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PDA and the MTA

10 May

Deep in the trenches of subway moles and rats, couples that feel the need to mouthily attach each other are taking public displays of affection to a new level.

Perhaps I’m too traditional for New York City.  I’ve always been the type of girl who’d rather be asked on dates than groped in the back of some bar by a guy I just met.  I guess you can say I’ve always believed in romance and courtship over a hot fling or public make-out session.  Based on this, I’m sure you can imagine my utter sadness when I witnessed the day the romance died last week.

As I stood on the subway platform, having just been rejuvenated by yoga and a weekly trip to my favorite restaurant, I took a gander at my surroundings and laid eyes on a man and woman going at it on the subway stairs.  What began as an innocent kiss quickly turned into an all out fondling session.  In the midst of passionate lip locking, Mr. Lovemetender’s hand traveled down south before settling in mystery woman’s grand canyons.  (Insert jaw dropping facial reaction here.)

Everyone was watching.  How could we not?  How could anyone possibly focus on something besides the couple recreating a scene from Driving Into Miss Daisy right before our very eyes?

I didn’t get it.  Since when is a subway station considered an aphrodisiac?  Aren’t there hotels, apartments, bars, and random alleys for this type of behavior?  Clearly, I’m missing something because rats and Whitney Houston impersonators don’t put me in the mood to touch someone let alone partake in a love-fest in front of complete strangers.

I mean, a subway station reeking of pee and stale air?  Really?  That’s what can arouse this woman to the point of no kissing return?  You have to be kidding me.

In my mind, this is the end of romance.

How can any woman expect to be swept off her feet if the D Train excites certain people as much as a weekend getaway?  Who can compete with that?  Nobody.

Men should be happy to know that, as it seems, they don’t have to buy a woman expensive dinners or flowers to get her to “put out,” so to speak.  Screw long walks on the beach and jewelry.  All a New York man apparently needs to do to get a woman in the mood is bring her to the West 4th subway station and seduce her with turnstiles, mystery liquids, and the wafting aroma of something that died in 1987.

Lifestyles of the Bitch and Famous

27 Apr

Calling all C List celebrities…go back to LA.

When I drank the Kool Aid and moved to New York City, I knew I’d be amongst the stars (and people who think they’re stars, but nobody knows their names) and couldn’t care less.  I’ve never been one to ogle over celebrities as they pass by on the street or sit across from me at Starbucks and work on their taxes.  I don’t really care what magazine cover someone was on or how many Grammy’s an artist has, and I’ll never ask for an autograph unless they ask for mine first. The famous are just like the rest of us – people with families and problems and bad hair days, and since they’re just like the rest of us, I don’t think they should get any kind of special treatment.

I’d say that most celebrities just want to blend into the crowd on a busy city street. They want anonymity.  Well, at least most of them do.  The others – the attention grabbers AKA the C, D, and E list celebrities thrive on what little attention they get.  They’re the ones I want to punch in the face for disturbing the daily routines of those who frankly don’t give a damn about their Dancing With the Stars performances or one-star movie roles.  Those celebrities are the ones I constantly have the “pleasure” of running into.

Ugh.

I always thought nothing could take away the happiness associated with getting my nails done, but I was wrong.  Dead wrong, for when I heard a familiar female voice resonate in the background of a local Chinese nail place, my pink nail induced excitement faded fast.  It was a voice I’d heard too many times right before changing the channel and saving myself from watching a box office bomb, and it was a voice I’d be hearing for the next forty minutes as this actress yapped uncontrollably into her phone.

Hello, Hollywood?  It’s Pharyl.  Please take back your celebutant.

You’re famous – I get it.  We all get it because you’ve practically name-dropped every star you’ve ever worked with and every show you’ve ever been on.   Hang up the damn phone, stop trying to seem important, and give the rest of us back the silent time you stole.  Newsflash – we don’t care about your boyfriend’s name, even though you’ve said it three times in an escalating tone.

We don’t care about your new car or your sex life either – wait, we do care about the sex life but that has nothing to do with fame and fortune.  We’re nosy as all hell.

I probably wouldn’t have had such an issue had the call not seemed so rehearsed, but twenty minutes into it, I began to question if there was even another person on the line.  Is there a new trend in the world of fame and fortune of actresses doing their own PR through phone calls with “friends?”  It wouldn’t surprise me if she’d memorized a script, including various facts about her life (planned out by some hot-shot PR agency), so that TMZ would find her and report to the masses.  Funnily enough, TMZ wouldn’t care about her mani/pedi.

Since when does being famous qualify anyone to disturb a room full of women with shameless self-promotion?  Did I sit in the chair and declare that I have a blog or that I bought a new dress?  No.  Did anyone else in the salon declare (loudly) that she can’t stand a particular friend who’s been cheating on her husband?  No!  We all set aside time for beautification, not to hear a hot mess spew her life story to a bunch of random strangers.

I’ll never get the time back I wasted while sitting next to Miss Thing, but I will say one thing to all the bitch and famous out there.  If you’re going to ruin people’s manicures and quiet time by spilling juicy stories about yourself and celebrity friends, the least thing you could do is provide names.  It’ll make for a happier audience.

Mind Your Manners

18 Apr

Just when I thought the men of New York couldn’t surprise me any more, one man in my apartment building blew my mind away.  Literally.

It had been three months since I spent a weekend off the mainland.  But, last week, the stresses of straightening my hair, putting on makeup with the sole purpose of looking like I wasn’t wearing any, and selecting perfect outfits for every occasion finally hit me.  I had to get away from Manhattan.  So, I did what any self-respecting New York native would do – I went home to bask in the comforts of Mom and Dad.

I turned my phone off.  I slept in my old room.  I spent 48 hours with curly hair and sunbathed on a lounge chair in the unusually warm weather.  Note: I’ll do anything to tan my alabaster skin.  I even went for a run on my high school track.  (And by run, I mean walk.)

When I returned to the city, I was refreshed.  Time away, spent in the boondocks of suburbia, allowed for a karmic cleanse.  And, I had clean clothes.  Clothes that I didn’t even have to wash!  (Thanks Dad.)  As I walked into my building and smiled at the cutest doorman (as in old cute, not secret crush cute), I was ready to conquer the crazy week that lay ahead.  I waited for an elevator with my sister, AKA roomie, and as doors opened, a man came flying out, pushed past us, and exited the building.  I mentally called him an asshole, which I felt bad about at the time, but not after I walked into the elevator.

Thousands of troops have scoured the Middle East with no success, yet in the elevator of a midtown apartment building, I found the weapons of mass destruction.

Do we live in a society where people can just go around farting in elevators?  Mind your manners!  It’s completely unacceptable for a male over ten to pass gas in a confined public space.  No wonder he ran out of there so fast – he was trying to save his own life!

What pissed me off most wasn’t the loss of brain cells I experienced or even how I will never be able to carelessly enter an elevator again (cough, emotional distress, cough).  Sir Fartsalot had a wedding band on.  He’s married!  The man whose toxic fumes almost committed the involuntary manslaughter of two women found someone, and I’m still single?  You have got to be kidding me.

Sex Girl

15 Apr

When the walls of a New York City apartment are as thin as they are, you better watch what you say…or moan…or grunt…

Call me old-fashioned, but while I’m waiting for the elevator, I don’t want to hear the soundtrack for a Skinimax show coming from across the hall.  I don’t want to know the sexual preferences of my neighbors, and I certainly don’t want to hear any of my neighbors providing sexual instructions to their partners when my parents come to visit.

Most awkward thirty-seven seconds of my life.

I respect a healthy sex life, but there’s no need to bring the whole floor in on the action.  Must I inform the citizens of my building that pillows are multifunctional?  Not only do they supply wonderful support for a good night’s sleep, but you can also shove them in your face to stop the world from hearing you scream “harder” over and over and over again.  Inquiring minds don’t actually want to know what’s going on between your sheets.

Well, that’s a lie.

After three years of hearing the sexcapades of one Sex Girl, the building has grown accustomed to her daily soap opera that revolves around verbally abusing people, fighting with her married boyfriend, and, you guessed it, having loads of seemingly adventurous sex.  We’ve come to gossip about the weekly breakups and worry if Sex Girl has been sexed to death when silence fills the hallway.  What can I say?  Sex Girl has single-handedly united the floor.

Forgive me if I don’t thank her next time we’re awkwardly sharing the elevator.

That barely happens, by the way.  Most of us purposely avoid Sex Girl infested elevator rides out of sheer discomfort in knowing too much about her flexibility and stages of excitement.  What could we even talk about?  Her boyfriend’s kids?   Pass.

Who dates a married man for over three years anyways?  Based on the amount of instruction Sex Girl feels the need to give, I’d always known his sexual toolbox wasn’t good enough to keep her around.  So what was it that this man – a man who I’d never give a second look – could give to make her stay?  One night in August, Sex Girl gave me the answer I’d been waiting for.

Sure, this man had given her flowers.  He had given her jewelry and paid for her takeout.  He’d even promised to leave his wife, which I overheard one night in October.  But, what Sex Guy gave Sex Girl to make her stay in his life was herpes.

Can you say karma?

With no shame, Sex Girl doesn’t seem like she’ll be ending the public fulfillment of carnal urges any time in the near future.  Luckily, my apartment is far enough away for me to only hear sheer cries at romantic time like 4:00 in the afternoon.  I can’t say her new neighbor will be so lucky.

Forgive Me For I Have Sinned

11 Apr

If one more of my friends becomes a “we,” I think I may have to start planning daily trips to Dylan’s Candy Shop.

The recent pairing off has led me to not only despise the number two, but also wonder if my own party for one is a result of punishment.  Just in case Noah and his Ark decide to grace Pier 89 with their presence in the near future, I want to clear up some things with the big man.  I need to cleanse so I can board.

Dear God,

I’m sorry…

I spilled red nail polish on my parents’ comforter when I was eight and didn’t tell them until confronted a month later.

For breaking my dad’s Mickey Mantle statue when I played ball in the house.  I’m even more sorry that the statue would have been worth one year of my college tuition.

When a boy asked me to the 6th grade dance, I had a friend not only say no for me, but also yell at him for asking in the first place – I liked his friend.  (Don’t worry; the guy who asked me is married now.  Of course, the friend I liked turned out to be a jerk and is very single according to Facebook.)

I ignored my prom date for 48 hours straight because I was too nervous to talk to him.  I’m only half sorry because he tried to hook-up with my friend for 36 of those hours.

I started a prank war in college that resulted in the submerging of my roommate’s belongings in two inches of water.  I am, however, not sorry that I retaliated on her behalf.

My friend’s boyfriend told me he was going to break up with her, and I didn’t say anything.  I guess I should also be sorry that he asked me out a week later.

When my friend got engaged, I bet that her kids will turn out awful.  I’m not the only one who bet though, so bad karma should be equally distributed.

That I sometimes bake for the sole purpose of giving fattening foods to skinny women.  Okay fine, I bake for this reason 90% of the time.  The other 10% I’m baking to show males that I’m domesticated.

Please acknowledge the receipt of this apology with a nice guy.  Enjoy your day of rest but not for too long.  I’m waiting.

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