In The Hampton's! Plus, Leonardo DiCaprio

MEMORIAL DAY IN THE HAMPTONS, MISSION STATEMENT:
To snag some quality gal pal time, take some dreaded online dating photos, and of course the usual hunt for Mr. Right.

I headed out with my friends Daisy and Melanie to Bridgehampton and some of the surrounding towns for the holiday weekend. They had snagged one of the last available cars at the rental place, which was a dull purple wagon we called the 'Grimace-mobile.' A real guy magnet. As you may have guessed, I succeeded at two of the three above missions.

As far as girl time goes, we read Star magazine on the beach, shopped, and test marketed double scoop ice cream cones from three different ice cream parlors. Despite a few road blocks, a good time was had by all. Our beach day turned cold and breezy, which gave me a good excuse to cover my lumpy bottom with a towel. Later, shopping almost came to blows in the changing room of Australian Feminity, a curiously named clothing store ran by Asian women where nothing is Australian. I was trying on dresses when a heavily tatood biker chick caught her boyfriend first staring at my breasts, which were stuffed together like grapefruits, and then heard him saying to me "Nice, that dress fits real nice." Then, we were surprised out of our wits to be charged 8 dollars each for take out ice creams in East Hampton. The poor pubescent soda jerk grumbled the exorbitant sum guiltily under his breath as he handed over the cone. Undoubtedly, our voices choraled the beginning of a long summertime arrangement consisting of What do you mean, 8 dollars? and What the fu** , is this ice cream laced with cocaine?
Daisy took a large batch of photos so I could get started on the Match.com. As usual, in every picture I look enbalmed.

We decided to support the community by attending the local fire department's pancake breakfast on Sunday. I ate pancakes, eggs and bacon, and went back for a second helping in true piglet style. Melanie thought the frozen, pre-packaged orange juice was scary. I thought the orange juice was decent but was less impressed with the actual firemen, none of whom I could imagine featured on a calendar.

We did get to spend time with Daisy's dad, who is a chef, which puts him as the front runner for best male dinner companion so far this year.

When I got back to New York and my glamorous life of dog walking, I would like to tell you all that as far as Mr. Right goes, the news is, I found him! Unfortunately, doing so made me want to shoot myself. Here's what happened:

I was taking out a client, a bassett hound named Ziggy for the usual series of treeside leglifts, and, if I'm lucky, a moderately-sized curbside dump. The dog is not important to the story, but I really like Ziggy so I thought I'd mention him. Anyway, I saw a posting in Zig's apartment that a movie would be filming there for that day only. I started salivating when I found out who was in the building. The film's director was Sam Mendes, who directed one of my favorite movies of all time, American Beauty. I mean, two weeks ago, I rented the DVD just so I could see the director's cut. And I will save the detail about who is the star of the movie until I get there in my story. I talked to one of the tech guys who explained that they will be breaking for lunch shortly, if I wanted to stick around and get a glimpse of the star. Ziggy had already pooped, so I had brought him back upstairs already.

I leaned against the building on 101st street in the hot, sticky heat, waiting. I tried calling a bunch of friends on my cell so I would appear to be less obvious, but no one was around. So I just stood there. About five minutes later, I saw him. Leo (DiCaprio, of course) came strolling out of the building by himself. He passed right in front of me, and my God, did he look steamin', ladies. His shirt was unbuttoned about halfway. His skin was flawless and tan. He had been obviously working out and was larger that than I would have thought. And I mean that in a good way. He looked straight ahead as he passed within a foot of me, as I just stared at him like an idiot. I wanted to say something like, "take me to your world."

I cursed myself for not having Ziggy with me. He's a cutie, and I'm sure could have gotten

Leo's attention for me, I know it. Now that I'd already brought him back upstairs, it was I that was in serious danger of throwing myself onto Leo and humping his leg. I should have taken a god damned picture on my phone for this blog and to put under my pillow but I thought that would be rude.

The horrible excruciating part of it was when I saw Sam Mendes join him, and the two of them turned right to the restricted catering area. I had to turn left to go pick up Sam 10 blocks up, for another round of #1 and #2. It hurts people, it hurts.

Gift Deceleration

We’ve come up with a technical term for all this crappy present phenomena: “gift deceleration.” We, and countless other women who have fallen for commitmentphobes, have been victims of this dynamic. Basically, the longer the relationship endures, the more thoughtless and impersonal the gifts she receives are.
Normal relationship conventions dictate that, with each passing anniversary, gifts become more personal, more thoughtful, and generally more extravagant (First anniversary paper, fifth anniversary linen and so on.) When the woman in question is with a commitmentphobe, however, gifts tend to get less personal, less thoughtful, and far less extravagant. For example, whereas the very first Christmas or Valentine's day you spend together might find you unwrapping tiny blue boxes with white ribbons from Tiffany's, your third or fourth might find you pulling unwrapped gifts out of plastic bags that bear the label Mart somewhere on them, as in Walmart, Sportmart, or Kwik Mart-you get the picture. For the woman this is particularly painful because, from her standpoint, the longer the relationship lasts, the deeper her emotional connection to the man grows. As for the man in question, it's anyone's guess. The length of time he spends in the relationship could be deepening his connection, lessening it, or not really affecting it at all. From the woman's standpoint, however, one thing is clear; the gifts she is receiving get lousier and lousier each year as her boyfriends morphs from a jovial and generous St. Nick to a bad tempered and parsimonious Bad Santa.
Following are some examples of gift deceleration:

V-Day, "Paul"
2000: Purebred Pekinese pooch w/Godiva chocolates
2001: Gundt stuffed dog w/Toblerone
2002: Dog Fancy desk calendar w/Whitman’s sampler

V-Day, "Joe"
2004: Tiffany earrings
2005: Fossil watch
2006: Necklace and earring set from Claire’s boutique

V-Day, "Aaron"
2004: Couples’ golf weekend in Palm Springs
2005: Obviously gratuitous photo album engraved with American Golf Classic
2006: Tin Cup DVD

V-Day, Brian
2004: La Perla lingerie w/Chanel perfume
2005: Victoria’s secret bra and panty w/Body Shop bubble bath
2006: $8.99 Cherokee T-shirt nightie w/Jean Nate body splash

V-Day, Steve
2004: Bang & Olufson state of the art car stereo
2005: Radio Shack Hands-Free Cell Phone Kit
2006: Typing program

V-Day Redux

Ooh oo ooh! BeenThere reminded me some V-Days that were equally as horrifying. Okay, first, MY boyfriend right AFTER college gave me a bracelet. It was marcacite and appeared to be a bit dulled. The clasp was also broken. He had no problem telling me that he actually found it in the dirt by his work. Let me tell you that all of these guys were ‘well-to-do,’ men, full of pride. No one ever thought they were scuzzies or anything. Except for us, in retrospect.
Valentine’s Day massacre #2: My ex actually took me out to a nice dinner at a fancy restaurant. Not too shabby, right? He didn’t say “Happy Valentine’s” or anything like that, I thought that maybe he had even forgotten it was Valentine’s Day. I expected he had a hotel or something lined up, because that’s what he did the previous year. Instead, we had a drink at the bar and he told me he felt like “a moth to (my) flame.” He said that whenever he wanted to take the next step, he started thinking about how I still lived with roommates and how he was troubled that I should be further along in my life. Check please.
#3 On another year, he decided to work late, but felt bad about it and told me I could order Chinese food on his dime.
#4 I bought a dress, made reservations at a fancy restaurant, and waited outside for an hour. He forgot to set the alarm to wake up from his nap.

Tomorrow I buy me big Valentine candy box for cheapie.

St. Valentine's Day Massacre

Ms. DunThat has had a number of bad V days, no doubt about it. I, however, have had many many Valentines Days that were much worse. At least DunThat got to go on vacation. I never went anywhere. And my gifts always sucked. So, the rundown:

College boyfriend: very cheap strand of 'pearls' that broke the next week. He informed me that I wasn't getting a card because he regretted spending so much on the cheap-ass necklace.

Grad school boyfriend: Year One--'the honeymoon phase'--a very cheap plastic Casio watch. I got him a Coach leather briefcase. Did I dump him dear reader? Of course not. The next year I got a set of grapefruit spoons. When he gave them to me he said something to the effect of "I love that you don't need silly gifts like flowers, that you like practical things. Now we can eat our grapefruit together every morning" Instead of punching him in the nose, I thought "what a sweet simple guy" as I gave him $200 worth of Clinique mens skincare products. Year 3: "The Party's Over." Since this was the early 90s cordless phones were still a big deal. I searched high and low and spent what, for me, was a tortuous five days in stores like Best Buy and Electronics World searching for the phone that would best suit his needs since he was way into technology. I, you should note (becuase it is important) am NOT AT ALL into technology, phones, or anything like that. Well, V Day rolls around and I get NO GIFT! He tells me it is something very special and he will give it to me the next day. Well two days later he drops by and gives me THE EXACT SAME PHONE I GOT FOR HIM!! The bonehad says to me: "well, you talked about it so enthusiastically when you gave it to me, I thought you might like one for yourself." So lame. But I stil didn't break up with him until about six months later. When I went over to his house to get my stuff I discovered a closet that contained every gict I had ever given him--unopened. The Coach bag still wrapped in tissue paper. the skincare, all wrapped up and no doubt dried up since it had been TWO YEARS. The phone--never opened. The guy was such a commitmentphobe he couldn't even committ to opening up my gifts!!

Treasured Valentines Moments

Let’s just make this simple. The best Valentines’ days have been the ones that fall the closest to the beginning of a relationship. Silly me, I was under the impression that as a relationship progresses and grows deeper, V-Days would grow more and more romantic. Is that true for any girl besides my mother? Now that I think about it, my dad has his faults, but not worshipping my mother isn’t one of them. Once, he even surprised her with a necklace she had wanted by burying it in the sand while vacationing on the beach. And she still yells at him for not wiping up the bathtub after he uses it?
My experience has been a little different.
Was St. Valentine a sadist? Why on earth would they devote one day a year that is fueled with so much expectation? Some of you are reading this and thinking that I am a boob. “It’s just a day,” and “It’s shallow to place meaning on a gift” might be some of the things you’re thinking. I hear ya. The point is, I was enough of a boob in the first place to date these guys, so holidays turned into a test that pitted what I knew to be true against the last shred of hope that they would use this day to prove my hunch wrong. Namely, that I was doing the dating equivalent of dialing the wrong number over and over again.
I’m actually, finally, over the breakup, so Valentine’s day and all that comes along with it doesn’t feel like someone’s wrenching Cupid’s arrow from my flesh anymore. I’m just pretty ho-hum about it.
I do miss the chocolate, my favorite thing. But here’s a novel idea- I CAN BUY MY OWN! I can walk into Godiva, pay money, and walk out with lovely red ribboned box of truffles for myself and Mrs. BeenThere this weekend. Or, I could ask my friend John to biy me some. And those candy hearts stink; they taste like chalk and look like suppositories.
Anyway, I had a hard time picking a winner for Worst V-Day, but this one was pretty low.

My ex and I made plans to go away on Valentine’s Day, for four nights. Montreal. In the middle of February. Driving. Actually, I have to say it would be a fantastic, out of the ordinary, cozy holiday for a less-dysfunctional couple. The hotels are all discounted so you can pamper each other in luxury for less. But it would be better if your boyfriend wasn’t on the heels of a commitment freak out and treating you like crap. Remember that, cuz it’s pretty cold not to be nestled in bed almost the entire time. Anyway, so we left New York V-Day evening around six, right after he drove all stinky and smelly from his boxing workout. I thought to myself, “He’s probably waiting until we get to the hotel to give me my card or gift.” On the way up there, we were trying to find a motel to stay at but everything was booked, once again, on account that it was VALENTINE’S DAY. We pulled into this real dive motel, Campy’s, I still remember the name on one of those signs with the individual black block letters you put up yourself. We joked that it looked and sounded like a crash pad for patrons of the strip club we saw a while back. At the counter the old guy told us that he was sold out, although I didn’t know who else besides us rejects would end up here on V-Day. As we were leaving he shifted his gaze curiously and said, “Well, I do have one room available, but it’s a little rough.” Not knowing what “a little rough” meant exactly, we accompanied him to the room. When he opened the door we saw two cots with yellow teeth-colored sheets, stained walls and carpet, and a nasty smell. I felt like we were the investigators of a crime scene right out of “Murder She Wrote” or “Mike Hammer.” My BF adopted one of the most disgusted faces I’ve ever seen in my life, up there with when I tried on for him the kilt miniskirt I bought a couple years ago when the twenty-somethings started wearing them again.
We found another hotel, and at this point, it was 11:30 and I was now kidding myself with the idiotic thought “Maybe he’s waiting until 12:00 to celebrate Valentine’s.” At this point it was pretty clear I wasn’t getting a proposal. And anything valuable never would have made it out of Campy’s. The night ended in an argument and me saying “You didn’t even get me chocolates?”

Once I stuffed down the difficult trip up, we had a couple of nice days. We actually made it to a wild animal reserve about a two hour drive away. We saw deer, ox, wolves, bears, etc. You could buy carrots and feed the animals, which was nice, and we were the only ones there. It is definitely something I wouldn’t mind repeating someday, with a guy that didn’t actually want to leave me there.
We had to stay an extra night on account of bad weather. During check out, he would only ask me to split the cost of the extra night, since it was Valentine’s Day and all. Keep in mind this guy made five times my salary. And then he paid with his corporate account! Actually, he paid for a lot of stuff with his corporate account. It wasn’t until much later that BeenThere informed me that he could charge that stuff to his place of work. So I guess he was screwing me and his boss.
On the drive back, he reflected that the best thing about it was that he got a close-up picture of a wolf.

ME on CBS Early Show!

On Wednesday, I was proud to be a guest on the CBS Early Show. That's right. Sometime around Valentine's Day, friends and family will be able to catch a glimpse of me dishing it out with 6 other women about my breakup with the ex and its aftermath.
As you can guess, this is part of every girls fantasy. To be able to go on NATIONAL TELEVISION and talk about ridiculous and horrible things about your ex? Come on! It's only a 3 1/2 minute spot, but hopefully something shaming I said about him will get aired, and he will be sitting in front of the telly eating his non-fat Muesli and watching it, along with his friends and his mother (who all think he's such a stand up guy).
It was so nice to take a little walk down memory lane and revisit some of the more vile behaviors I subjected myself too. With two years distance now, I was able to look back and have a real Idi Amin moment. An Idi Amin moment is precicely that moment when a man who you formerly considered charming is suddenly revealed as a vicious and predatory louse.
On the Early show panel, I got to talk about the breakup. How he called me out of the blue to break up with me at 10:30pm , right before a yearly children's dance recital I had to coordinate the next day. How he sent all my stuff back in boxes minus all the jewelry and clothes he gave me. I got to show the viewers at home the only thing I got to keep, his first stuffed animal: a faded and stained stuffed snake. I got to talk about how after every time he treated me badly, he would shut me up with chinese food. He'd buy us a big feast, and after I munched down spare ribs and lo mein, we'd end up in the sack. I should never have been a willing participant in this. And about how he backed out of our vacation plans to stay in New York for his mother's surgery. And before you think I'm a bitch, like all his friends did, can I tell you about how I had to pay for the vacation myself, and how I found out that HE DIDN'T EVEN VISIT HIS MOTHER AFTER THE SURGERY?!

Chances are, each of us willl be hauled to the dump at least once in our lives. I am an expert on getting dumped. At least when it comes to what NOT to do. I've broken all the rules and have lived to tell what what could have been done, what should have been said, what might have been read, and what I'd wished I'd learned when I was eighteen.
If you would like to become an expert like me, I've got a few tips.
First of all, like anything else, you can't expect mastery overnight. You should get one good decade and at least three devastating dumps under your belt before you consider yourself an expert. Here are some things to get you started.
Communication. Make sure you check into his voicemail a few times a day so he can see your number flashing on his caller ID.
Home Decorating. Each time you visit his apartment, bring a gym bag full of your things to stash there. It's not a home until your tampons are edging out his shaving supplies.
Compromise. In this case, fight for what you want and deserve, but if it lasts too long, just give in.
Holidays. An IPod or a Typing program is a really good gift, much better than some girly crap like diamond earrings.
Other Women. If he is still licking his wounds from a previous breakup, by all means, proceed. If it doesn't work out with the two of you, you have the great personal satisfaction of knowing you have helped heal his soul just a little bit, enough to reunite with his ex.

More tips to come...

Mrs. BeenThere says:

We’ve often heard it said that 'a woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.' That's all fine and dandy, unless you happen to be a fish that idolizes Lance Armstrong. We know what it is like to be that fish; desperate to get out there and peddle, even though we don't have any feet. As any fish who’s ever longed for a ten speed of her very own knows, it is especially hard to sit on the sidelines watching all the other fish pedaling off to Pottery Barn to register for wedding gifts. Given how many fish are out there actually riding bikes, who seem to be having a really good time, you can hardly fault your average fish for wanting that damn bike!
Sometimes you are a fish without a bicycle, so your goal is to find the perfect bike. Much of the time, however, you have a bicycle. The problem is, however, that your bicycle has a lot of problems. Some bikes are missing important parts, like the seat, so every time you try to take it somewhere you end up with a big pain in your ass. Sometimes one or more of its wheels don't work. No matter how hard you try, you can never get it to go in the direction you want. Lots of times the bike just doesn’t want to take off his training wheels and grow up, thus making it impossible for the two of you to go the long haul together.
Many fish who find themselves with bikes that don't work simply dump them by the side of the road and get new ones. Other fish (and we put ourselves in that category) want to hang on to the bike that they have. They are attached to their bikes. They have worked on their bike, investing time and emotional energy (and even a lot of cash). They are determined to cross the finish line with the bike they've chosen. Even if that bike is a Big Wheel and the race they are riding is the Tour de France.
"You'll never make it!" onlookers scream. We know better. We love this bike. And love conquers all. Even if we can't control the steering, the brakes are shot, and the only thing that works is the bell.
Welcome to the world of long term love and commitment, where irrationality, blind sentiment, and foolish determination rule. We feel your pain. We have been 'the girlfriend' and we know that when you are just a girlfriend, no one really feels very sorry for you. If someone's husband or wife leaves them they usually get quite a lot of sympathy. A woman or man married to a cheating spouse or stuck in a marriage marred by poor communication and a lack of intimacy usually gets at least a sympathetic nod. But when you are 'just the girlfriend' in a long term relationship that isn't going where you want it to, as far as sympathy goes you get nothing.

Today, A Lizard Man Asked Me Out

As a dog walker, I am on familiar and friendly terms with a number of doormen that work in my clients' buildings. I've been asked out by two of them, and would have taken each of them up on it if one hadn't been 21, and the other hadn't been married. But today, somebody else that works in one of the buildings asked me out. Somebody behind the scenes. He is obese and looks like a lizard and works with the garbage in the back elevator. And socially, there's nothing wrong with the guy. Which makes it worse, because that means that he used sound, critical analysis to determine the credibility of us as a couple.
Now, I'm not being mean when I say that he looks like a lizard. He just does. He has scaly skin under his eyes and a gap in his front teeth through which his tongue darts out. He appears to be about 10 years older than me. He may be somebody's dreamboat, he's not mine. And I am upset that he continues to hit on me, not only because I feel violated, which I do, but also because he is apparently he has a chance of making it happen with me.
And yet somehow, my sense of inequality would fail to be riled if George Clooney, or someone else out of my league, goosed me while I was leaning over to clean up some dog poop. Oh well.
I used to be real friendly with him, but I have turned into a cold fish. I have to use the service elevator in that building, and I pray to God I won't be caught in there with him and the smelly garbage with him tomorrow. On Tuesday, he told me I was "a hard working woman," and he needed to find someone like me. On Wednesday, he started putting his hand on my shoulder when he talked to me. You know the move. Everyday day now I get the hand. He's got as far as the intro, the old "so what do you do with yourself when you're not working?" I've been able to evade any further advances because it is a very short time I have to see him every day, only a trip from the 11th to the 1st floor, but I feel that one day soon I'm just going to have to shoot him down.

Jagged Little Pill

When a relationship ends under devastating circumstances, the best thing to do is to take some time alone, and to not jump into anything serious. Good advice, but when you reach the two year mark, beware. I have not had one date that has made me even consider bending over far enough to shave my overgrown legs. A lovelife this barren can actually drive you a bit bonkers. My recent solution that backfired? The Celebrity Crush.
A little background about me: I have all the inclinations of your basic stalker; although I like to believe I have some modicum of impulse control. The stalker side of me reared it's ugly head recently, after developing a crush on Ryan Reynolds, the comic actor. I became immediately infatuated and proceded to google him and fantasize about how we would meet and how I could get Alanis out of the way. Of course, I usually succeed in keeping most of my movie star obsessions safely under control, due to the extremely remote chance of any one of them entering my daily orbit of doggie poop bags and donut shop lunches. This convenient barrier to obsessive behavior derailed, however, when I realized that the movie set I had been passing by with the dogs for two weeks, and which had just wrapped, was the set of Ryan's latest movie. I have since been filled with rage. WHY CAN'T I MEET MY RYAN REYNOLDS!? If I had known, I would have hung out by the set, and Ryan would probably have sauntered by with a meat sandwich. Then I would have encouraged Scruffy to chase after him, surely initializing a courtship between us.

Jessica Biel Wants My Ass

I've always been small boned, and extremely small waisted. But not in the butt. My grandmother, who I resembled in physique, had a nickname: Big Buns. Now, it's okay to be known as "Big Buns" at 60 years old, but I didn't exactly enjoy having the name bequeathed to me in my 20's.
This past month, I've been eating whatever I want. Fried foods and rich desserts, anything. I've also allowed myself to exercise whenever I liked, which turned out to be 0 times. Now, I am going out to one or two upcoming events and I have nothing to wear. It seems that I have turned into a porker.
I guess there is something wrong in my brain, you know, with that mechanism that's supposed to tell me that I'm full. It's not working. Example: Today I ate chocolate chip pancakes and bacon for breakfast, a Subway for lunch, an Amy's meal for dinner, and a mint brownie and, I can't even say it, a little less than A QUART of Edy's Slow Churned, half the fat ice cream. I was surprised, because I don't usually like Edy's, or dietetic dessert in general, but this peppermint stick was so f-ing good, it tasted exactly like full fat. Unfortunately, eating, according to the nutritional description, seven servings of the stuff was probably not okay.
The reason why I turned into a disgusting pig is because of my sister, who, in a characteristic diatribe against our society's idealization of the underweight female, raged and gnashed her teeth in response to the self-criticism I directed toward my recently expanding body.
"If you think that you're overweight at your size, that's sick. You've always had a body image problem, I've always thought that."
"Cool," I said, tired of explaining the phenomenon of "skinny-fat," where size four jeans may still conceal a rippled jiggly mass of fat stuck on a size my five foot one, size two frame. "Maybe I do have a body image problem," I said. "That's good news. Then I can actually eat anything I want, and however gross I think I look, I'll know it's all in my mind."I have now increased two sizes, and do not fit into the fat pants I bought at the time of the of the body dysmorphic disorder discussion. I realized I do not have a body image problem, it is my sister who has an (other-directed) body image problem. It is directed specifically towards me, and is a by-product of my regrettable reign as big sister bitch-tyrant, where through torture and mind control, she sees me as some sort of idealized physical being.

Now one month later, when I have a skirt on, it looks as if I am wearing an old-fashioned bustle underneath. It's a shame they have gone out of style. My waist is still kinda small, but my ass has expanded. It is what I would call a "birth-control butt." With my clothes off, I notice that each buttock is a little bigger than the size of my head. And it is lumpy. So instead of washboard abs, I have a washboard ass. I can't even describe what it looks like, because I've never seen anything like it before. Wait, let me take another look. Oh my God. The ass sticks out like Jessica Biel's, but as if she was in a funny mirror that dwarfed everything but her butt. A pair of toddlers could stand under it and be completely shielded from a violent rainstorm. That is not an exaggeration.

I don't understand the popular notion that 'women dress for other women.' My ex-boyfriend would tell me things like that, as if he had consulted some encylcopedia of female behavior. I found out later that these are things his ex-wife, (who he still worshipped) would tell him as canons of womanhood, which he would kindly pass on to me so I could benefit from her wisdom. I disagreed with most of them, along with "all women are constantly in competition over men." In my opinion, I would usually win the argument, which he would then rebut with the statement, "well, I guess you're just not like most women." Anyway, this dressing for other women business is no different. I mean, occasionally I will bathe for other women, like if my sister is coming over after I go jogging I might take a shower , but I really only dress for male attention, and sometimes for self-expression, but certainly not all the time. If it weren't for cute guys walking around out there, I would wear L.L. Bean boots, Adidas shorts and fleece shirts everyday.
Which would be kinda the same reason I started eating all this food; it had been so long since I'd had a date that led anywhere exciting. Looking back at all the hours logged at the gym and calorie restrictions, measured against miserable returns in the dating scene, I just decided it wasn't worth it. The pleasure I got from eating fattening foods was more rewarding than what I was getting back from the guys. It's too hard. The men are so bad, and food is so good. It is getting harder to fight the good fight.

NYC Men Stink

All of a sudden, I was besodden with weariness. That's not mine. Actually, my friend Sally said it while we were browsing the personal essay section at the Barnes and Noble, after leaving my favorite hamburger joint on 72nd street. 'Favorite hamburger joint' is kind of misleading, implying a hierarchy of favorites which would indicate a sense of identification with my community and exhuberance about NYC. Like I could have family come out of town and introduce them to my collection of avenues and neighborhoods that have names like Nolita and Noho, my relationship to NYC like that of new friends who have started to exchange bits and pieces of their personalities. But I don't really feel that way about New York City; I don't really like living here; I just really like that hamburger place. A dive bar that serves comfort food. Sunken, cavernous, wood, with waiters that wear their own clothing and an attitude that defies the New York frenetic pace. The place that Zagat forgot.
I was trying to diet because I would be leaving for the beach in 12 days, and had gained a shocking 10 pounds in reaction to two failed dates and because of the revelation that I now much preferred vanilla cream filled donuts at Krispy Kreme to bullshit filled NYC men. Of course I couldn't diet with Sally because with us, it's all about excess. We added fries to each of our burgers and split a piece of chocolate cake. Only the cake was so suprisingly good, that I called out to the waitress across the room to bring us another piece, like a frat boy on spring break anxious for another shot of Jaeger. I can't drink so chocolate is my drug of choice.
The lunch was kind of a bookend to the most humiliating dating week I'd had since I'd started really dating again, which was only about a month ago. First, an actor I had made plans with for our third date cancelled because he had 'too much work to do,' (translation: it didn't look like he was going to get laid anytime soon.)
Then it got worse. Probably the worst rejection I've ever had without ever even going out with the guy. His name was Phil, I suppose it still is. First of all, I don't even like the name Phil. I don't trust it, Phil Donahue aside. I met Phil at a catering gig, a wedding. We were flirting and exchanging stories all night. I asked some reliable coworkers about him, who gave him a positive endorsement using words like 'ernest' and 'cute butt.' Then I cinched the deal when Phil asked me out to dinner sounds It sounds pretty pathetic when it's the woman who has to do the 'cinching', but that's what it's like in a city with a 5:1 ratio of women to men. In a city where women on every curb seem to be mugging for Vogue, complete with requisite pout.
Two days later, Phil followed up with a phone call, just to tell me he was looking forward to our date and that he would contact me when he returned to NYC from his parents. One week passed and he did not call. Just after I'd mentally filed Phil away in the 'promising date gone awry' junkyard pile located in the back of my brain, I received a phone call at 1:30am Friday night while I was enjoying a bag of kettle style popcorn.
Phil: Is this Erika? (I had apparently already made it into his phonebook.)
Me: Yes, who is this?
Phil: (Confused sounding) Phil. I thought I had the wrong number. Is this the girl I met last night at the bar on 24th street?
Me: No.
Phil: Oh, huh. I guess I have the wrong number.
Click.
So basically, not only had Phil forgotten about our date, he had also forgotten WHO I WAS. Fantastic. What does a woman have to do to get an honest kiss in New York?
I have not kissed a guy since I was well out of the city limits, a year and a half ago in my parents driveway, in front of my grandfathers window, idling in some guy's car. And even that guy, instead of asking for my number, asked if he could give me a spanking.

Youth Day Parade

First of all, thanks to y'all who have been reading and posting! Now, I wouls like to invite you all to the youth day parade! I've found out the secret to finding a nice guy- go young!!
Okay, I'm still single, ladies, and of course still hung up on the ex, but this has been a nice ego boost. I guess it's because I've been dressing better, but it still doesn't explain why all these youths have been coming onto me. I feel like a lecherous camp leader. I started talking to a 23 year old in my apartment complex. I didn't know he was that young until later, he does seem actually much more mature thnt my ex in a number of ways, so I was surprised. Anyway, I realized that life and romance has had less time to F*** these guys up! We've had a few chats in the hallway, then he invited me to a party. I wanted to ask him if I would be the oldest one there, but I was too embarassed. He is a classical musician, so I figured it might be a pretty mixed crowd. Anyway, we got to the party and, I'm almost to embarrassed to say, it was an UNDERGRAD party! Everyone was F-ing 19! And they looked 12! As I roamed through the odyssey of plastic cups and homemade bongs, I couldn't help feeling like the Fonz on Happy Days. At one point I looked around and I was standing by myself in the midle of a crowded room. I couldn't help but thinking what these kids must be saying, like "You're aunt's hot, dude." I left in 10 minutes. I was tired, I mean the party didn't start until 11:00.
Then, I felt guilty because the next day the kid calls 3 times. I think he likes me. I talked to him but instead of feeling like Demi Moore I feel like a sicky. He's invited me to another party, but I think I have to call it quits. This one starts even later. I can just see, if I continued dating him what it would be like: him, heading out at night and me sitting in my robe. "Come over here and give momma a kiss. Momma goin' to miss her baby." I would bellow.

Channeling My Inner Demi Moore (Dating Young Men)

If you've been reading, you'll remember that LANE, first in a series of barely post pubescent suitors, never called me back. I was just wondering, why? I figured it was because he saw my crow's feet. But I bet it was because I'm uncool. I had totally blanked on what happened at the end of the date. When we exited the Starbucks, he made all these references to 'next time.' Then we got on the subway together, and when it arrived at my stop, I said goodbye and when I turned around, walked into the pole. I thought it was kind of endearing, but the more I think about it, it must have looked kind of dorky. Anyway, it was no great loss, as shortly thereafter, a door opened to reveal another, even younger, man/boy. And the door did literally open; George is an actual doorman at one of the buildings where I walk dogs. He's 22(gasp.) He's seen me at my worst, (7:30am, last night's eyeliner, bedhead hair.) The absolute best thing about it is that he seemed so desperate for me to go out with him. "I'd really appreciate just talking to you." (Well intentioned lie.) "I just get really shy and nevous around you." (My beauty and worldliness is overwhelming to him.) He's so polite, and his social skills seemed more refined than guys my age. Most of the time it's, "So, you wanna hang out sometime?" Duh.
But I have a hard time coming up with topics of conversation every morning. If I ended up seriously dating him, would our morning conversations end up mimicking the lame exchanges so far that seem to shed a glare on the 14 year age gap?
Conversation 1: Me: "So what was your major?
Him:"I don't know yet. I'll wait til I get back from the navy."

Conversation 2: Me: "So what did you do over the weekend?"
Him:"I went to the movies."
Me: "See anything good?"
Him:"Yeah, Beerfest. It was okay."
Me: "Yeah, I was going to see that, but I didn't know if it would be as good as American Pie." (At this point, I realize he was not even a fertalized egg when I begged my cousin to take me to Porky's, so what can I really say?)
I didn't end up going out with the 22 year old. I almost agreed, after my friend John said "I wouldn't care about the fact that he's 22 one iota. Not one iota." This, knowing I had only had two dates in two years. But even though I loved the attention, and he's a lovely young man, I just couldn't. I mean, the poor guy is leaving for basic training in October. Jesus. Didn't anyone tell this kid a war is on?

Diary of a Mad Single Woman

OUTLINE OF MY LOVELIFE


I. The Pre-Dating Years
A. Birth
B. Celebrity Infatuations
1. Sean Cassidy
a. Purchase of Da Doo Run Run Album
b. Making Out With Pillow after Hardy Boys TV Show
2. ‘Leroy’ from Fame
a. Defunct ‘Gaydar’
b. Set lifelong precedent for bad taste
C. Awkward Stage
1. Too short
2. Head Gear
3. Flat Chest
II. High School Highlights
A. Prom
1. Stag with girlfriends
2. Snubbed guy who later became unbelievably hot neurosurgeon
B. Drama Club
1. Unrequited crushes
2. Make out session with closeted fellow cast member
C. Dances
1. Drinking Rum and Coke in Bleachers
2. Slow Dance to Stairway to Heaven with Boy Who says my Sweater
Looks like Strawberry Yogurt
III. College
A. The Beer Goggle Years
1. Alternative Mark
a. Wore silverware as jewelry
2. Curly-Haired Thom
b. Kept grandfather’s old condom from WW II as family
heirloom
3. Other
c. Don’t remember
B. Serious Relationship
1. Brian the Schizophrenic
a. Would continually ask me if I could also see things
that were figments of his imagination
1.) Bulls running through backyard
C. Academic Probation
1. Homeward Bound
a. Nights at Home with Dad, Mom and Brother
IV. The Roaring Twenties
A. Buzzkill Byron
1. Refused to take taxicabs, buses or subways; resulting in 8 block
travel radius
2. Had sour stomach which dictated the geriatric plan for most
activities
3. Broke up w/me
B. Crip Dreadfield
1. Separated from wife who he was still in love with
2. Hated his mother
3. Short
4. Broke up w/me

VI. Present Day
A. ‘Couple’ Friends Start Their Families
1. Picking Up Babies Instead of Picking Up Men
2. Necessity of new, young, ‘going out’ friends
a. Pounding house music
b. One-night stand stories
B. Dating Again
1. Guy who kept hors d’euvres in gym bag
2. Two other losers

C. Resignation
1. Ghiradelli Brownies
2. Lifetime, We, etc…
3. Foster dog

Not Quite Ashton and Demi

A 36, soon to be 37-year-old woman, me, was approached by two much-younger men on two separate occasions last week. The amorous solicitations appeared to signal an end to a long suffering dating drought but ended with not so much as a make out session.
The first hopeful, a strapping Scandinavian Ken doll look-alike named 'Lane,' approached the woman while she was walking a dog on West 93rd Street in Manhattan. The man, who had shoulder-length blond hair, azure eyes and a hot bod, inquired about the dog and moved quickly into the suggestion that they go for coffee. The woman then picked her jaw up off the cement and agreed.
At the Starbucks, the twosome enjoyed green teas over a refreshingly non-stilted conversation that was mostly dominated by the woman. (Still me.) She took notice that under the sunglasses a series of lines hinted at the beginnings of crow's feet, which made her feel better about the perceived age difference. On a number of occasions, the model-like Lane mentioned the phrase "next time we will have to..."
The woman said that she was busy for the next few days, but would call him if she would be attending the movies during that time. She telephoned two days later to inform the man that she would be going to a comedy movie, if he wanted to come along. He said he was booked up. The weekend passed with no follow-up call, as did the following three days. The woman's advisory committee officially declared the situation a 'blow off.' The woman did, however, come face to face with the young man later that week in a disasterous run-in where she was dressed as a mentally challenged individual: high waisted Chino shorts, white sneakers, and a McDonaland T-shirt featuring the Fry Guys and Hamburgler. Lane gave the woman a fake side hug and excused himself giving the excuse that he 'had a lot of work to do.'


"Who cares," the woman was overheard saying, "I don't need Lane and his prep school ass

Where the Boys Are (Not)

Well, I found out where the boys are. On the street. Specifically, selling things on the street. This past weekend I've been asked out twice, which in one weekend is a hundred percent increase in solicitations during all of last year. I've had interactions with other guys that I've met on the street but every time I think it's going somewhere the conversation ends with no number exchange, no nothin'. But guys who work on the street must feel like they hold some jurisdiction. It's their street; you're just walking on it. That, or they just have more balls than other guys, which also seems probable. The first guy was actually a youth. 24 years old, but looked 16. He was selling jumbo flashlights, and he repeatedly asked to take me to lunch, and for my phone number. Sometimes no guys will ask me out for years, and then, some young guy is begging for me to go out with him. What the hell is that about? The next guy sells jewelry on the street. This is the second jewelry vender that asked me out. The first was Brazilian, and also spun house music. He was young and skinny, and I don't like house music or all that goes along with it, so I rejected him. This new guy is Israeli, but looks and talks and acts somehow exactly like Hank Azaria as the scuba instructor who sleeps with Debra Messing in 'Along Came Polly.' He was sort of cute, but had already made a pass at my friend in addition to me. I don't know, maybe I'll call him. Once, I made out with a street musician who asked me out on the street. He was one of those small Peruvian fellows who plays the Andean flute. So, I may as well go out with him, it's not like I haven't done this before. Besides, my weekend was full of shit. I met a comedian on the street that I sort of like. We chatted, but of course there was no follow through. Then dog I was pet sitting for had exploding diahrea all over the living room at 6:30 am on Saturday.

Are You My Boyfriend?

The female subconscious is a powerful thing. If you are to begin the process of seeking a healthier relationship, it is vital that you ‘reprogram’. We have thus devised a simple, yet effective, regimen of videos that will help you. Instead of Retail Therapy we suggest Rental Therapy

Rental Therapy

The subconscious is a powerful tool that can be harnessed to help you seek kind men and to discern which men are boobs, unworthy of your attentions or affections. It is important to remember that ambivalent men are Jeckyll and Hyde type creates, prone to extreme shifts in behavior. Sometimes you think because your man looks the same as he did yesterday, that he is the same person inside. For most people, that would be a safe assumption to made. If you are dating an ambivalent man, however, this assumption could very well cost you your sanity.

It is important to recognize your boyfriend could actually be two (or more different people) lurking in the same body cavity. One of those people might be kind and generous—your dream man. The other one, however, might just be an insane, ego-destroying, maniac so self-involved and commitment-phobic that he makes Dennis Rodman look like Ghandi.

It is extremely difficult, however, for the average woman to recognize this. Therefore, we have come up with the following video program designed to help your subconscious to begin that oh-so-important process of discerning who your boyfriend really is. Movies contribute to this problem a great deal as men who are knights in shining armor on the silver screen are often scarecrows riding donkeys in real life. Consider the following "Reel Life" vs. "Real Life" scenarios:

1. Hugh Grant in Notting Hill vs. Hugh Grant getting arrested for solicing a prostitute on the Sunset Strip in real life.

2. Mel Gibson in Braveheart vs. Mel Gibson the anti-semetic, drunk driving lunatic.

3. Tom "you complete me" Cruise in Jerry M. vs. The crazy lunatic Scientologist control freak.

4. Ryan O'Neil in Love Story vs. Ryan O'Neil the abusive crazy father and cheating spouse.

5. Bill Cosby on the Cosby Show vs. Bill Cosby the cheating, chester-molester.

6. Charlie Sheen on 2and 1/2 Men vs. Cheating, crazy, rage-aholic husband of Denise.

7. Brad Pitt in Meet Joe Black vs...well, you know....

Where The Boys Are (Not)

I saw that interview! Lauer needed to give Brit a break. She is young and has a deadbeat husband. He was taking advantage of her vulnerability. Why doesn't he grill Angelina Jolie about how she bragged to the press that she would never sleep with a married man? If he ever said, 'you know, Angie, some people think you're a slut,' she would probably knee him in the nuts on camera. Anyway, Matt Lauer is a cheater; shame on him for looking down at Britney just because her mammaries are spilling out.

Anyway, my roommate has had an experience that further reveals Where the Boys Are (Not). I'm not sure why I find this story so funny but I just do. Perhaps because my roommate is so blase. This time the venue was a mostly-European-clientele jazz bar. Now this was helpful to me as I hate jazz, but was planning on checking out a jazz club just to see if it was where the boys are.
She went two weeks ago, and ended up talking to one of the two guys there that were'nt part of a couple. What you have to understand is that my roommate is Hungarian and likes to drink red wine and have conversations about culture. This guy was also European (Italien) and she described him as 'a little bit macho.' She had said this with a grimace but decided to give him a shot.
The guy came over on a Sunday with purple teeth and a fresh bottle of wine. He had curly hair and looked old. If you ask me she could have done a lot better than him, but she she seemed to be amusing herself. She, like me, is 36 and has not had a real date in 2 years. I heard them arguing in the hallway, but this is nothing new. She was using the same admonishing tone of voice as she uses with me and my other roomates in reference to the overflowing sink and the empty toilet paper roll.
Next week for her birthday, he invited her over for a BBQ but she declined. Mostly because she thinks he drinks too much. He gave her his number to call him, but she was clear in saying she was not going to do that; but he could call her if he wanted to.
On her birthday, this unwanted Italian showed up at the door with a dozen white roses and more red teeth, asking to take her to lunch. She yawned and shrugged. "Let me just change out of my robe."
The Italian launched into an animated monologue about jazz, to which I replied, 'I don't like jazz, I only like the blues.' He then became indignant and told me I couldn't like the blues if I didn't like jazz. Unruffled, I said, "Whatever you say," and offered him some sugar corn pops, which seemed to infuriate him more.

On the date, they rode from one restaurant to the next, looking for something suitable. The Italian refused to take the subway as my roommate suggested. Four cab rides in, my roommate was famished, and begged to just eat at some cheap Spanish place. The Italian was upset. Obvsiously my roommate wasn't falling prey to his charms as planned. For lunch, he tried to order for her, but that didn't work. She wanted soup, so she ordered soup. This next part is the part I really like, but I don't know why. For his lunch, the Italian ordered a salad with salmon. When lunch was delivered, all he was served was dried up beans on a plate. My roommate started to laugh uncontrolably. He got enraged and started yelling at the wait staff. They finally got him some fish tacos.
I haven't seen the Italian since, but he keeps calling my roommate and acting annoyed and angry that she's not calling him and inviting him over.

Britney vs. Angelina

Adoption guru, man-stealer, UN Goodwill Ambassador--and now Identity Theif. It seems that Angie not only nabbed Jen's man, but she grabbed her starring role in the film "A Mighty Pearl" based on the life and times of Daniel Pearl, a Wall Street Journal Reporter who was killed. So, the lowdown is Plan B bought the movie and Jennifer Aniston was set to star, Brad and Jen busted up, and Angie decided SHE wanted to play Daniel Pearl's grieving widow in the movie.


All the gossip rags report on this, and what I find really annoying is that they all seem to agree that Angelina is a better fit for the role since she "looks more like Mariane Pearl" than Aniston does.

Everyone seems to be overlooking that fact that Marianne Pearl is BLACK!! Hello???!!! She doesn't look anything like Jolie or Aniston!! I don't get it! It seems like Jolie can get away with murder.

Meanwhile, the press is eating Britney Spears alive. I mean, what is so different about what they did? I mean, let's look at the stats:


Adultry: Ok, they both are "homewreckers". But if you ask me, Shar Jackson should be thanking Britney. I mean, at least Shar doesn't have to bear the horrible shame of being married to the man responsible for setting musical history back about 1,000 years with the release of the "PapaZao" single. Meanwhile, Jolie's wandering eye lands her the cover of People Magazine and the title "most beautiful person inside and out"

Endangering the Life of a Child: Paprazzi catches Brad wheeling around the Namibian dessert popping wheelies with Maddox (sans helmet) on the back of his dirt bike. All he gets is a "be more careful Brad" slap on the wrist from US Weekly. Meanwhile,Britney is raked over the coals for running away from paprazzi that are stalking her with her kid in her lap while she was driving. Both are boneheads to be sure. But, just becuase Brit wasn't tucked away in a 3rd world country 'saving souls' and, instead, was speeding down the highway,blasting "Sweet Home Alabama" on her cd player and slugging Mountain Dew, everyone hates her.

Poor Fashion sense: Angelina turned her body into a 5 ft 9 in. billboard professing her love for the OTHER guy she stole, Billy Bob. It looks like she got a bunch of them removed and now her body has a lot of blurry black ink spots on it. I'm sure that looks very attractive when combined with stretch marks. During a Dateline interview Anne Curry has no comment, other than to remark how beautiful Jolie is. Meanwhile Britney, suffering an admittedly terrible case of what Ms. DunThat calls "reverse anorexia" whereby you see yorself as being much thinner than you actually are, squeezes her 6 month pregnant body into one of Jessica Simpson's leftover outfits from the Dukes of Hazzard movie. Matt Lauer proceeds to call her 'White Trash" on national television. Nice.

Poor Acting Skills. Crossroads--no good. Life or Something Like It--even worse.

Failed Marriages: Brit--A 24 hour marriage and quickie divorce. Angie--vials of blood, disgusting public make-out sessions with Billy Bob--who, I'd like to point out, basically looks like a 65 year old Kevin Federline, matching 'his and hers' wifebeaters on the red carpet...you decide.

So, until Brit buys the rights to "The Rosa Parks Story" and decides to cast herself in the starring role, I'm rooting for Team Britney!!