Tag Archives: Women

The Cookie Monsters

29 Apr

Dirt, germs, and social acceptance can’t stop a woman from satisfying her sweet tooth.

Chocolate chip cookies have been saving women, and the world, since 1892.  With its sugary decadence and buttery taste, a good cookie can pull a woman out of a dating-induced depression and get her to forget about the man who didn’t respond to her last email.  It’s no overstatement when I say that the joys of a phenomenal baked good are incomparable.

Just the thought of tasting a savory treat can reduce a woman’s mental capacity to the point that taste buds are the sheer driving force behind all decision processes.  Brain function seems to stop at the sight of a half-eaten cookie or brownie left behind.  Some would see such a vision and question how anyone could leave greatness on a plate – others take matters into their own hands.

How far would you go for a chocolate chip cookie?  Would you reach over to a table previously filled by strangers and partake in sloppy seconds?  Would you do that for a brownie?  No?  Then you’re not one of the women who sat next to me the other night.

Yes, when the stick thin men left their table after barely eating a marble brownie (the best one in New York City, I might add) and a chocolate chip cookie, I looked over longingly and with jealousy.  My friends and I had ordered the cookie-brownie combo many times before and hadn’t left a crumb, yet tonight – a night when we’d get neither – they could leave it all.  Amateurs.

Did I think about sneaking a bite?  Perhaps for a minute, or five, but I would never touch one piece of secondhand bakery deliciousness.  I have standards for shit’s sake!  I left both items looking oh so sad and alone on their white plates (where they belonged) and went back to conversation.

I can’t say the same for everyone in the restaurant.

About six minutes after the men departed, four women staged a coup d’état of restaurant etiquette.  They, too, had witnessed the reckless abandonment of baked goods in disgust but couldn’t bear to watch dessert go to waste – not when they were pining for something chocolatey.  They inquired about the leftovers, to which the waitress gave an unlikely response, “A good brownie shouldn’t be left behind.  Take it.”

Little could prepare me for the event that was about to happen.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw an outstretched arm reach across the table and capture the goods.  My table watched in disgust as the women took both desserts hostage.  Respectfully, they offered us half the booty, but we politely refused while vomiting in our mouths.  Is our economy so bad that four women can’t spend four dollars to get their own brownie?

I was doubly mortified.  First off, who leaves dessert?  Secondly, who steals dessert off the table of complete strangers?  Not this girl.

As we continued to watch the scavengers investigate their newly found prey, my sister noticed a straw wrapper sitting atop the brownie – an excellent Perry Masonesque pickup on her part.  One would think this piece of trash would have prevented future consumption, but no.  They ate the recycled brownie covered with an hour’s worth of stranger germs and trash with a smile and without so much as a flinch.

Apparently, two men’s waste is four women’s treasure.

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.

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.

Looks to Kill

14 Mar

The only thing worse than trying to find a guy at a bar is dealing with other women doing the same thing.

It was a typical Saturday night in New York City – my friend and I had decided to trek down to Russia (AKA the Lower East Side) and steer clear of the Danger Zone (AKA the blocks where we’re likely to see old, burnt out flames).  Although we had been insulted by our cab driver when he asked if we were from Long Island, the night seemed promising as we rolled up to a country bar in our yellow Medallion cab.  After confronting a man trying to cut the line and get inside – he allegedly thought the people in a single file, twenty-person line leading from the door were smokers – she and I walked into what would soon seem like a reality death match.

I’ll admit she and I go to this bar for two reasons: the country music and the favorable male to female ratio.  It’s a sausage fest, and any woman who has ever been there knows it.  Men congregate in groups of five, and we all know how impossible it is to overlook good-looking men when they come in multiples.  Sigh.  Anyways, on this particular night, she and I didn’t go to the bar with the intention of meeting anyone.  Despite some specimens that made initiating conversation tempting, we refrained but not by choice – by force.

The smell of beer and “Lose Your Love” playing in the background must have made other women forget that they were adults and not college sophomores because they acted all of nineteen.  Since when are death stares to total strangers appropriate?  And when did purposely elbowing people as you walk become acceptable?  My friend and I were being attacked – attacked by other women who were desperate for some loving.  It was an unfair battle – she was in stilettos and I just wanted the DJ to play Pat Green.

As I downed one seltzer and lime after another, and she her cranberry vodkas with a splash of pineapple, women ambushed us, “casually” pushing, clearly staring at, and blatantly talking to their friends about us.  Women scrutinized us from across the room.  It was unbelievable!  I’m sorry, woman in the black halter top showing way too much boob,  if you felt like the guy wearing the orange hat and blue button down was the man of your dreams, why didn’t you get off your chair, cross the room, and say something eloquent – like “hi?”  Seeing as how you decided to wait for him to notice you in the hundred-twenty seven person crowd, I’m allowed to ask him for a napkin without you shooting laser beams at my head.

Ugh, women.

At one point, I feared three women were going to intentionally spill drinks on my fabulous camel-colored, Coach boots to mark their territory.  They were capable.  Seeing as how I avoid situations where women act as catty as humanly possible, I decided it was time to leave the bar and keep my outfit in check – none of the guys were worth taking one to the boot for anyways.

The night got me thinking though, why are women so awful to each other?  Are women naturally that evil?  Um…I should say no, but yes, some of them are.  For the most part, dating induced competition is behind the cloud in judgment that turns daddy’s girls into Satan’s girls.  Apparently, one Matthew McConaughey look-a-like is enough to make a woman come out swinging.  I know we’re all fighting over a limited population of men, but really?  Put down your boxing gloves, buy your drink, and have a good night.  I repeat, put down the gloves.  If you’re meant to meet your future husband after he gets off the mechanical bull, there’s nothing I, nor any woman, can do to stand in your way of eternal happiness with Cowboy Roy.

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