She's Just Not That Into You

Yes, women can be socio-paths when it comes to dating. For anyone reading this who does not know me, I toss around the term 'socio-path' very liberally, thereby covering a huge spectrum of possible personality disorders. I much prefer socio-path to psycho-path because socio-paths are, ultimately, a lot more terrifying. Anyhow, whether said socio-path keys your car and slashes all your tires because you chose a night with the boys over her, or if she decides to sleep around during your honeymoon (all of these are real incidents I have picked up while watching bad dating bootcamp shows), for every crazy woman, there there is an equally unstable man. And let's hope to Jesus that they don't ever meet, pair, and spawn.

A few years ago, the book, He's Just Not That into You, slapped a bunch of desperate, delusional women across the face. I mean, what this man wrote is not rocket science; in fact, it is basically common sense: He doesn't call you back after you call him six times... guess what? he's just not that into you!

Of course, it took a man to write this fine little dating guide for the dating disabled. Sadly, a book for men about what not to do and say to women has not reached such prestige. This may be for several reasons: a) it has not been written and b) if it has been written, it has not been embraced because that's not how guys role. They don't really do self help.

While there may be books out there for men with tips for reading women written by women, I am far too lazy to research it right now as it is midnight on a Tuesday and I am watching Chelsea Handler while writing this. I would really much prefer to just relay a lovely little vignette of a man my sister sat next to on the airplane recently. Over the course of a two hour flight, he did and said so many terrifying things that I am surprised my sister does not need some sort of post traumatic flight therapy. His name was Josh, he was 27, and had his associate's degree from some unknown college. He liked to overshare. Here is his story and the rules he broke:

1. Do not talk about how much money you make

"The first thing I picked up from this guy," said my sister, "was that he was trying to imply that he made a ton of money."

Apparently, in his job as some sort of sales representative, Josh was making bank. My sister actually remarked that she thought it was very insulting that he thought his salary would pique her interest. I have to agree. I do not all women have 'gold digger' stamped on their chests. Sure if you have some extremely cool job - like if you are an astronaut or a pet psychologist or a psychic- by all means tell me about your career. That makes you interesting. Your cash does not. I would really like to meet a pet psychologist.

2. Do not size yourself up to me (literally)

"And he also kept saying how i was probably too tall for him or that he was too short for me. As if he was assuming I would date him or something," she told me.

My sister is about 5'8". Yes, she is on the taller end. On the plane ride, Josh informed her that he about 6'0" which is man code for roughly 5'10". Then he made the aforementioned awkward comments. I mean, seriously, how do you move forward from an assinine comment like that? He had basically sunk his battle ship within 5 seconds of meeting her.

3. Do not talk about your future children, especially their appearance/ genetic dispositions

"He told me he hopes his future children get his curly hair, even though its a recessive trait."

Whoa, shit, stop. When you are 27 and speaking of your future spawn, you make me want to throw up in my mouth. and then probably all over you. And, for the record, who wishes jerry curls on one's offspring? vom.

4. Do not talk about finding your wife/girlfriend/or the next girl you sleep with

"Josh kept talking about wanting a girlfriend and wanting to get married. Then he got super upset when Men's Health said that Miami is not a good place to find a woman to date seriously."

Well, duh, Miami is not a good place to have a relationship. Even though this section is meant to criticize the way Josh publicly lamented to my sister, a mere stranger, about his lonely single life, I need a moment to vent about how this moron is not going to take advantage of Party Paradise for a year.

Anyhow, imagine you are a girl sitting on a plane and some man casually flips through a men's health sobbing about his single-dom? Do you want to jump his bones in the airplane bathroom? Absolutely not. He is mopey, desperate, and annoying. Primarily annoying and, in addition, kind of creepy. Don't be so fucking desperate. Don't sit too close.

5. Do not think out loud/overshare/talk about your ex within 5 minutes of meeting a girl

"He kept making all of these really annoying random comments. There was this girl walking down the aisle, and he said, "OOoh I hope she gets to sit next to a hottie.." then he gave me a creepy smile."

When you make comments like that, Josh, the girl sitting next to you knows exactly what went through your head when you sat down next her. And she is creeped out. She is also creeped out by the way you have wistfully spoken of your wife and girlfriend. And how you have asked her how long she has been dating her boyfriend, whether she has made it to the two year mark. She is probably also annoyed that you have taken this time to naturally segue into a conversation about how your last girlfriend was too clingy. At this point, you lost her at, "I'm too short to date you," as you showed her that, ultimately, you have limited confidence. You also just let the random girl sitting next to you on the airplane discourage you from ordering a meal because she doesn't like the smell of deli sandwiches. And she' s not even your girlfriend. You, my friend, have been whipped by a strange girl. Good luck in Miami.

***

Obviously, I have just dented the surface of some of the most glaring errors males make. I definitely don't deserve to be published. Or to have a major motion picture starring Drew Barrymore, Ben Afflect, and, ah it wouldn't/couldn't/shouldn't be complete without Jennifer Aniston in my fine blog's honor. I do think, though, that men and women could save themseleves a lot of trouble by embracing a little thing called a filter.

Don't Take Life Sitting Down

Well, it looks like plights for gender equality have reached a new extreme. Yes, women can be corporate executives and play professional basketball. But now, with the help of Go Girl Urination Device, females can now pee standing up. Just like a man.

Before I stumbled across this Go Girl empire of all things urinary and portable, I was never really aware that my inability to pee standing up was a draw back. Sure, maybe it takes me about 30 seconds longer to urinate than a man, thereby giving a male colleague a lunch break that is roughly 30 seconds longer than mine. Or maybe, while out in the woods, I would have to find a denser neck of the woods to drop my shorts while a man can just pull it out just about anywhere. But I wouldn't necessarily consider myself at a disadvantage for this. I also am 99% of time avoiding the great outdoors- I prefer patios. Furthermore, I think the concept of a urinal is tremendously disgusting and awkward. I'm glad that public establishments had to ultimately spend more money to build more bathroom stalls for women.

Anyhow, for the love of all that is androgynous, women can now shove a funnel like device with a spout just below their nether regions and apparently "go anywhere" because "life's greatest adventure shouldn't be finding a bathroom." The Gogirl comes in lavender, but you can purchase either a traditional pink or a special camoflauge container. There are gift packs to boot, as well, in which you can get a GoGirl tshirt so that you can flaunt that you pee like a man.

I have one small question: WHAT DOES THIS EVEN MEAN?!?! Ok so maybe this funnel thing would keep you from having squat or splash out in the woods or could be used within a public stalls to prevent you from sitting on a toilet or taking advantage of the 30 second glute/hamstring work out that results from squatting (hidden workouts are the best). However, this still doesn't mean you can pee ANYWHERE- it simply allows you to pee differently.

I was so thrown off by this entire concept that I investigated the website further. Apparently, there are types of Go girls: Outdoorsygirl, Skigirl, Globalgirl, Mommygirl, Citygirl, and Roadgirl.

So the descriptions for Outdoorsygirl and Skigirl almost make sense. Skigirl might need to go off into the woods and use her Go girl, though i'm not really sure where she is going to keep it while she's on the slopes. I guess in the pocket of her ski jacket. Outdoorsygirl, also, is in the woods all day so now she doesn't have to step off the trail to far. Even Globalgirl might be roughing it in India or in the jungles of South America. I guess the world really can be your toilet.

The concept of Mommygirl definitely bothers me. It suggests having one's young daughter use it to prevent germs. Sadly the germs it prevents will not outweigh the psychological problems and gender confusion she will experience later.

Roadgirl also perturbs me as I get this vision of traffic violations galore while urinating en route.

While trying to figure out which type of girl I was, I decided that I fit best as Citygirl. For the Citygirl, Go girl aims to please the impatient, high maintenance clipping from club to club in her hooker heels :

"Worried about germs in public places? Had it with impossibly long lines at clubs, stadiums, or big outdoor events? If there's a will, there's a way-- when you've got a go girl in your bag."

There is no way I can even try to defend this as a plausible concept. It would only result in a UIP or sex offender violation. What would I do? pull out my Gogirl and urinate into my empty vodka redbull? the thought of it makes my stomach churn! Sorry, Gogirl... you are not for the City Girl. Even if City girl were to use it in a public restroom stall for sanitary reasons, Isn't it all the more worse to be carrying around remnants of your own urine in your purse after peeing? I also do not think that peeing into a funnel would go over so well while getting tips'.

Though Gogirl boasts, "You won't be like a man. You will just be able to pee like one", I will not be breaking that bad boy out at the bar, mall, or any of the very public places I go to on a daily basis. I much prefer the hidden work outs.

Baby, It's Cold Outside

In lieu of all of all this holiday spirit, I would love to know what a song about date rape and the birth of Jesus Christ have to do with each other. I really do. It is just so jarring to hear "Silent Night" one minute and in the next, a man creepily cajoling a woman to have "just a half a drink more" and squealing, "how can you do this to me."

In all reality, the song is kind of pathetic on both ends. You have your man who is begging on his hands and knees while still trying to persuade this girl into just a little sip o' roofie-nog. Basically, she has no choice but to freeze on the frozen tundra outside or to fall at the mercy of this very needy man. This also makes me wonder: how is she getting home? is he implying that she will have to walk or does she have a car like a normal person? Then again, if she has been slurping holiday punch all night, this option may no longer be plausible.

Naturally, she decides to sing along with him, occasionally adding to the creepiness by bringing up members of her family. Yes, I must remember, the next time some man tries to convince me to go home with him, to sigh heavily and say, "oh dear, i don't know what my mother will say." Or, better yet, my brother, especially since my brother is 17 years old and could hardly care less about the adult choices I am confronted with on a daily basis.

While listening to this song, I can think of two situations where it could easily go down. The first one that comes to mind is a frat house located slightly out of the way of central campus. In my mind, I am picturing maybe the FIJI house or ZBT at Michigan because those houses are basically in Kalamazoo. FIJI really fits the bill as it is up on a high hill and has a ridiculous driveway. One night, while attempting to go to FIJI, I never even made it there because I fell down the driveway six times. Of course, in Ann Arbor it is acceptable to wear stilettos when it is 5 degrees outside and the world is covered in black ice.

I could completely see this song taking shape after two silly 19 year olds had a hey day with an ice luge. The girl, I can assure you, is wearing stilettos, and is legitimately concerned about making it down the driveway to even get into a cab. She is also probably dreaming of NYPD pizza garlic knots. Yummmmm.

I can also, in my older age, see this happening a made for tv movie, particularly one of the lifetime movie network. I should probably not be admitting to the world that i spend a substantial amount of time during the course of the week watching this channel, but, unfortunately for me, I do. Over the course of the last week, I have seen John Stamos starring as a dangerous hit man with double life, a smattering of rapist/serial killer flicks, and one random one about a haunted farm house. For the most part, I could see this scene fitting in nicely to one of the awkward seduction and/or attack scenes on these fine films. There would probably even be some sort of song and dance act.

Given the option, I would probably walk out the door of this man's house considering that a) I am too old to be contending with frat boys, b) because desperation is a turn off and c) I have a terrible singing voice.

Dick

"Well, in my opinion, he should not be re-elected president of the HOA."

"Why do you say that, Herb?"

"Lots of reasons- for starters... to resurface the jacuzzi.... just wasn't all that necessary."

The View: Poolside Old Man Edition's current topic-- who to vote for the head of the HOA- wove itself in and out of a sun induced sleep that I was trying to enjoy on perhaps the most perfect Saturday afternoon. For the next hour or so, Herb, Ted and Bob droned on through a garden variety of quibbles and quabbles, among these topics: The HOA, youngsters running around at bars, and late night noise.

My ears perked up at late night noise, just waiting for them to quip about the volume of music coming from the 2nd floor.

I hadn't always intended to live in a retirement community. However, in the 19th hour, when my roommate, Noreen, and I were about to become either a) homeless or b) subject ourself to another painful 6 month lease at the San Marin ( my previous complex which was actually a breeding ground for the service industry aka extremely annoying on the one night I want to sleep: Sunday). It was then that our useless realtor, Colin Prick ( poor idiot was unfortunate enough to have a name that rhymed with Dick and Prick), who had done absolutely nothing for us, found this little diamond in the rough or, perhaps, tooth in a pool of tapioca.

The moment I walked in, despite the mature carpeting in the hallways and the reek of the near dead, I felt at home, as the apartment itself was absolutely phenomenol: completely floored in marble, black granite counters, and rich cherry wood cabinets. The balcony, still boasting marble, was extremely large, large enough to comfortable place three beer pong tables.

And so, one blistering July day, we moved in, with the help of temporarily unemployed male friends who had spent the night at our apartment. Said 'temporary' unemployment is certainly voluntary as smoking pot while watching star wars and playing golf are priorities. Though I was extremely pissed when i woke up to find them sprawled on my old apartment's floor, a nearly empty fifth of some off brand whiskey and a spilled bag of pine nuts beside them, it was because of them that I was able to retire at 23 in my new old people's home, complete with an emergency rescue button next to the master bath toilet.

Days later, I found myself riding the elevator with a lovely woman named Delores, with whom I discussed her purchase of a new visor and matching sea foam green t shirt "Scottsdale: Most livable city". I'd like to think Dolores and I have a lot in common. We are both shopaholics and fans of colors most people think are disgusting. I bet her favorite candy is Dots and that she loves Maeve Binchy novels and Lifetime Movie Network. Who knew a party princess like me could fit in so nicely in a retirement community. I was in heaven as I truly love old retired people, especially for their big ears and slight hunchbacks.

Life was absolutely arcadic until I met Richard. Richard was the on-site maintenance man who seemed nice enough at first until I solicited his help. Despite the fact that his job was to support tennants with requests, because I was 23 and a mere renter, he seemed to turn his old nose up at me.

"Young lady," Richard snarled at me one day after I returned home from a long day of work, "you know you move too quickly. You are forgetting to lock your mailbox. Mailman won't deliver your mail if you don't lock it!" I stopped, turned around tiredly and apologized before trooping upstairs. That was a little harsh.

A few days later or, rather, Friday night, I returned home from a night out with youngsters to find that the door to my condo, literally, would not shut. That night, too tired to deal with it, I put in my denchers and went to bed.

The following morning, I awoke and realized I still had to give ol' Dick a call, even though it was Saturday. Fortunately, he was not too severe and only reminded me six times to lock my mailbox and put my parking permit sticker on my car. None of which I actually would do with enough promptness to his liking.

A few weeks later, as I left my condo in a Monday morning haze, I walked down the fire exit stairs to find the main doorway taped off because Richard was waxing the foyer floors. However, unfortunately for Richard, I was late and already needed to shave ten minutes off my commute as it was. As I clumsily began to step over the yellow tape, he spastically jumped out from around the corner like a guerilla fighter.

"Hey you," he growled, his beedy eyes furrowed behind bifocals, "Can't you read the signs!?!!? GO AROUND!!! and don't you know you are not supposed to park out front in the guest spots!?!? Read your home owners manual!!!!" I glared at him and mutter something unintelligible. Clearly, I had lost that morning battle.

The home owner's manual was a gem of a document with more stupid rules and disclaimers than you could shake a stick at. Among these, one of my favorites entails the procedure for Christmas trees: if you must have a real one, it must be disposed by being cut branch by branch and delicately place in a garbage bag. As for balconies, You were not to have more than three potted plants and only one may stand higher than the balcony rail. Do not park in guest spots on any occasion... the nagging list went on and on. I rolled my eyes and shoved it back in the drawer.

While living in the retirement community under the watchful eye of Richard, I realized I was becoming more and more like my neighbors: I seemed to be developing some form of on early onset Alzheimer's when it came to parking my car. Either that or my car was magically moving itself from place to place. The first time it happened, I had circled the back streets of old town crying to my mom about my lost car. You see, I had thought I had parked it across from the bridal store when, in fact, it was two streets parallel in front of a Native American art store, or one of the hundreds. Granted, this happened after watching Michigan lose another football game, but that was truly no excuse.

The second time it happened, I really burned every bridge with Dick. It was early Saturday morning around 2 am. I had just returned home after enjoying some cocktails with friends when, lo and behold, I noticed my car was not parked in its usual guest spot. I panicked. It had been towed!

Of course, my gut reaction was to call Dick. I reached across the concierge's desk and grabbed a card, and punched his number into my phone as quick as my arthritic digits could. When he did not answer, I left him a garbled message about how my car had been towed.

"I never read about towing from guest spots in the...er...manual," I cried, "i'm really sorry I never put the stickers on my car!!!" I hung up the phone and defeatedly climbed the stairs to my apartment. I then called Noreen freaking out. Again no answer. As I openend my door, my phone range: it was noreen.

"Your car's at Jen's!!!" she said, " I knew this phone call was coming... I just figured it would come tomorrow morning, not tonight!!!" Great, my best friend had already accepted my failing retention rate.

The next morning I woke up and my first thought was: Richard is going to kill me. For the next week, I slipped in and out back doors and made sure to not use the main entrance or be in the building from 8-4 on weekdays (easy, as I do have a day job).

One night, Noreen called me as I was on my way home from the gym.

" I ran into Richard," she said. My heart skipped a beat. I was tremendously afraid of this 65 year old maintenance man.

She went on to tell me that he had curtly reminded her that his hours are 8-4 M-F, and under no circumstance was he to be called at 2 am on a Saturday. Of course, he threw in, per usual, that guest spots are not to be occupied by residents.

Tito

"I'm sorry, ma'am. You already ordered a water. One drink per customer-short flight." The flight attendant scowls at me. I am pretty sure she hates her life. But I suppose you would too if you had a seven year old boy's haircut, a muffin top, and a shift that involved the 8 pm flight from Phoenix to Vegas.

"Yeah, well i want to order vodka soda, i'll pay for it," I persisted, as if i would have a choice, "how much is it?" She scowled at me again-

"We don't take cash." She kept moving and refused to serve any of my friends. Clearly a discrimination case. 28th ammendment, please: no discrimination toward vegas bound youth. Crotchety ol' bitch.

Two seconds later, a nice looking male flight attendant passed down the aisle with peanuts and pretzels. I stopped him, told him how rudely i had been treated. He was, of course, sympathetic and hurried to bring me a complimentary beverage just as they announced there was too much turbulance to serve at all.

Things were off to a great start- I had been served before paying customers. Jen, across the aisle, shook her head and said, "It figures you would get served."

As I am quite convinced that the best things in life are free, that must mean that weekends in Vegas are among the best things in life. There is never a better time to be a female than on a weekend in the city of flashing lights. Despite the fact that we had of course paid for our flights, our 3 night stay was gratis, compliments of our friend Ashley's pseudo uncle who we fondly referred to as Lester the Molester. In all reality, I am sure Lester was a just a run of the mill harmless creepy old man who really wanted to 5 twenty-somethings out to dinner. Ashley's mom, though, said to be wary of ol' Lester. Conveniently, Ashley lost her phone the first night we were there, thereby making it impossible to contact poor Lester.

Of course, when I mentioned a gratis stay in Vegas it was not necessarily at the Bellagio or the Wynn... we were booked that the tried and true Stratosphere which is arguably still on the strip. Upon arrival, we stepped up to the desk and met Sandy, a stereotypical NY Jew with a beard that I could only imagine would boast matzo particles on any given occasion.

"Hi there," Ashley said brightly to Sandy, "we are registered under a Mr. Lester _______". Sandy looked at her skeptically. "Which one of you is Lester?" he grunted at his stupid little joke. Ashley looked at him, "He registered us- he said it would be all set." Sandy began to putter around on his computer; we would learn over the course of the weekend that Sandy loved to putter and make people wait obscene amounts of time for simple requests. He had a tendency to almost make you feel guilty about needing his services. Sandy took his job very seriously, and had no tolerance for fun and games.

Amidst his putzing and fettering away of our precious Vegas minutes, he took all of our licenses and examined them with the precision of an FBI agent.

To Jen, Ashley and Sammy, he made some elitist Jew joke that Shana and I could not comprehend and then smirked and pointed at us, "Goyim... they don't understand." In response, I asked Sandy if he wanted to go clubbing later and garnered a hysterical image of this fat man in a little suit rocking out at Tao and sweating shamelessly.

Eventually, Sandy gave us room keys (and we quickly found out that only one of them actually worked), and we began our whirlwind Friday night that, for me, ended in the food court of Caesar's Palace at 4 am shrugging off a broken dress strap and casually gnoshing on cheese fries off some stranger friend's plate. I guess we all have our moments.

The following morning, due to aforementioned cheese fries and most likely several pieces of pizza that I do not want to admit to, I did not feel all that awful and was ready to seize the day at the Tao Beach pool party.

Tao Beach was essentially the most exclusive frat party I have ever been to in my entire life. Unlike Rehab, which, personally I find overwhelming and commercial, Tao Beach is much more intimate. On this particular day, LMFAO was performing so naturally I texted Red Foo as I had met them outside of LAX a few months ago while waiting for blue shuttle bus. I guess even rockstars pinch pennies. Much to my dismay, Red Foo did not respond, but I had absolutely no time to sigh sadly as within moments we had joined the company of a bunch of little nuggets in bright pastel swim shorts. The head nugget, one who essentially had a shag rug taped to his chest, was the keeper of vodka and stood on top of the cabana bench so we could see eye to eye.

The nuggets were touchy little beasts but, overall, not unlike Lester who we would now never meet, they seemed relatively harmless and quite generous. This seemed to be the theme of the weekend: harmless, generous and just a little bit uncomfortable.

We would not see the end of harmless and generous throughout the weekend. After two long nights out, plenty of new stranger friends, two day long pool parties, we were headed for our final hours in Vegas. That is when we met Tito.

After moseying around Moon at the Palms/ taking advantage of ladies night champagne, we stumbled upon a table of decent looking fellows and I struck up conversation with a Mario Lopez replica in a white jacket.

"Oh hey," I said, "why don't you let me take the picture? That way you can be in it!" Nice goes a long way. the man flashed a smile. He looked even more like AC Slater, dimples and all.

Slater hopped in the picture, lithe as a gymnast and did a bit of a sorority squat. After the photo sesh, we introduced himself, "Tito," he said, pouring another drink. I told him my name and asked if his parents were fans of the Jacksons. Tito was not offended because, not unlike myself, he was more of a teller than a listener. He launched into a diatribe about his life. Within moments I learned that he was an architect from San Francisco, a cancer survivor, and Ayn Rand was his favorite author.

"Oh, I love Atlas Shrugged and The Fountainhead," I squealed. I am a dork and am always impressed when i meet any man who is relatively literate. It was quite possible Tito and I were soulmates.

Sadly, that dream died about thirty seconds later when "I got a feeling" by the Black Eyed Peas started bumping and I learned the dire truth: Tito was a clapper and looked like he was about to get on the soul train, white jacket and all. If there's one thing that I really dislike it's men who feel the need to clap while they dance. Suddenly I had visions of him hopping around in a Jackson 5 music video. Tito, in all his hot glory, was just another generous-harmless-awkward man out on the strip.

A wonderful night for a gondola

Because your kiss, your kiss in on my...

I rolled over and slapped my phone. Hall and Oats ring tones are actually really annoying. Why was it ringing, who was calling, and most importantly... why was it still daylight?

Then it all hit my like a sack of bricks- i saw what time it was: 4:45 in the afternoon. It was still Saturday and I was supposed to be heading to a charity event within the next 15 minutes. Unfortunately, I was still wearing Maize shorts with "Wolverines" printed on the ass and my Michigan Alumni sweatshirt. My hair was matted to the side of my head. There was no way I could take a French shower.

After jumping in and out of the shower, chugging blue-razz powerade zero, and re-enacting a throw back episode of Finders Keepers with my closet (buried treasure? a black and red Theory tube dress), I was somehow almost ready to go within 15 minutes. Luckily, my friend, Julie, who i had spent the morning at the sports bar with while watching our alma mater lose, had returned to my apartment to reclaim an overnight bag and a pair of hooker heels.

Shoving my feet into my own hooker heels- patent Michael Kors with an exposed gold zipper-, I jumped into her convertible and she dropped me off at Jen's house.

"See," I said slamming Jen's car door shut, " only 10 minutes late!" And we were off to the Sheraton at WildHorse Pass to support a fundraising effort for the Boys and Girls Club of the East Valley.

As we neared the resort, we passed the sister hotel, located a mile down the road. It was the one attached to a casino and also boasted a snazzy new club. We were, unfortunately, headed to a secluded desert spa type venue, sans flashing lights and oonst oonst oonst.

We looked longingly at the tacky glittery casino light, "We'll hit that up after," Jen said as we curved the winding road to the conference center. Sigh of relief from me: it's not everyday that I get to go clubbing in the middle of no where.

Once we arrived, we hopped out at the valet.

"It's ok if I leave my car overnight, right?" Jen tossed the 18 year old valet boy her keys. He said it would not be a problem.

Upon arrival, we headed straight for Cabernet and Pinot Grigio, then began touring about the silent auction items. Not much was piquing our interests, and my interests were even less piqued by the selection of men at the event. So much for finding a kind hearted philanthropist who cares deeply about the welfare of America's youth.

We turned another corner and I noticed there were a few cops loitering about. As I got closer I realized that the event had not solicited extreme security. In fact, the cops were an auction item: SWAT for the day.

The head honcho of the cop crew, or so it seemed, was a broad, tall man with an attractive chiseled face and greying hair. We'll refer to him as Lt. Dan. Before asking Dan about the perks of swat for the day, I had this image of Lt. Dan wearing the apron from my Halloween costume and dusting the baseboards of my apartment. Next up he would be ironing the wrinkled mess on my closet floor. After that, fixing the drain on my bathroom sink (I am deeply afraid of my complex's onsite maintenance man due to a few incidents I will write about later).

"So what does SWAT for the day entail?" Lt. could also be handy with illegally splitting the cable so that I could get HD in my room.

"well, young lady," said lt. dan, puffing out his pecs, "You will go spend a 10-12 hour day with us. A full day!" I could have sworn he raised his eyebrow, "You might start off with some artillery practice," He motioned with a sweeping hand over a foray of rifles and flashed a Crest smile.

"I'm good with guns and handling assorted weaponry," I said. Yeah right, the most viable contact I have had with rifles is probably Big Buck Hunter or the rifle case I tripped over one time on the floor of an ex's bedroom (again, another story). Lt. Dan went on to tell me how the rest of our day would be spent: a trip in a helicopter, a re-enactment of a crime scene in which I would get to dress up in SWAT costumery, a simulated SWAT chase, all by the side of dashing Lt. Dan. The only thing that seemed more fun than this gig would be a never ending, all access pass to free frozen yogurt for life at Red Mango where I currently am blowing my life savings on a weekly basis.

"Wow," I said taking a swig of wine and wondering if they had my size in the SWAT pants, "how much?"

Lt. Dan chuckled, "Well bids start at 900 dollars..." I shook my head sadly, "sorry, out of my budget. But I'm sure some lucky 12 year old will get to do it." Lt. Dan laughed again and told me he was broke, too. Wow, such a turn on when guys tell you they are broke. Not the best thing to share. Of course, Lt. Dan was probably married and way too old for me.

Jen and I moved along and rounded the corner to a table that had a pair of rollerblades on it. Jen nudged my arm, "shameless, " she said. I looked at her; I didn't think I had been all that inappropriate.

"No," she said, "that SWAT guy just shamelessly checked you out. He was not even a little bit discrete. He totally trailed you." We started cracking up.

"I can't afford Lt. Dan," I said and we headed to the dining area to meet up with Jen's sister and her boyfriend.

As it was about 7 pm, the open bar was closing and turning into an ugly cash bar. We got a second glass and headed for our seats at the table. On the way, Jen said hello to a tall African American man named Roger who she had met at a networking group. He was super friendly and mentioned that he would be going to the new club down the road later. Jen made unofficial plans to meet up with him before leaving the auction.

The table settings, I noticed, also alloted for another glass of wine. This meant that we would have plenty of wine to entertain us through the live auction and dinner.

"Would you like red or white," a fragile Asian woman was serving our table. I thanked her for the white wine and we sat down to dinner.

As salads were served, or, rather, plates with 3 strawberry pieces and a leaf of lettuce, I noticed that there were several empty seats at the table. I also noticed that my lock stock and barrel of wine was dwindling. Well, not really, but I had no idea how long this dinner would go on.

"Excuse me," I signaled the waitress, "I have some friends coming and they would like some wine. They are on their way." She walked away to retrieve some wine.

A moment later, before the waitress could serve my friends their wine, two people actually arrived. One was a man who was a previous acquaintance who I had randomly met while walking out of a bar. In all reality, I had seen him holding a copy of 944's edition that boasted Chelsea Handler on the cover and had basically stolen it from him. The other was a girl who I had never met. The waitress returned.

"Would you like red or white," she asked the girl sitting next to me while giving me the eye. Busted! The girl smiled at her and declined, saying she would just have water. The waitress gave me another look and I swear she smirked.

I introduced myself to the girl as the food arrived. It was my personal favorite, Petit Filet, and some grilled chicken thigh like thing with seasoning. I looked back at the menu: mole chicken. While the filet was wonderful, upon trying the mole chicken I knew I would be burping up its aromas all night so I pushed it to the side of the plate.

After eating and engaging in small talk for a little while, Jen and I went to the bathroom really to make a game plan for the rest of the night.

Once inside the bathroom, Jen ran into a stall, "Hold on, I have to get these spanks off!" She came out moments later with spanks in hand, "Soooo much better, but you're going to have to put them in your purse. Mine is too small." I looked at her like she was crazy but, never the less shoved the damn things in my small bag. One would think this was one of those time-to-self-reflect-on-your-life-moments: you have spanks in your purse, said spanks are not even yours, you tried to outsmart a waitress for extra table wine, and had an inappropriate exchange with a really old cop.

Instead, Jen and I decided to pass Roger's table and finalize plans for clubbing. Roger's table was located right by the door so we could easily siddle up next to it and chat with him while the live auction continued.

"Why hello girls," Roger flashed us a smile, "are you excited for the club?" I was extremely tired of table wine and definitely ready for some flashing lights.

"Say," he said while adding Jen's number to his phone, "I'll text you when I'm going. How are you getting there?" We told him we had been thinking of taking a cab.

"Cab," he made some motion with his hand, "haven't you heard about the Gondolas? I will be going to the club in a gondola- you girls should come with me!" I looked at Jen. I was a little confused about a gondola in the middle of the desert in Arizona. I also got a really funny picture in my head of Roger, Jen and I shoved into a Gondola and being escorted across some man-made body of water. Roger might even be singing to entertain us. He would even let pocket sized jen climb up on his shoulders like a 5 year old so she could see the lights in the distance better.

"Yea," Jen said, "text me. We'll go in the Gondola!" Well it would be an adventure, I thought as we returned to our table. We stayed for a little while longer and then got super restless. As we plotted to leave earlier than orginially anticipated, Roger stopped by our table, set down a full glass of wine and said, "See you girls later!!!" and walked off. Awesome, he gave us his left over wine. I always get really excited about backwash from strangers.

Things were clearly getting weird so we opted to hop into a white hummer with the two kind people who had arrived to sit in my pretend friends' seats.

On the way over, Roger texted Jen: Are you going to join me in the gondola? I, for once, felt totally safe riding a white hummer with someone I barely knew. Gondola was clearly code for something else.

Once inside the casino, which, though new and clean, was basically a budget Vegas, Jen and I hopped up to the club. The man at the door tried to charge us 1o dollars cover. We declined because, in all of our glory, we thought we were the entitled ones.

As we descended from palace above, Roger texted Jen: you inside the club and then on my way. She responded that we were leaving, did not want to pay cover. Roger replied: I'll pay your cover and a few minutes later I'm probably getting a room there, you in? My mind flashed back to the gondola and the backwashed wine. Sick. It was time to run for the hills. Lucky for us, Jen's sister Becca and David were ready to go as well and they carted us back to Old Town.

Inside the car, we watched the glorious casino in the middle of no where fade into a speck of nothing and investigated a giant blue cooler and Whole Foods basket David had won at the auction. Jen's phone blinked again. Roger had texted: :(... sometimes words cannot express what an emoticon can reveal. We laughed and I thought again about how there had not been any visible water in sight.

"It's a good thing I won't see that man for a few weeks," Jen said, "because it will probably be awkward."

The only thing that might have been better than Jen, me and Roger in the gondola would have been Jen, me, Roger and Lt. Dan in the gondola.

Spanky

I'll admit it- I do route my running route past the dog park on McDonald and Hayden. Though I cannot actually go in (I do not own a dog and, not unlike playgrounds, you can't exactly go to a dog park without a canine accessory), I can creepily peer in to watch all of the lucky people who are responsible enough to own and care for a pooch. I can't help it; there's something about watching Labrador Retrievers carousing about, catching a frisbee here and there. Furthermore, there's no denying that Scottsdale has the most beautiful of Golden Retrievers, their silky, Pantene Pro-V worthy pelts glistening in the late afternoon sun.

There are a lot of reasons I cannot have a dog. Mainly, I might forget to feed it, kind of like the way i accidentally leave my laundry in the wash for a week and then have to rewash it because it smells like vomit. Well, if you forget to feed your dog, you don't get a rewash. They are not like cats; they do not have nine lives. Another thing that scares me about having a dog is that I'll come home late one night and leave the screen door open and it will run away to some better patio that has leftover barbeque on it. Sadly, if the dog runs off my patio, it also takes a 15 ft. leap as I live on the second floor. More practically, I have no desire to clean up fecal matter or run on my dog's time clock. Therefore, I must simply admire from afar or take one of two alternative routes: a) pet sitting b) visiting pet shops and pretending to be interested in purchasing pets or c) fawn over other people's pets.

So, I've gone the pet sitting route. As you've read in my previous entries, I once spent a week on Noah's Ark with possibly the most motley crew of creatures. Several years later, I acquiesced to spend two nights with my friend Tom's English Bulldog, Spanky. The dog had such low self esteem it made me depressed. You would too if you had a severe under bite and were a box on sticks. And if the highlight of your day was a stale milk bone.

"fuck that shit, spanky" I said, clipping on his leash, "we're going out on the town! Your dad might be riding some mule in the Grand Canyon but you're in Scottsdale!" And, by out on the town, I meant walking him the 5 blocks his asthmatic body could manage to the pet accessory store, All that Jazz.

The girl who ran the store had some poodle like, freaky looking dogs with mullets and black pride hair cuts (as you might realize, I am a total dog snob, I only like the classic, beauties), but she was super welcoming to our down home boy, Spanky.

"Aren't you a beautiful boy,' she squealed as a 5 inch strand of saliva dangled from his mouth. What a boost for Spanky's self image.

"See!? the nice lady likes you! Someday you'll get a girl of your own," I whispered to him while she went to get some gourmet dog bone samples, "but stay away from that shit," I said motioning toward the bichoodles sitting behind the counter.

Spanky sampled several dog treats: one sprinkled with carob chips (no go), another one that had some sort of peanut butter supplement (no go), and yet another that was of some oatmeal cookie variety with delicious looking icing. Quite frankly, I was breath away from asking the girl if they were an appropriate snack for people. I couldn't understand why this dog was so choosey... geeze... clearly a diet of milk bones had left him with an unsophisticated palate.

The girl ended up giving him some sort of organic jerky that he inhaled in two bites. It was the most expensive of the treats. I had no idea Spanky would turn out to be such a little whore.

Instead of buying him a bag of treats, I decided it would not help his physique to feed him beef jerky, I opted to buy him a new handkerchief print bandana with a red jinglebell on it.

"Handsome," I said to Spank-ster as he clodded along, wheezing heavily. En route home, several attractive men stopped to admire my dog. Despite how ugly he was, Spanky was making me more approachable or, at least, helping my game. In my mind, Spanky was no longer a fat fuck but an excellent wing man. We pranced around town for another twenty minutes or so and then, because the dog was in need of an inhaler, we headed home.

Later that evening, I took Spanky to the dog park with a few of my friends. When we arrived, I desperately wanted to take him into the "high activity" dog run so I could play with the goldens and labs.

"MAG," Erin said warily, "don't you think that will be a bit much for him?" She motioned to a black lab leaping over a collie to snatch a frisbee. She then nodded to the "low activity" dog run, where, clearly, there were only geriatric dogs wearing dumb sweaters.

"Oh, fine," I pouted a little, but then felt bad that I had not been looking out for his best interests, "Low activity it is." Maybe we could find him a cougar (is that what you call old, female dogs? I'm not really sure!).

We entered the retirement community and looked around for the shuffle board courts, handicap rails, and jello. Meanwhile Spanking hobbled over to the side and began puttering around in the rocks.

"Spanky," I yelled, "get over here, I got a girl for you!" I motioned to a tiny, 6 pound nuggety little black dog in a hot pink sweater. Kind of cute, though probably not logistically possible. He turned his head slowly toward me and looked more depressed than usual. He even looked like he was about to cry. Was Spanky completely socially retarded? Was he afraid of girls?

Something twittered in my heart and then I realized it: I was attached to the little fucker.

"Spanky," ran over to the pee rocks, "come here!" I petted him and brought him over on his leash to socialize with other dogs. Curiosity got the best of him and he started sniffing around at the yippy little nugget. Pretty soon, Spanster was romping around and sniffing grass fervently and intermittently with nuzzling Tiny's fuzzy pink bolero. He was almost acting like a normal dog. For a minute, I thought he was a little bit cute. Total Quasimodo syndrome.

After Spanky romped around for a bit, it was time to go. My roommate Noreen had just gotten back into town and was ready for a big night out in Scottsdale.

Back at the apartment, Spanky ate and drank like a real man. The dog had a new swagger. Noreen, nearly ready in a hot pink dress (same color as Tiny's sweater) started blasting that Jai Ho song from Slumdog Millionaire (she would) and dancing around her room while putting lotion on her leg.

Seeing another vision in pink set the little man off. He went running (sort of) down the hall to Noreen's room. I heard her exclaim, "Spaaaaannnkkkkky" in her shrilll falsetto voice, "Coommmee dannnnce with meeeee!!!!"

Well, don't they say ask and you shall receive? Spanky lunged at Noreen and knocked her off her feet, literally. She bit it and fell hard. I heard shrieks from her room and ran down the hall to find Noreen sprawled on the floor and the last chords of Jai Ho playing. Spanky sat on the ground as if nothing had happened.

I looked from fallen Noreen to Spanky sternly. I pointed at him:

"No more organic beef jerky for you, little man."

White Kong in love

"You'll never believe what White Kong just did," my mom quipped while we chat on the phone, "He just came into the kitchen for cookies, took the hot ones for himself and then put the cold ones on a plate for his friends." Sounds about right. I laughed, "White Kong knows what he wants." Clearly, White Kong is an alpha male. A few minutes later, I heard David Guetta's techno beats blasting and White Kong belting out "Sexy Bitch". Apparently, he was putting on a show for his guests and did not think he was too far a cry from Akon.

"mom, what kind of shit is going on over there?!?" I was a little concerned. White Kong was acting sketchier than usual.

"oh it's just white kong being White Kong," my mom said, "did I tell you what he did last night?" My mom then went on to inform me that White Kong had volunteered to work at some Halloween event at the park as a member of the Varsity Club. As part of his volunteer role, he was supposed to wear a costume while he passed out candy. On his way out the door, White Kong ran down to the basement and grabbed a demented Halloween mask that might be well embraced by anyone who has pedophilic tendencies.

"Michael, that is what you are wearing to pass out candy to children," my mom had queried, "don't you think you scare the children?" White Kong shrugged and said it was the easiest costume he could find and jumped in his race car to go volunteer with the children. This was also a red flag that White Kong was more or less embracing his capacity to fly his freak flag.

But then, again, I guess love can make you crazy. While I was home visiting, I learned that while White Kong dominates athletics, academia, gaming, and most things in life, really, his heart is actually dominated by an unrequited love. White Kong, is, in fact, a hapless and hopeless romantic. Unfortunately, the lady of interest had moved East for her senior year of high school to attend some ritzy private school as she was hoping to attend Harvard in the fall. Either that or she really want to know what its like to be a Gossip Girl. White Kong had been crushed.

Anyhow, White Kong in love is a different animal from White Kong not in love. White Kong in love is sassy and blasts eurotrash techno. White Kong in love flexes his biceps at any chance and walks taller and prouder than ever before. White Kong in love did not want to ask another date to homecoming. "I'm not buying some chick dinner and paying for her ticket," he said, "I can get a steak if I don't have a date." Then I saw it. White Kong was in love and did not want to waste his time or his hard earned golf caddy money on some bra he didn't have the hots for. It was like that .38 special song, "so caught up in you" was constantly blaring through White Kong's teenage mind.

Even though he will eventually get over it, I am actually quite proud of my brother for his first step toward love. It confirms that he is really just a human and actually not a super-human. And, since White Kong is such a catch, I am sure he will find love again soon enough.

Adventures with ManRam

I'll never forget the moment Noreen called me with the big news. I had just been dropped off to pick up my car after a night a gallivanting around Old Town. All I really wanted was a bagel and powerade zero. However, I got a lot more than I was bargaining for that fateful Sunday Morning.

After she revealed to me the new situation at hand, I responded, "Omg. We are going. This is out of control." You see, Manny Ramirez who, at the time, was still one of the most noted, notable, and noticed players on the Boston Red Sox had just invited Noreen and her girlfriends over to his apartment at the Optima in Scottsdale. The purpose? His uncle's birthday party. The time and date? Today at 1 pm.

We acted quickly: I called Kate who was ecstatic and bopped right over. Noreen dug our roommate Stephany out of her room (as this was early in the period of our friendship, I really do feel that this brush with fame brought us all a lot closer). After rounding up our little girl band, it occurred to me that I was missing a piece of the puzzle:

"Um, Noreen? Why and how does Manny have your number?"

Noreen was lounging on the floor playing with a digital camera in her pajamas.

" Dirty Pretty," she shrugged. The name Dirty Pretty was explanation enough for acquiring a professional ball player's number. Apparently, she had met him a few weeks ago and had chatted him up while we were out clubbing. Last night, she had run into him again and had gone to his VIP table for probably no more than ten minutes- little girl who leaves a big impression, apparently. Anyway, Noreen's charms over Manny were about to give us a great adventure.

En route to ManRam's casa, Kate called her mom to tell her about her pending adventures. Of course, though Mary Ann was probably equally as intrigued as we were, she pulled the concerned mom card. Kate promised not to accept refreshments.

Once we rolled up to the Optima, arguable the most expensive apartment property in the metro Phoenix area apart from a few high rises in the Biltmore, Noreen called him up to figure out how we would get to his humble abode.

"oh hey" she said casually, "where do we park and how do we get in?"

ManRam directed her to park anywhere and said he'd be right down. Moments later, a pearly Escalade truck (I am fairly certain it was pearl, but perhaps silver) rolled by slowly in drive-by fashion. The tinted drivers window rolled down slowly; meanwhile, I was blinded by the ultra rims. Custom rims, I can assure you.

Manny poked his head out the window, "Hi girls," he called in his still thick Dominican accent, "get in, I take you my apartment." Now, I am a tall woman but I virtually had to jump into ManRam's hoss. In the backseat, of course, there were the stereotypical practice balls rolling around the floor. I thought about the prospect of how Manny might have thrown them in there just to tempt me to steal them. Well it was working. Luckily, I had a small purse which enabled self control.

Sitting right behind Manny, I was just inches from his magnificent dreads. I wanted to pull one. Weird, but it would be a good story had it happened.

"So Manny," Noreen asked, "how old his your Uncle turning?" Manny looked at her really long and hard for a minute as if he had no idea what she had said. He either needed me to translate or had totally fucked up his own fascade for inviting us over.

"Oh, you have to ask him." Using context clues, maybe one of the only skills I gained from majoring in English Lit, I knew I was not going to be gorging myself with really expensive birthday cake that pro ball players must get for family and friends on their birthdays.

After a slightly awkward elevator ride, we were at the door of Manny's apartment. I have to say, the apartment was not the Moorish palace I was expecting. Decor was simple. And there were no streamers. I still decided to play up the birthday party.

As we entered the kitchen area, a fifty something man entered the room wearing an all black track suit. It was the uncle.

"Happy Birthday,' I said to him, " where are all your other friends hiding out?"

Manny looked a little guilty, "Oh, it's just you guys," and began pouring drinks with copious amounts of vodka. Noreen helped him serve; I was convinced they were roofie coladas so i put mine down and flipped on the plasma. The uncle sat next to me and I learned that he was also Manny's trainer and did not, in fact, speak very much english. Lucky for him, I shared an interest in Rock of Love and am fluent in Spanish, the only other useful skill I accrued in college.

As the aging uncle and I engaged in small talk, Kate and Steph hung out in the living room wiht us. Meanwhile, ManRam cranked on the salsa music and within moments was spinning little Noreen around the kitchen. After a few minutes, he excused himself for a moment to take a call.

Noreen gave us a look, it was probably time to go. Things were just going to get weird. Not that they were not already. We all stood up and conjured up that leaving look in our eyes. We told ManRam we had to get back to prepare for work tomorrow. ManRam looked a little sad and a little in the mood for more salsa. Unfortunately, a few twirls around the kitchen were all he would get from Noreen. And as for his uncle, he would never fully understand Rock of Love without my translations as we could not figure out how to get the subtitles going.

As we drove home, I couldn't help but feel a little disappointed in Manny. For a celebrity, he was actually pretty boring. Not much of a conversationalist and with a pretty simple apartment. And didn't even use good mixers in his drinks (ok so i had to try it).

However, Manny was still a celebrity so we continued to pursue contact in a friendly way. As luck would have it, Manny began blowing us off and his wife came into town. Several weeks after that, he bailed on Phoenix for Ft. Lauderdale and changed his number. To think I had been just inches from his dreadlocks and now could not ever contact him again (of course, this was not a huge loss because Manny is not really that entertaining).

If I learned anything from ManRam though, it is that certain adventures and opportunities only come around every so often. If you don't take them and run with them, you will be one dreadlock short of a really, really good story.

Bloggversary

Believe it or not, it is the one year anniversary of my blog. After reflecting on a year spent regurgitating adventures and spinning somewhat snarky tales, reviews, and commentary, I have to say I can surmise one observation about my blog: it's utterly random and smattered with everything from family profiles to tales of childhood to commentary of pop culture along with many random day to day adventures.

Now, my blog is certainly not the most popular. Nor does it get any more than 50 hits or so when i publish. But i hold those 50 hits so much closer to my heart than thousands of meaningless hits. These are the people who appreciate the random and do not require me to squeeze my writing into some annoying, limiting category.

In the new fiscal year of my blog, I would like to expand it horizons to a new level: guest writers. Yes, I promise to find the wittiet, weirdest and most hysterical people to comment and query about life. Look forward to it!

White Kong

At 6' 5" and 190 lean pounds, White Kong is not someone you want on your bad side. I am thinking about this as White Kong stands in the kitchen while loading two peanut butter sandwiches, 2 banananas, 5-6 assorted granola bars and rice krispy treat bars, along with two bagles and cream cheese into a now bulging plastic bag. This is lunch and breakfast. For some reason, White Kong is also not wearing a shirt and pauses momentarily to flex his gargantuan biceps. When he shoves the sandwhiches in the bags, the bags nearly burst from the force of his fists. He staggers across the kitchen, thud thud thud, and cranes his neck around the stairwell to yell into the basement:

"Muu thhhh er. Can you bring me up 3 waters and 2 gatorades, pulllleeeasssee!!!!" My mom is in the basement doing laundry. White Kong actually happens to be my 17 year old brother, believe it or not. An All American swimmer, White Kong is currently in his senior year of high school. He spends his days swimming, yawning through classes that bore him, and cruising to and from school and practice in a two door Ford Escort coup from the early nineties. When i drive in Kong's car I am afraid i am going to die. White Kong, however, lives on the edge, the edge of 17, if you will. After school and practice, White Kong does not spend much time studying or doing school work. He much prefers to spend his time gaming, recently mastering all of the expert level songs on Rock Band. Having mastered the bass and the guitar, White Kong now is working on his drumming maneuvers to Journey songs. 

As you might discern from the initial scene of this essay, in which White Kong makes sandwiches in the kitchen, that White Kong is not your average seventeen year old. Yes, he goes to school. However, in order to avoid utter boredom, White Kong has enrolled in every Advanced Placement Course possible. During math, because he has exhausted everything the public school curriculum has to offer, White Kong takes Calculus III online with Stanford. He really enjoys this course because he teaches himself, meaning he has plenty of spare time to play on his facebook account and play computer card games. 

On top of being a phenomenal athlete and complete brainiac, White Kong has the wit to match. Quick with a joke and in possession of an extremely sardonic sense of humor, Kong can jest with the best of them.  White Kong was not always so self possessed, however. He, too, went through his awkward teens where he refused to talk and picked at the patchy peach fuzz on his face. This, however, was before he became White Kong. 

I am not really sure where the name originated. During his childhood, we called him Snow Monkey, because he spent his his days at the pool, thus chlorinating his hair to a stark white and, with the help of the sun, he looked like a roma tomato in the face. His haircut also contributed to his resemblance to a monkey. However, as he grew and got stronger, he grew out of Snow Monkey. During this growth period, my brother also accrued an acute skill to dominate video games and swindle peers in basement poker matches. As White Kong began to grow into this swindly pre-teen body he began to encompass a very powerful persona. 

As White Kong' s love for cards, swimming, and games grew, he joined an online XBOX Live gaming community. To be part of this community, one had to submit a name. This, I believe, is where White Kong truly materialized. White Kong took the gaming community by force until my mother realized he was becoming a little too passionate about this cyber world and ended his subscription. However, by this time it was too late to deny the Snow Monkey's remarkable transformation into this formidable creature we know as White Kong. 

Whenever I fly home from Arizona, which is about 3 times  a year, White Kong seems to have grown in bicep and intellectual strength. His sense of humor is just increasingly sophisticated and he has turned into a young adult. When I accidentally signed into his email account, White Kong's friend had sent him an email with the subject line, "he's the study guide, you little twat". Seeing that White Kong now communicates with an adult sense of humor tears me up a little because it, apart from the fact that he looks like a body builder, is an indicator that, though he is my younger brother, he is no longer my little brother. 

White Kong is going to college next year, which is scary because in my world of denial I still consider myself, after having been out for 3 years, as a recent graduate. Everyday White Kong gets piles of renowned universities vying for his acceptance and bribing him scholarships and other assorted treats. Most of the letters, he shrugs while reading them and tosses them in the garbage. I did not have the same volume of Universities soliciting my attention. However, I cannot help but feel a sense of familial pride for White Kong's honors, awards, pool records, SAT scores, poker winnings and gaming domination. To top it off, it won't be so bad to be that-really-good- American- swimmer's sister at the 2012 Summer Olympics in London.  

Chicken Nugget

As I have mentioned before, my sister Sarah and I had a penchant for nicknaming males after clothing stores. This was actually a very complicated and somewhat esoteric process as it required us to actually know the male of mention. In my recent years, I have developed a new, shallower means of classification: food items. Yes, classifying men as food items, more specifically as types of meat, judges them less as individuals and provides more of a generalized sort of classification.

In thinking about it, I got hooked on this methodology once I was introduced to the term "Nugget", commonly used by the comedian Chelsea Handler to refer to all of the small people she meets and embraces, figuratively and literally. I now toss this term around quite frequently. The word nugget is rather vague though. While it could refer to a food item, it could also refer to golden nuggets or those pellet like things you throw in rabbit cages. Naturally, though, nugget had to evolve into primarily a food item. Anyway you shake it, a nuggety person is just a more compressed, round version of his stretched out counterparts. This is where the chicken nugget comes in.  Chicken nugget is a more descriptive version of the word nugget, adding color, flavor and smell to the formerly ambiguous nugget. Chicken nugget men are a little crispy on the exterior but soft inside, and most certainly round, compressed and can be consumed in just two bites, maybe one if you are ravenous. They are small and squat and should not come past your collarbone. 

In thinking about chicken nuggets, i did not think it was fair to leave the other genres of male out in the cold and thus the following have ensued:

Popcorn Shrimp: tiniest version of all nuggets, unfortunate enough to have a snappy high pitched voice. The popcorn shrimp is more likely to bouncing around any given venue and has a shorter attention span than the chicken nugget. 

Petit Filet: leaner and more sophisticated than the nugget but still extremely small. Likes to work out and has very little body fat. Doesn't mind an equally petit side or two. a bit of a dandy. 

Filet Mignon: The larger version of the petit filet, still likes to work out but very lean looking. Extremely finicky and likes to swap out sides frequently. Sides must compliment the filet mignon as it tends to take center stage. Decadent dandy. 

Kung Pao Chicken: more adventurous than his cow part friends, sometimes of the ethnic variety. Likes to travel. 

Salisbury Steak: Very rough around the edges and suffering from a severe case of 'roid rage. for sport, he might let you watch him blast his pecs. 

Beef Brisket: loves to eat and has a much higher BMI than a  filet. Beef Brisket has a fear of cardio though he will ocassionally wander around the weight room in sandals and an offensive cut off sleeve tshirt. Then he will get on his phone: "hey bro, yeah, just workin' out for a few.", do another set, and then hit the bar. 

Chicken fried steak: has lard in his ass. 

This is just a short list, but I feel it is very appropriate to classify males as varieties of meat. And, by no means, have i done this to be demeaning or to belittle the male gender at all. Think of this, simply, as a quick index for describing males. For instance, while engaged with a conversation with a friend, I can easily describe a guy I had met the night before: "oh yeah, he was a total Salisbury steak and would not leave me alone." Contrarily a friend might say to me, " Omg I am going out with the cutest petit filet tomorrow!".

Moreover,  if the Gym Class Heroes can write a song called Cookie Jar, in which they classify women as "oatmeal raisin asians" and "puerto rican butter pecan" and "oreo creme" if you got em, then, contrarily, I can have my own little mixed grill of male terminology. 

.

Short stuff

I'll admit, I have a huge case of selective hearing. My mother was the first to diagnose me with a raging case of selective hearing during my childhood. Selective hearing is not a hearing impairment, it is moreso an impaired ability to engage actively in a conversation if that conversation does not suit one's interest range. Outbreaks of selective hearing could crop up at any mention of cleaning and other fairly undesirable activities. I still have it today and it kind of sounds like this:

Other person: blah bleh WTF blah blah ehhh and then.... 

Me: omg

Other person: yeah no kidding...blah blah blah and I....

Me: ohh i see ( I see? aren't you supposed to be using your ears?)

Other person: Can you believe he did that, I mean what a fucker!

 (at this point i have no idea a) who Other Person is talking about or b) what Other person is talking about and c) I probably don't even care) 

Me: Seriously. 

(other person goes onto gripe. If i am on the phone, i am probably watching tv, doing my nails or on the computer. Or just playing with my hair because sometimes that is more interesting than talking to people. The rest of my responses to the conversation might include any of the following remarks: a) yeah i know b)oohhhhh  c) ughh  d)  haha but usually e) uh huh)

Now, for all of my friends reading this, I do not want you to think that on any given phone call with me i am not listening. this is not true, i am very good at actively listening, when i want to be and I usually am but sometimes, my focus gets the best of me. So, please, continue to call me and talk to me because i really do like having friends. 

The problem with selective hearing is that it can morph and grow into other diagnoses. Of these include: Selective Vision and Selective Logic. Now, I usually do not fall fodder to selective vision, which is a syndrome that can allow you to not notice things as simple as red lights and stop signs to slightly more complex things as a substandard late night hook up or, far worse, the fact that your boyfriend is making out with someone else in front of your face. I mean, i occasionally turn a blind eye to a too high for purchase price tag and decide it is in my budget and have been known to glide a few stop signs, but  I certainly would not be so dumb as to waste time with someone who would much prefer to play tonsil hockey with someone else- gross. 

Selective logic, is however, a bit more complicated than the other two as it is completely based in mindset. While your ears and eyes play tricks on you, if you have selectively decided that only "a is possible, and b is not possible because it is simply not logical" you have an entirely new problem on your hands. Unfortunately, I have been a victim of selective logic when it comes to one particular theme: Short men. 

As a 5' 10" woman, ever since I have known what a boy was, I have had this mindset " because you are tall, short men will not be interested. Therefore, you really don't need to worry about them!  They will never come onto you and are bound to be your friend." So here, it was: i had this mindset that it wasn't logical for a short man (note: I do define short as 5'7" and below because I know the term is relevant and that men with heights ranging from 5'8" to 5'10" are in every contemporary sense of the word actually just "average") to, for any reason at all, be attracted to me. 

Well, after a few situations this summer, which i will not reveal to protect myself and those involved, I realized that maybe this was not actually true. While having a truly active conversation with Noreen, she shook her head and basically told me that I am a delusional. 

"You are 5'10" and blonde-- do you really think they are not interested? Do you really think short men don't give models a 2nd look?" I really enjoy the way this comment was framed, because she essentially put me at par with supermodels (thanks, Noreen, for making me feel like Heidi Klum for a day).  With this comment and series of incidences on my mind, I realized there was no safe zone. I had to be just as careful with the ankle biter club as with Big and Tall. Everyone had a sniper rifle ready and loaded. Yikes!

With my new heightened awareness that anything was fair game, I became extra cautious with my actions, comments and casual flirtations with male friends of all shapes, sizes, and colors. You never know. The only thing that now provided balance was the fact that my gay male friends would always just be my friends; unfortunately, they were staked out coast to coast in LA and NYC, a little to far for instant comforting. 

And so, about two weeks after noreen's profound and prolific statement, I came face to face - er well, chest to face- with a man-boy we will call: The Freid. The Fried attended a happy hour as a friend of a mutual friend of my friend, J. By the time he graced us with his presence at the happy hour, J and i were already 1 Kirin/ 1 sake deep and the Fried, who had the swagger of Jay Z and confidence of Kanye, LIfted his Stunna shades and told us he had spent the day boozing poolside at the condo his 'rents kept in North Scottsdale. The Fried revealed, also, that he owned some nebulous sort of start up, was still in undergrad and really liked having relationships. I accrued all of this information from The Fried about twenty minutes into meeting him. He had a natural knack for oversharing and boastful nature. A total Boneparte replica. 

As the Fried launched into his passionate defense for why he loves jumping into relationships after meeting someone one time, I countered the Fried by saying that there is a lot to be said about independence. 

"why would you want to put all your eggs in one basket?" I shrugged. And for some reason, the Fried was hooked. He told me I was a really cool girl and somehow this hypothetical 3rd person he was describing while he talked about his dating tactics grew into 2nd person: you. Luckily, I was pretty buzzed and it seemed no one else at the table had heard him. Our happy hour crew paid the tab and headed to another bar because the Fried had a friend who would hook us up. While walking, the Fried made sure to walk in sync with me, moving his little legs as fast as possible. Amidst conversation, the Fried asked for my number: "Wanna go out sometime?" Everyone else turned and looked. Not wanting to embarass the Fried, as he was definitely a nice person, I gave him my number and uttered, "sure." J winked at me. It was happening. 

Once at the other bar, the Fried texted me under the table. Aggressive. The conversation had shifted to a discussion of a pending Incubus concert that J and ohters were considering attending. The Fried said he loved Incubus and wanted to join her group. Then he turned to me, "You want to go to Incubus?" I don't like Incubus; i mean, no offense, but I was raised on Ziggy Stardust, tempered with Chicago and a sprinkling of Zappa. Incubus is just kind of boring to me. I replied, " I don't like Incubus." The Fried smirked, "I didn't ask if you liked Incubus, I asked you if you wanted to go." I declined again, saying I had other plans. 

At this point, it wasn't even that the Fried was short that really bothered me, it was more so attitude. Even htough his pants were obviously shorter than mine, he clearly wore them pulled up way too high. I have zero tolerance that crap. J and N could see i was uncomfortable. We left shortly after as a group and ditched the Fried and co., to which he responded with an angry text, commenting on how rude we had been. 

A few weeks later in Vegas, I was at a pool party at a club called Tao. There, we befriended and joined the elite cabana of about  12 hairy little nuggety jews from Mexico. Not only were they quite hairy but they were incredibly horny. Horny little Gorillas. I still remained diplomatic and drank their vodka while shaking them off, one little anklebiter at a time. and Snow White thought 7 was a lot. 

Upon returning to Scottsdale I was bound to run into the Fried again as I always insist upon attending Jewish networking events with J. Really, i usually have myself to blame for these, er, run ins that I have. While at a pool bar at the Montelucia, J had just finished introducing me to her friends when she nudged me and said, "uh, guess who just walked in- your favorite." 

It was the Fried. All pompous and puffed out like the little cockerel that he truly is. We caught him glancing in our direction. Just then, one of J's friends swung around and introduced us to another group that had entered. While shaking hands with new acquaintances, the Fried came prancing over. Lil J's friend who had been the mover and shaker before looked at her and said, "Oh do you know, ___________   _____________?" The Fried promptly shook her hand, smiled, asked her how she had been. J was clearly laughing. J's friend assumed that, being a gentile and all, I did not know him. 

"And ____________, have you met MAG?"  the Fried looked at me like he had never seen me before, shook my hand, "Nice to meet you!" Now I bet you are hoping that I called him out? Of course I did:

"Um we have definitely met before." I said. J was no longer trying not to laugh. The Fried looked really uncomfortable and I could see his eyes darting around. Conversation desisted. 

It was then i realized, while polishing off the remains of my vodka soda, that my aversion to The Fried would have been the same had he been 6'4". He was twerp no matter his height. This was the same situation with Tao Beach. Those hairy beasts would have been just as annoying had they been giants, granted it might have been a bit more difficult to swat them off. I was simply zeroing in on their height while, in all reality, I have met far greater number of offensive tall men than short men. For instance, there is this vile security guard at the W hotel whom I offended on one occasion by querying about the hotel's bankruptcy. In retaliation, three months later at that, he threatened me with a regular old Fe Fi Fo rigamarol. There are, however, just so many gross large men like this  that i have lost track. So, in that, maybe my point is this: there is no need to rule out all of the nuggets because one might be solid gold. 

A week later J ran into the Fried again. He was still awkward. 

The Top 100 Things that Amuse Me Mildly: #97: Vibrating Mascara

One day my mom called and we chattered on about stupid things until we got down and dirty with something really serious: make up. Now, I am not the type of girl to cake it or transform myself into Pretty Woman on a daily basis. I also have very little desire for this blog to turn the dark path of fashion and beauty commentary (no offense, but we don't need another one like that). I do, however, have a new fascination with vibrating mascara. 

The fact that my mom introduced me to vibrating mascara is not that alarming. She is savvy and chic and in better shape than me most likely. Furthermore, the last package she mailed me, apart from my birthday gift, included: a Victoria's Secret thong, birth control pills and a package of marshmallow peeps. Granted, of course, she had put no thought into the implication of such a garden variety of things. 

Now, my love for vibrating mascara is two folds. First of all, it is absolutely wonderful. I no longer need to comb through my lashes or deal with clumping. Furthermore, the vibrating gives me a little jumpstart to my day. It's ever so invigorating. On the other hand, the name is just hysterical. Who thought of this? I have a feeling it was some really horny woman who had clumpy mascara. Just a thought. 

baby daddy

With a recent crash of my internal harddrive, I now realize, on a plan to New York, that my computer currently lacks all of the original components it came with, among these, Iphoto, Microsoft Office, all of my music. This means, my computer is virtually useless. I am also pissed at the Apple Store for not refurbishing my computer with all of its original assets and commodities. 

Now, with my technologically disadvantaged computer and on a plane- picture this, crying baby to my left and dad picking his nose; to my right, a man with a large cross on his arm who can probably see my computer and is probably offended right now- I have spent the last hour or so noshing on Vanity Fair, mainly zeroing in on the sensationalist articles and skipping the ones that have the words "bail out" or "economy" in them. I guess that is just the sort of person that I am. I am far more likely to be drawn LeBron's memoir of a champion, the blow by blow of sex crazed Phillip Markoff's bouts as a real life American Psycho, and most definitely a personal memoir written by the one and only 18 year old heartthrob/ teen father, Levi Johnston. I absolutely love real life accounts, especially when they center around interesting content, such as Sarah Palin's personal life. And what is my final impression after reading Levi's bouts in Palin-land? I should dare say, he has an outstanding publicist. 

Everything about the essay/account screams Carhart wearin'- bison huntin'-ford truck drivin-hockey puck slingin' - back country boy. It is everything the public would expect and more. He gets down and dirty, has no filter for Palin and family's privacy or personal lives. With everything from his accounts of Palin slinking out of work early to watch those 'wedding shows" and sit around in her 'wall mart pajamas' that she has in every color. He, very painfully, details life on the campaign trail, where it basically boils down to the fact that is was a) boring and b) he had to just hang out with Bristol. Poor ol' boy just wanted to get back to snow mobile. He exposes Palin as a self centered person and a terrible parent very matter of factly. He lights on how she has absolutely no relationship with her children and even goes so far to refer to the most recent addition to her brood, Trig, as "that retard baby". 

Levi, though, can pull off this expose without sounding even a little bit malicious. He sounds more, well, simple. While reading this article, my mind returned to other books written in the first person that detailed mentally simple characters. On that came to mind was Flowers for Algernon. Or other books, like the way Scout looks at life in To Kill a Mockingbird. Now, Levi is neither a mentally disabled middle aged man nor an eight year old girl. He does, however, really embrace that innocent charm while writing. 

Toneless and completely written from the angle of a third person omniscient character, Levi's account never lets on to any emotion regarding the entire situation. When he speaks of Bristol, there is no element of charm or charisma that he uses while describing the relationship. "I met her at the hockey rink. I thought she was cute." We do have to keep in mind, too, that he is a teenage boy. When he  describes finding out that Sarah Palin did not actually like  him, he merely says, "it came as a surprise." Something tells me, though, that it was not a surprise as feeling surprised would be a personal reaction to another force of opinion and I really don't think Levi is capable of this. 

Despite lack of tone, Levi is not wanton for details. He spends a great deal of time describing what it was like to get clothes and then give them back, Sarah Palin's luxury suites during the campaigns, Sarah's lounge wear, and Todd, Palin's husband, who basically lives in the garage. The entire article was basically a clusterfuck of tangents and superfluous details boiling down to a whole lot of nothing. Just like a third grader might ramble through a story, Levi rambles like crazy about life as a Palin. But I do believe that this is the entire point of his entry and his writing career. To give the world another taste of innocence lost and the remnants of one who has suffered through a whirlwind of fame. 

Toward the end of the article, he casually notes  that he had to go to a trial for his mom who had been caught selling prescription drugs. He seems un-phased by the trial and, at this point in the article, the reader might notice that this is the first time this boy has talked about his own family and life outside of the Palins. At this time, I began to feel sorry for the boy, who, as this voiceless writer, does not even have his own life to write. He is moreso a marketing tool to 'innocently' provide an account for America of the 'truth'. And because he is essentially a victim of temporary fame, we do feel for this little sport and we tend to believe him. We've got no reason not to believe him, if anything else. 

Levi's bland story ties up nicely as he, casually again, drops that with the engagement a no go he is suddenly in the spot light still and being petitioned to go into modeling. Luckily he's got a right hand man, Rex, a lawyer left over from mom's trial, to serve basically as his agent (it's hard to find one in Alaska, apparently). Levi provides us with an outstanding visual of Rex as a tall, large African American man who has cufflinks personalized with his name. I am guessing that Rex also doubles as his body guard and eventually trainer and nutritionist. Rex assures him that he will take care of him and that it is best to just see where things go as everyone will ont make it as a celebrity. Rex doesn't say it outloud but he is so excited about making some phat cash. 

This simple man/boy's story wraps up with him casually shrugging that he might be a celebrity someday soon and that he does not think Rex is capitalizing on him. He emphasizes that he loves his son and will take care of him and could care less about any "big old mansion and bently." Levi claims he would be just as happy to be an electrician like everyone else in his family 'cuz "that's fun, too." 

I can't help but think about the number of editors and publicists grazed this articles contents for this sappy-sweet-simple ending to give our boy Levi some major points as a nice country boy. On that note, I am also a bit concerned that for the last 30 minutes I have been analyzing the prose of a high school student and all of the strings behind it. I am also concerned that, out of all of fine word-smithery available in any given article of Vanity Fair, that i am the most fascinated by an entry by a small town boy from Alaska. It would not surprise me, either, though, if this were the same case for at least half of the population reading this magazine: We are nosy. We want some dirt. We don't really care about the presentation.