. Are y'all "together" together? He wrote back that they were not, and that I was welcome to join. I did, and minutes later the girl left to join another group of girls. Now it's just me and this strange dude on a couch, passing notes. OK, let's do this.

We exchanged - ha! literally! - pleasantries just like you would in a real bar. Only this time there was no yelling and I didn't have to pretend like I could hear him when really I couldn't. It was actually quite relaxing to be in a bar with minimal noise, almost like a yoga class or something. But better, because there's wine. Here's what I gathered from our wordless convo, annotated with a completely arbitrary points system.

Cute, nice eyes +15
Bald(ish) -3
Too short (the fucking story of my single life) -5
Smells good +8
Good handwriting +4
Nice and inquisitive +8
Slow handwriting, because he "hasn't written in a long time" -6
Tries to be funny... +5
... And fails -8
Composes hip-hop music... +15
... But only likes Jay-Z "OK" -10
Lives in Brooklyn... 0
... "Close" to his mom -10
Total: +13

After passing notes for a while, the novelty wore off and I was bored, hungry and freezing because the bar was so cold that all my creative juices had turned to glaciers. My brain was exhausted from trying to be charming, and I just felt like I was chatting on OKStupid with all these people, except in real life. I felt like there was an additional first step, and I wanted to use Ockham's razor (oh I went there) to cut out that unnecessary step and just talk to people with my actual voice. Because isn't that why we 20somethings gather in mass quantities in large, loud bars? So we can have amazing conversations and meet amazing, intelligent people, right? We ended up staying for about another hour after our stint on the couch, bouncing around the bar and passing notes with various randos, including a guy who asked me to write him a short story. When I did, he took my note and disappeared. Astorophobic, are we? Baffling.

I then suggested that +13 and I leave to get some food. I knew I wasn't that into him, but he seemed like a legitimately nice guy, and I've definitely split meals with worse, so I just decided to go for it. We talked over burritos a couple blocks from the bar, and it was actually one of the most pleasant "dates" - if you can really call it that - I've had thus far in this city. He was nice, he had good manners, and he could carry on a conversation without using terms such as "rad" and "get with it." We exchanged phone numbers and he called me a few days later - on a Friday night, is that kosher? - and left a very sweet voicemail that I have yet to return.

Bottom line: A quiet party is just like a regular night out at the bar, minus a few sweaty bodies and a lot of excess noise. It's novel and relaxing at first, then it just becomes boring and exhausting. As far as dating goes, if you're into someone, you just know it. Whether they are talking, yelling or saying nothing at all, if it's there, it's there - and if it's not, it's just not. So one's "success" rate at any party - quiet or raging - depends entirely on who else is there, no?

Now, what's the rule on returning the voicemails of someone you're not that into?


*The notes turned out to be miniature index cards, so I couldn't fold them, damn it!

Hautey Toddy throwback

The total hautey inside me smiled A LOT when I saw this e-mail.








Huzzah!

Gays on guys

In getting over a breakup, the value of strong friendships cannot be overstated. So far I've had three major breakups in my life, and after each one my friends have played no small role in giving me some perspective, helping me remember how amazing my life is and reminding me of why the breakup happened and why I'm better off without him.

I recently (maybe, sort of, ambiguously, you know how these things are) discovered via the Internet that my ex might be dating someone new. (As a side note, when it comes to relationships with men, this really is the fucking story of my life. If anyone ever writes a biography about me with a young romantic slant, it should just be called Facebook: FUCK YOU SRSLY, or BLOG/HATE.) But I digress. Since I found this nugget of information, my friends have really stepped up to the plate and taken it upon themselves to be there for me, and none more so than BFF Z, who made the following observation about me and my relationships with men. Brace yourself, because this might be the most brillz thing you read all. day. long.

Gchat, on a dark and stormy night (or a sunny Monday morning, whatevz):

Me: I sometimes wonder if my relationship karma is totally fucked

Z: lololz

dramatic much?

Me: SRSLY

Z: You're 23 and you've had three major relationships

Me: This is true

Z: You meet someone you'd be willing to go on a date with more than once a week

Iiiiii think you're doing all right

Just because he found someone first doesnt mean you arent going to.

And guys do that
Me: Yeah

Z: Because guys, and gays, will date - and dance to - anything

You are Beyoncé, and the new girl is that song that we only hear in the gay club: Yeah, I'll dance to it, but it's not that fun. But it's music, so I guess I cant help but dance.

Z: I mean LBO

He also pointed me to this classic clip from SATC, which is epic and will make you cry.




If anyone ever asks why girls need an amazing gay best friend, just send them a link to this post. Here, I'll make it easy for you: http://blackberriestoapples.blogspot.com/2009/09/gays-on-guys.html

I'm so meta right now.

Me, writing, writing, me

Dear readers, I have an exciting post in the works for mid-week. But for now, a quick moment of inspiration about what writing means - and has always meant - to me. Without writing, I die. And not in the Rachel Zoe sense. Fuck, can't I ever be a little bit serious? Meh.

"If you did not write every day, the poisons would accumulate and you would begin to die, or act crazy or both -- you must stay drunk on writing so reality cannot destroy you." - Ray Bradbury

I've got the magic... dress?

You may recall that I posted a few weeks ago about this ridiculous dress I bought. Well, I wore it out earlier this week to a magazine party*, and... something happened. I'm not sure what, but something switched on in me. Walking down the street, I felt more like myself than I have ever felt, and more like I was living the life I have always wanted and worked for. Also, inexplicably, I adopted a No Shit Attitude (NSA) toward pretty much everything, and it carried over to the mornings after. Kind of like a hangover. The best hangover ever.

Z accompanied me to this party, and as we waited (im)patiently for the bartender to pour us our (free) drinks, a man came up behind me and reached past me to get the drink menu off the bar. This behavior was totally acceptable, as it was crowded and loud and he probably just didn't want to ask me to hand it to him. We waited some more. Wait wait wait. Then the same man came around to my right, leaned forward to the bartender and ordered his drinks before us, even though it was very clear that Z and I had been waiting longer. Oh. Hell. No.

I turned to him, heels clacked and hip jutted, looked him in the eye, and said directly (and with some indignation), "We were here before you. And you know it." The Douche avoided my eye contact, saying nothing and looking away sheepishly as the bartender set out two glasses for the drinks he had ordered. I repeated myself, for emphasis. "No, I'm sorry, but we were here before you. That's not OK." He again ignored me, turning to his lady friend to say (undoubtedly) something completely ignorant and base and fucking devoid. Devoid of what, you may ask? Everything and nothing. Just fucking devoid.

Seeing that my current course of action was going to have no effect, I turned to the bartender, who was most likely a completely innocent participant in all this foolishness, and said, "I'm sorry, but my friend and I were here before that guy." She immediately apologized and asked me what I wanted to drink, and thanked me for telling her what was going on. I ordered our drinks, which she promptly prepared - before The Douche's - and I tipped her $5 for doing the right thing. I then turned my back on The Douche and walked away feeling very good. Very, very good.

So good that the next morning on the train, I asked someone to move who was taking up more than his fair share of the middle of a seat. Normally, I just sigh and accept it as fact that many New Yorkers are inconsiderate assholes and that even if I ask someone to move so I can sit, there is no guarantee that he actually will. But this time, I simply said, "Excuse me," and moved to squeeze my ass into what little space was left beside him. He sighed loudly (as if to say, "UGHHHHH how dare you try to sit next to me on this, the New York City public transit, widely lauded as the most spacious and least crowded of allllllll mass transportation systems the world over?!?!") before moving to his right a little bit so I could fit. Yeah, that's right, asshole. Sorry to inconvenience you, but I am sitting here. I don't care if you like it or not, and I care even less what you think about me. Move. Down.

What is with this sudden onset of NSA?! I can feel something growing inside myself, a newly found lust and love for my life, an irresistible urge to exert my independence, and a fierce compulsion to protect it at all costs. Maybe it's because I've been thinking a lot about how lucky I am to have this amazing life. Maybe I'm starting to become a real, living, breathing New Yorker. Maybe I'm just terrified of losing all these amazing things I hold dear. Maybe I've simply removed the filter on my bitchdar. (I can hear the snarks now: What filter?)

Or, maybe - just maybe - it's the dress.























Fuck. Take 2.























Gratuitous BFF pic.























*Again, my life is ridiculous.

I'm so happy I could cry a little bit

Y'all. I just checked the numbers and yesterday - thanks to you beautiful people - I had 105 unique visitors and 184 page loads. For those of you who don't really know what that means: my blog was viewed by 184 people, and of those 184 people, 105 of them were unique - in my opinion, very unique - and separate people.

!!!!!!!!!!!

This makes me happier than licking icing off a spoon*, which is something that makes me very happy.























Thanks, readers, for this small yet significant milestone. Seasoned and new, old and young, friends and foes - I adore you all and you're the reason I have this blog. If you keep readin', I promise I'll keep writin'. And I don't break promises.

*Any available utensil

The Unabridged Blackberries to Apples Bloglossary

I've been thinking a lot about life recently, and I realized today that it's been two years since Z and I started developing the language that we now regularly use to communicate. Naturally, because we all write best about what we know, said language has become a regular fixture on this very blog. But as more people who aren't my friends start to read it - which I hope they do - they might be confused at the prevalence of "words" that are, well, not actually words. Because I want to readily encourage new readers, I have decided to produce this: The Unabridged Blackberries to Apples Bloglossary. Below, find the meanings of many of the faux words that grace post after post of my somewhat "special" brainchild. Enjoy.





Bish
Function: noun
Etymology: Harlem high schoolers
Date: 2009
Definition: Bitch. Often followed by "plz."

BFF
Function: noun/adjective
Etymology: A 15-year-old girl on her cell phone
Date: 2007
Definition: Best friend forever.

Brillz
Function: adjective
Etymology: A group of self-satisfied 20something Manhattanites, AKA my friends
Date: 2009
Definition: Brilliant.

Chunk a deuce
Function: verb
Etymology: Most rap/hip-hop videos
Date: 1980s
Definition: To throw a sideways peace sign; to extricate oneself from the situation at hand. Recently discovered it can also mean this. Not the intended meaning.

Cray cray
Function: adjective/adverb/noun
Etymology: Derived from a rare moment of genius on the part of ex-boyfriend
Date: 2008
Definition: Crazy.

CTFD
Function: verb, transitive
Etymology: Senior year of college, working at the newspaper
Date: 2007
Definition: Calm the fuck down.

CTFO
Function: verb, transitive
Etymology: Spin-off of CTFD
Date: 2007
Definition: Chill the fuck out.

Def
Function: affirmation
Etymology: Hautey Toddy-based abbrevs
Date: 2007
Definition: Definitely.

Eff
Function: verb/adjective/adverb
Etymology: Recently developed out of aversion to pronouncing an entire word, ugh
Date: 2009
Definition: Fuck.

FBPP
Function: noun
Etymology: Senior year of college, when Facebook was like the shit
Date: 2007
Definition: Facebook profile pic.

Fo re re
Function: ?????
Etymology: Senior year of college, expressed in a moment of exasperation/genius
Date: 2007
Definition: For real.

FTW
Function: verb(ish)
Etymology: Derived from tatted up ex-boyfriend expressing aggro tendencies/penchant for dark-sided hipsterisms
Date: 2009
Definition: Fuck the world.

Fugly
Function: adjective
Etymology: Unknown, but possibly the original contraction that started them all
Date: A moment of true brilliance
Definition: Pretty much self-explanatory, but: fucking ugly.

GTFOI
Function: verb, transitive
Etymology: Spawn of CTFD and STFU
Date: 2007
Definition: Get the fuck over it.

Hates it
Function: complete sentence
Etymology: The gays
Date: 2000s
Definition: I hate that.

HLLWN08
Function: noun
Etymology: Originated in a Facebook album dedicated to Halloween 2008
Date: October 2008
Definition: Beyoncé.

HLLWN09
Function: noun
Etymology: See above. Variation on a theme.
Date: TBD
Definition: Lady GaGa.

LBO
Function: verb(ish)
Etymology: Derived during a car ride to Jackson, Mississippi that preceded a weekend of epic dancing in skanky gay clubs
Date: September 2007
Definition: "Let's be honest." The most infamous of abbrevs.

LDR
Function: noun
Etymology: The story of my life
Date: 2008
Definition: Long distance relationship.

Lolz
Function: verb/adjective/adverb/noun
Etymology: May the lolz be with you (and also with you)
Date: The beginning of the universe
Definition: Lolz.

Lolx
Function: verb/adjective/adverb/noun
Etymology: Can I get some lolx cream cheese on my bagel?
Date: October 2008
Definition: Lolz to the max.

Loves it
Function: complete sentence
Etymology: The gays
Date: 2000s
Definition: I love that.

Mayhaps
Function: shrug
Etymology: Derived from "maybe" and "perhaps"
Date: 2008
Definition: Maybe, perhaps; expresses a genuine commitment to being noncommittal.

Natch
Function: adverb, ish
Etymology: Laziness
Date: 2009
Definition: Naturally.

Nom
Function: verb, adjective, nom
Etymology: LOLcats?
Date: 2008
Definition: Mmmmmmdeliciousfood.

Obvs
Function: adverb?
Etymology: Hautey Toddy abbrevs
Date: 2007
Definition: Obviously.

OOC
Function: adjective/adverb
Etymology: One of a long string of abbrevs developed via the creation of Hautey Toddy
Date: 2007
Definition: Out of control. Also, see this.

OMFG
Function: exclamation???
Etymology: Some other 15-year-old girl on her cell phone
Date: 2007
Definition: Oh my fucking god.

O rly
Function: complete sentence
Etymology: LOL cats
Date: 2007
Definition: Oh, really?

Probs
Function: complete sentence
Etymology: Yet another teenage girl, this time on IM
Date: 2007
Definition: Probably.

Ridonk
Function: adjective
Etymology: Senior year of college, describing pretty much everyone in the Grove on game day
Date: 2007
Definition: Über ridiculous.

SATC
Function: noun
Etymology: Internet message boards' inherent laziness
Date: 2000s
Definition: Sex and the City.

Shitiot
Function: noun
Etymology: A moment of divine inspiration/frustration
Date: 2009
Definition: A fucktard idiot.

Sitch
Function: noun
Etymology: Favorite abbrev of college roomie/BFF
Date: 2007
Definition: Situation.

Sombish
Function: noun, indefinite
Etymology: Gchat, as per yooj
Date: 2009
Definition: Some bitch.

Srsly
Function: complete sentence
Etymology: LOL cats, again
Date: 2007
Definition: Seriously. Often followed by a ???

STFU
Function: verb, transitive
Etymology: Senior year of college, working at the newspaper
Date: 2007
Definition: Shut the fuck up.

TWSS
Function: full sentence
Etymology: The Office
Date: 2005
Definition: That's what she said.

Vom
Function: verb
Etymology: Hautey Toddy
Date: 2007
Definition: Vomit.

WTF
Function: complete sentence
Etymology: The word of god
Date: 0
Definition: What the fuck?

Yooj
Function: noun
Etymology: Quirky abbrev developed by college roomie/BFF
Date: 2007
Definition: Usual.

A lesson in nobility, 2k9

Straight up: I don't have very many straight male friends, and I never really have. Throughout my life, I've probably had three *really good straight guy friends, and of those three, I've secretly had a crush on like two of them. Now, concerning the psychology behind this life pattern of mine, I don't really care/want to take the time to dissect what it says about my relationships with men. At least not on this blog, which includes posts about candlies, chairs and Gmail fails. (My life is so hard.)

Suffice it to say that, usually, I end up with crushes on the straight men I know, or vise versa. With the hope of objectively learning the inner workings of the straight male brain, I recently struck up an online friendship with a straight guy. We talk about dating, sex and relationships, with the strict goal of enlightening one another. Prior to this relationship, we only knew of each other through other people, and had never spoken. What follows is an actual conversation we had, enhanced with italicized commentary/inner monologue from yours truly.








Boy: Liked the falafel dating post
Me: hahaha
Thanks?
Boy: yeah it was pretty funny/heinous of that dude to act like that
Boy: This is about to get real ironical.
Me: oh it was hilarious
Boy: I paid $150 for a first date for a girl I hadn't even slept with
Boy: Aren't I a saint?
Boy: I miss dating
Boy: Siiiigh. Aren't I sweet?
Me: Awww, that's sweet.
Me: Go on a date!
Boy: Too busy though
Me: ah
Boy: Gotta focus on my shit
Me: I like dating, it's fun
Because even if it's a bad date and the guy's an idiot, I can blog about it and make it into something funny
So it's just material for me. hahaha
Me: I totally consider this fair warning.
Boy: I wish I had that outlook on dating
I just feel like its a waste of time unless I'm super interested
Boy: In other news, I'm bipolar.
Boy: I guess I don't want to pay for sex
Boy: Because it's illegal.
Boy: I could probably get that without having to buy more than a few drinks
I know that sounds cynical, but I just can't really wrap my head around it anymore
Me: wow
Me: SJKERHKWJH5KJK!!!03393939WKKKK?????
Boy: I feel like I have an extreme view of either wanting to force a connection or simply lie back and wait on it to happen. I don't want to explore connections and hope one works out
Boy: I'm lazy.
Boy: I can make friends pretty easily and I have too many friends as it is
Boy: Sigh. I don't want to work to fit new people into my busy sausage fest schedule, you know what I mean?
Boy: Sorry that sounded super arrogant. I mean more that I hate disappointing people and I feel like I'm constantly doing that by trying to meet all the demands in my life
Boy: MY LIFE IS SO HARD JUST LIKE HOLDEN CAULFIELD'S.
Me: It didn't sound arrogant, but it sounded really crude
I mean not the part about friends, the part about paying for sex
Me: Let me be frank.
Me: As if a girl going on a date with a guy and letting him pay is akin to prostitution
Boy: Not like that. I just mean that on my end (not the girl's, I'm talking about my motivation) if I'm not seeing much could come of any relationship I could probably see myself sleeping with her but obviously that would be somewhat crude and I don't want to be that person. Thus, I don't date much.
Boy: Sort of like Pavlov's Dogs, you know? I hear "date" and I get an uncontrollable erection... shit. Fuck.
Boy: B/c in a sense I would be paying for dinner in the hopes that she would sleep with me
Boy: FUCK.
Boy: But not be my friend or girlfriend or lover
Boy: OK, whew. It's gone now.
Boy: I think of it as an absurdist's nobility
Me: Let me be frank.
Me: I have no idea what any of that means
Boy: Shit. Unless I can really see all the trouble of dating being worth it (some form of relationship) then I go for it. If I did go on dates with women I was not that into (no form of relationship desired) then I would only be hoping to sleep with them. Thus I would feel like I was paying for sex.
Boy: Again, like SO totally illegal, right? Except for that rando place in Nevada or something?
Me: So dating is dead?
Like going on a date with someone you don't really know, just to get to know them and pursue any potential connection, is totally pointless?
Instead we have replaced it with getting drunk at a bar and going home and sleeping together
Like going on a date is no longer step one
It's only something you do if you *already feel a connection of some sort
Otherwise, you're only interested in fucking
Is that right?
Me: Pig.
Boy: That makes me sound like a huge pig. But I'm just saying, in my own personal world, I can get to know people without the social structure of a "date" (defined: special outing of two attracted parties). In the context of a date I assume something more romantic. If I want to get to know someone I talk to them wherever we are: supermarket, bookstore, outside of class.
Boy: So, unless you are a girl standing in my immediate vicinity... you know, shmeh.
Me: Well that's how you do things, and that is your choice, and I'm sure you will find a girl who is the same way and doesn't expect to be dated
Me: They're all in Williamsburg right now. Drunk.
Boy: I think going on a date is step 2. If that's what you're asking
sorry if that all sounded like bullshit
Me: I mean I guess it's just a difference of opinion
I'm not sure old-fashioned or anything like that
Me: I'm so upset right now I don't even know how to speak English.
Me: But I have to be honest and say that I hope there are still guys out there who think differently about it than what you just outlined
Because it's pretty depressing for me to think that a guy only wants to take me out on a date if he knows me already or he's hoping to get laid
Boy has signed off.
Me: Typical.

Unsolved Mysteries: M116 edition

Every morning, I take the M116 bus across town to the subway station nearest my apartment so I can head downtown for work. Normally, this is not particularly exciting. I board the bus, check tweets from the night, read my New York Times daily e-mail (eh... sometimes), smile at cute little baby children, and generally mind my own business. Today, I was running late. Today, I boarded the 8:28 bus instead of the 8:14 bus. Today, I saw a cute boy wearing a National Champions ring. Yeah, as in like football.

I was sitting in one of the side-facing seats and he was standing right in front of me. He was very nicely dressed - white pinstripe button-up, black necktie, black pinstripe dress pants, black dress shoes. But LBO, I noticed the ring before I noticed anything else. Those things are huge, conspicuous, and really hard to miss, especially when they're right in your face. (WOW THAT'S WHAT SHE SAID.) It looked like this.




















Except the center stone was green, not blue. I really, really, REALLY wanted to talk to this boy and ask him where he went to school and what year he won the championship. My first intuitive SEC guess was that he played for Florida, since it seems like they've won the National Championships for the past like 09349023 years. But I would guess that if he were in fact a Florida Gator, he would have a blue ring, not a green one, no? And this one was decidedly green. Unless the light was just hitting it in a weird way or something. Meh, I could be wrong.

Help me, readers! Let's crack this case. I'm not trying to figure out who he is like in a creepy stalker way, I just want to know what team he played for. That way next time I'm late for work - which I'm starting to suspect might, ahem, happen more often - I can strike up a conversation with a zinger such as, "You played for the (insert SEC team here) (insert mascot here), huh? (Insert catchy fight slogan here)." Then I'll raise my eyebrow seductively and he'll fall madly in love with me, because I'm beautiful and smart and charming and love football. We'll have a torrid* love affair centered on our mutual use of public transportation: buses, trains, homeless/crazy people, oh my.

Worst case scenario: it's actually a high school ring. Unlikely, but possible. Let's just move forward assuming it's not, OK? OK. Break.


*When I first wrote this, I used the word "sordid," because I always get these fucking words confused! Either applies, really.

I'ma let you finish, Mr. President

Ladies and gentleman, a moment of pop culture genius.



My favorite part is toward the end when Obama says "that's not true." Um, I'm sorry, Mr. President? Are you saying Single Ladies wasn't one of the best videos of all time? A year ago I was in my bedroom in Birmingham obsessively learning the dance, and I still get excited when it comes on in the club. If that's not staying power, I don't know what is, Mr. President. Maybe if you weren't so busy concerning yourself with public safety, international relations and health care (schmealth care), you would re-ca-nize what 'Ye and the rest of the world already acknowledge as base fact: If you could materialize Beyoncé's video into a solid food item and have it for breakfast every morning, you would live a better, more productive life. Don't try to deny it.

Gagagasm

Just about the only thing Lady GaGa could have done to take my obsession from ridiculous to all-out batshit crazy was give a performance that was an homage to my all-time favorite musical score, The Phantom of the Opera. Well, bitch. Congratulations.

Lady Gaga - New Music - More Music Videos

Consider Project Lady GaGa Tattoo an official GoGo.

Where dreams are made of

I'm obsessed with this city.























Also, Jay-Z's new album The Blueprint 3 dropped last week, and I'm obsessed with this song. It's all about New York. I know, shocking.

Hidden talents: A photo essay

5 things you can learn from moddlez

Living in New York and working in media, my friends and I sometimes get invited to ridiculously New York events. You know, those stupid parties Carrie and the girls often attended: fashion shows, book signings, magazine launches. And, of course, the occasional random Fashion Week preview party slash fake photo shoot slash moddle watch.

Earlier this week I attended the Fashion Week preview event for Keith Lissner, an up-and-coming designer who typically focuses on simply creating gorgeous dresses. I discovered his work this summer and I immediately fell in love with it; browsing his web site, I wanted one of each dress in every color. So when I received an invite to the preview for his Spring/Summer 2010 demi couture line, I jumped at the chance to attend, natch.

We arrived and it was basically a fake photo shoot; a bunch of moddlez standing around on set, posing in dresses, while the rest of us stood around and stared at them, (not so) quietly judging. I found his spring/summer line to be far less inspired than his fall/winter line, but I can't even say that with a straight face, so it's not like it matters. But the experience did teach me a few things I want to share with everyone. Important life lessons, brought to you by moddlez.

1. Be tall. Be very, very tall. What, like everyone's not 6'0"??






















2. Master the concave moddle pose in a number of different positions. First, the basic concave, shown here by moddle in tutu.






















3. Next, concave with hands on ass. Mastered beautifully here by moddle in middle.

















4. Staring will take you far. Also known as "smile with your eyes."






















5. Don't eat before the show. I mean, for like weeks. In fact, just stop eating. I mean, you *can survive on bubble tea. True story.






















As a side note, that gray dress was my favorite one. Also, Miss J from America's Next Top Model was there! I can confirm that he is a real human being, contrary to evidence suggesting otherwise.

Blogumental!

I wanted to write a quick post to take note of a couple important things that happened in the life of my blog yesterday.

1. I had 94 page loads, which is the most I've ever had in a single day. This is a big deal to me. It's almost 100. Come on y'all! We can break 100. Yes, we can.
2. I had my first anonymous, snarky commenter! I've been meaning to let everyone know that I enabled anonymous commenting, because why not? Don't be afraid. If you have something bitchy or snarky or even witty to say, you can do it from the comfort of your couch at one in the morning, whilst sitting in your underwear eating cheesy poofs and possibly mourning your very existence - and no one will even know it was you. Win-win, really.
3. I disovered via my counter that said anonymous commenter found me on TweetStalk.com, which is freaky. I didn't even know this site existed. Skeeved.

Anyway, happy blog day! Thanks for reading.

How you taunt me

This button exists to drive me insane. At least once a day, every single day, I accidentally click it when I am trying to click on my e-mail tab. I am the world's worst clicker. No, I'm not drunk. I just have bad aim, OK?!

Lolz. These are the woes of a 20nothing living in Manhattan. Goddamnit, right index finger! Why can't you be more agile? It is, like, sooooo annoying to have to reopen my Gmail tab and move it back to the left side of my Firefox window.

Yeah, you know what I'm talkin' about. Oh, you do.

My old school costs more than your new school

I like to think of myself as a forward-thinking girl, progressive in most respects and generally left-leaning. I call myself a feminist, and I am now well on my way to being a completely independent woman. (I'm not gonna lie, my dad still pays my cell phone bill, but he worked for AT&T so he gets a discount that I wouldn't get on my own, OK?!!1) I pay for most everything else in my life; I work a full-time job and never expect anyone else to spot me when I go out. I cover my own shit, nomesayin? Unless, that is, I'm going on a date.

Yes, dear readers, I am slowly making my way back into the dating world. Shudder. Thus far my experiences have tended to fall on either end of the "should I pay or should I go" spectrum: guys either willingly pay for everything, or they pay for nothing. Maybe it's because I'm from the South, or just because I have an inflated sense of self, but it's just my base expectation that the guy will pay for me on the first date. (Editor's note: Lolz.) When I'm in a relationship, I have absolutely no problem going Dutch in most situations; when you do a lot of activities with one other person, it makes practical sense to split the cost most of the time. Right? I mean, we're all struggling artsy types in our 20s, right?

Well, some more than others, apparently. I kid you not, because you cannot make this shit up: a guy took me out last night** - to a falafel place - and he didn't offer to pay. Glancing over the menu quickly, I gathered that the most expensive item was a splurge at $5. Initially, because it was so cheap, I assumed he would pay; but it quickly became clear that he had no intentions of doing so. He made some recommendations about what was good on the menu - "You've never had this run-of-the-mill late-night street food?!! You haven't liiiiiiived." - and stepped up to the counter to order his food. I waited, very curious as to whether or not he would turn around to ask me what I wanted. He did not. I bought my own $4 dinner, which turned out to be overcooked falafel doused in way too much hummus and wrapped in a dry pita.





















I guess you get what you pay for, in food and in life. After a dinner worth a combined $8, we parted ways, and as I was exiting the train on my way home, I got a text from him - yes ladies, a text - that read, "What do you think? Want to go for round two?" Wait, I'm sorry. Are we boxing? I sent him a reply - polite as I could be - gently letting him know that there would be no round two. He never responded.

Here is my dilemma. Does this make me old school, and does this kid represent the new school? Does it make me a - GASP - non-feminist to expect a guy to pay for me on date one? And, most importantly, should I let go of the past and just accept that most guys in their 20s are either not willing or not able to splurge on my falafel? On some level, I feel like I just can't help myself - I like when guys pay. I like to feel like I'm doing them a favor by meeting with them at all - which, LBO - and that maybe they just owe me one. It's one thing if we're going out to an expensive restaurant, in which case I am more than happy to help fit the bill. But come on man. It's a fucking falafel.

Sigh. As Webbie once said, "You insane boy, you betta get some gotdamn change." And next time, I expect a freelafel.

**Said dinner took place after he showed up 30 minutes late because he was meditating. Yes, this is true. No, he did not apologize.

I walk like this 'cuz I'm... Obsessed?

I am so fucking excited for Mariah Carey's new album, which was written and produced by my new favorite artist/muse/soulmate The-Dream, that every week or so I get on YouTube and search "Mariah Carey The Dream" to see if any new songs have been leaked. Today I discovered this, which isn't on the album obvs, but which is shmamazing nonetheless.



It's a good thing my computer doesn't have a cam in it. My chair dancing often includes undoubtedly embarrassing facial expressions and drag queen lip synching. The album, appropriately/cheesily titled Memoirs Of An Imperfect Angel, drops Sept. 29 - fewer than 20 days from now. Squeeeeaaaallll. But I mean, who's counting?

New York, New York

Labor Day Weekend Oh Nine: A Fauxem

Tears
Friends
Jenny
Zachary
Effable
New York
Dance
Art
GaGa
Love
Youth
Meggie
Brittany
Blur
Laughs
Football
Fall
John
England
Steps
Hostel
Kiss
Kiss
Life
Kiss
Life
New York
New York
New York
Love
Life
Life
Youth
Life

Life.

A tattoo inspiration

I've often wondered what inspires people to get tatted up. Like what is it about whatever it is you want tatted on yourself - a flower, a tree, an album name, whatnot - what is it about these things that makes people want to have them on their bodies for the rest of their lives? As a stupid 23-year-old, I have never really encountered anything I loved, revered or adored enough to affix it on me - in my skin - permanently. Until now.

When I first saw Lady GaGa perform last summer on So You Think You Can Dance?, I was like who (and what) the fuck is this? She looks ridiculous and she can't even sing that well, and her songs are kind of boring when compared to Britney, Bey, Christina, Madonna and the like. And she's wearing these stupid digital glasses that scroll "POP MUSIC WILL NEVER BE DUMBED DOWN" or something like that. Who does this bitch think she is? An artist?! Psssshaaaa.

That was my inner dialogue at the time. GaGa hadn't exploded yet - her album hadn't even been released - so I was highly skeptical and even turned off. But like any good relationship, my skepticism grew into curiosity, which transformed into a friendship when I downloaded The Fame, and then I fell in love for the first time when I saw her sing "Poker Face" acoustically, sitting at her piano with her hair (literally) tied into a bow, belting and singing and wailing from a place deep inside herself.

It was then I knew I loved Lady GaGa. But my love didn't become deep, it didn't take roots, it didn't explode into full-on obsession, until I saw this interview and started reading and watching as many interviews as I could get my hands on. I now know with certainty what it took me more than a year to realize: this woman is an artist. Not only that, but she is probably the only true pop artist - among the ranks of Andy Warhol, David Bowie and Madonna - people my age have seen in our lifetime.

Not only is she an artist, but she represents so many things that form the core of who I am. She is a physical embodiment of youth in New York City, where she grew up and (later) dominated the Lower East Side club scene. She is named after a Queen song, my lifelong favorite band. She loves the gays. She is openly attracted to women. She bends gender rules. She loves fashion. She loves pissing people off. She loves being the center of attention. She loves creating things and making people think. And, of course, she loves music and dance.

Today I watched this interview no YouTube, broken up into three parts. She openly admits that she has tricked the world into thinking she is somebody, when in fact she is nobody. She explains that the whole point of her album is to make people realize that celebrity is an illusion supported by things like wealth, fashion and power, and that celebrity and fame should not be confused. Anyone can be famous, she suggests, because fame is not about how much money you have or how many people know who you are; it's about a feeling inside, a sense of self-confidence, a veil of vanity.



I know exactly what she means because I live it everyday in New York. When I go out dancing with my friends, I am famous. I feel it on the inside, and it's confirmed by the fact that when I dance - usually in cohorts with Z - people watch. People don't just casually watch - they watch. There's something inside me that shows through when I dance and makes people go, Who is she? What is she doing here? And - most importantly - Who the fuck does she *think she is? There's just something about the city that makes me feel like I am somebody, even though I am actually nobody.

I have had this experience in my life for years. I first went to a dance club when I was 18, in Birmingham, Alabama, and I tasted it there. I have experienced it in Oxford, Memphis, Atlanta and DC. But New York. Goddamnit, New York. Knowing I can come to New York, do the same shit I've been doing my whole life, and *still have people watch me with gaping mouths - that is The Fame. That's what GaGa is talking about when she says, "In New York, you have the ability to self-proclaim your own fame. You have the ability to experience and feel a certain amount of self-worth that comes from a very vain place, simply by your choices. You can literally choose to have fame."

If and when I get a tattoo, it will be something GaGa-inspired. She represents something I have always seen in myself, and everything I love about New York, and pretty much everything I love about life. I haven't designed the tat yet, but I'm going to work on it. Also, I literally squealed today at work when I read that this fall she will be re-releasing The Fame with some bonus songs.























My mom is going to kill me.

You can take the girl out of the South...

You know the rest.



Also, this.























I realize this issue came out August 20, but I just found out about it today, OK? I love football. Nay, I LOOOOOVE football. I am ridiculously, unashamedly (is that even a word?), disproportionately excited that Ole Miss is ranked sixth. The first game is this weekend, and I will be attending, in my own way. Hotty toddy.