Tag Archives: Women

Who Makes These Things!

22 Mar

If men had to wear stockings, they’d be undoubtedly abolished.

Waking up for work is hard enough.  Add having to pick out a fantastic outfit just in case the hot guy on the 6th floor happens to be in your elevator, and it’s just too much for a rainy Monday morning.

As luck should have it, the frock I picked out actually wasn’t half bad.  During the seventy-six second period between pushing the elevator button, balancing my phone and coffee, and the elevator’s arrival, there was a brief but glorious moment when I glanced in the mirror and thought I’d pulled off the impossible – a fashion victory in just under twenty minutes of preparation.

I should have known it was all too easy.

Not five minutes into my 9AM meeting did my boot of doom somehow grow claws, latch onto my tights (the same ones I’d prided myself on not ripping during my sunrise extreme makeover), and rip a hole just big enough to become the bane of my existence.

9:02 AM – boot defeats stocking in the battle of good versus evil.

I sat in my chair, helpless yet plotting how I could stop the rip that was growing faster than a chia pet.  (Note – when you’re only resources are pen, paper, and boredom, you’re shit out of luck in all wardrobe malfunction remedy attempts.)  Of course, nail polish would have fixed said rip from spreading immediately, but who carries clear nail polish with them all day!?

Answer – me (and you) from now on.

Sans nail polish and pride, I ran (fine, walked briskly) to the local drug store to buy what turned out to be the world’s smallest pair of stockings.  It took ten minutes of tugging and pulling and praying to get those bastards on in the bathroom, all the while gagging because the woman one stall over couldn’t say no to beans on her Hale and Hearty salad for lunch.

Truth be told, I made it out of the bathroom alive, but the damage was done.  I’m never wearing stockings (or looking at that woman the same way) again.

Trees Please

7 Jun

Since when do leaves count as a vegetable serving?

I’m all about the organic movement.  Though I don’t know the difference between locally grown and “other” types of vegetables, I’ve been sufficiently brainwashed into thinking that the former are better (and therefore, justifiably more expensive).  Whole Foods – 1; Me – 0.

In spite of my regard for the mad dash towards plane-free produce, I feel as though something must be said to the specific New Yorker I saw taking social reform to extremes yesterday in Riverbank Park.  While she appeared normal at first glance, this woman’s inner desire to be a koala emerged as she stood next to a tree, pulled down a small branch, and started noshing on some leaves.

Yes, she ate leaves right there between the Hudson River and the West Side Highway.

While “Sexy Bitch” played in the background, courtesy of my ipod (don’t judge me), I was moderately disturbed in watching the black-haired woman in a white t-shirt and denim chow down on Mother Nature.  It was dinnertime, so I had to respect her hunger, but leaves?  Really?

There are two restaurants that serve “people food” within a five-minute walk from the innocent tree she violated.  Would it have been so bad to order a plate of lettuce instead?  I mean, are we boycotting Romaine now?  If so, I demand my memo immediately.

I’d genuinely like to know the point when people stopped bringing snacks to the park and instead starting saying to themselves, “Oh, if I get hungry, I’ll go just eat off that American Beech over there.”  What’s next?  Squirrels for farm fresh protein?

Gross, and no thank you.

Overchicked

20 May

Does the new term have men’s self-esteem running for cover?

I live in a model casting call.  Apparently, all the five foot-eleven inch, size two women in the world set up shop within a three-block radius of my apartment.  It’s ridiculous and threatening.  I try…passionately, but I can’t compete with the Heidi Klums of New York City.  They appear flawless with their Chopard diamonds, Weitzman shoes, and Chanel bags.  These women know how to accessorize; yet, when it comes to the most important accessory of all – a boyfriend – they select men that don’t necessarily complement their shoes, if you know what I mean.

Have you ever walked down the street and seen a smokin’ hot girl with a mediocre man and thought “mismatch?”  I have, and whether you want to admit it or not, you have too.  It’s natural; go with it.  When you see such a couple, you’re likely to think the man must be bringing something non-physical to the table like money, charm, or a Will Ferrelesqe sense of humor.  You think, “How else could he have landed this woman?”  Well, you’re not the only one noticing these couples, and the streets of NYC have spoken.

To those men who find themselves having romantic dinners with women towering over them on the attraction scale, I have one thing to say – you’re overchicked.  That’s right, you’ve been labeled.  This new term describes a man paired with a more attractive woman and directly brings attention to the attractiveness discrepancy.  Although women are bound to find the term complementary, men are likely to be torn – uncomfortable about their inferiority and proud of their conquest.

The emergence of the term, “overchicked,” has me wondering why there isn’t a comparable term for women dating hotter men.  It’s not that I’d ever want to be “overdicked,” but what the hell, don’t women get a word?  Then it hit me, women would only need a word if attractive men dated less attractive women.  Be honest, how many men do you know that date down?  I can think of…um…none.

Although I’m a big supporter of the new term – I’ve been using it for a few days now to describe my friend’s relationship with her new man – I’m slightly disappointed that there’s no need for a female oriented word.  I guess I’ll have to wait until men are no longer driven by physical appearances.  Don’t worry – I’m not holding my breath.

She’s on Fire

17 May

What New York women seemingly need to put out their flames is a firehouse in the flesh.

This weekend was gorgeous – or so I saw through the window.  While I was stuck inside doing work during daylight hours, most New Yorkers were gallivanting in the city streets, tanning in the park, or running alongside the West Side Highway.  Though many of you think I suffered inside for thirty-six hours, God decided to reward the dedication I have towards finishing my book and sent me a gift.  Sixteen gifts to be exact.

As I sat in the local sandwich shop, silently cursing the nauseating couple next to me, a beacon of light walked through the door.  One after the other, members of the NYFD walked through the opening and into my academic oasis.  Sixteen suited firemen – the opening scene of a woman’s fantasy.

Apparently, it was the opening scene of a lot of New Yorkers’ fantasies.

As the fire department filled the room, women flocked inside the previously empty space.  Tall women and short women and old women and young women followed their noses leading them to the men like Toucan Sam to his Fruit Loops.  It was as if none of these women had ever seen a fireman before; it was as if firemen existed only as photos or a figments of their imaginations, but on this special day, each woman was allowed to see greatness in person.

I must say though, I was disappointed.  Having been forced to view New York’s finest every day for a year when I walked into my kitchen and saw my sister’s NYFD calendar, I can’t say these men measured up.  Okay, some of them did.  One in particular…woah.

Being a warm-blooded female, I didn’t miss my opportunity to silently watch the men as they filed in, but I kept my observations under wraps and denied eye contact.  (I really did have to get work done.)  I can’t say the same for one woman – a woman who looked as if she was on her way to the park that morning but found herself distracted by and drawn to the massive display of rubber, yellow pants and navy shirts.

It was no act of fate that brought her into the restaurant that day.  I saw it all go down.

First, I witnessed the woman walking by the place and casually peer in through the glass window.  Then I saw her backtrack and walk by in the opposite direction and in through the door.  It took eight seconds for her brain to register the savior mob as a midtown treasure and put herself in contact with firemen  – lots and lots of firemen who would be able to put out the fire that’s been burning in her pants.

It was clear that she came in for no other reason than to watch – to stare.  Having purchased nothing, this woman sat at a table and pretended to watch the news.  She wasn’t watching the news.  Even out of the corner of my eye, I could see her scanning the firemen from a distance and mentally tracking their every move.

For twenty-five minutes, this woman sat at the table, straining her neck as she watched each man exit with their sandwich.  It wasn’t until the last one left that she collected her belongings and left to go back on her merry way.  Or, maybe she continued following them.  It wouldn’t surprise me.

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.

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