Archive for the ‘girls are wingmen too’ Category

Hidden Treasures

November 18, 2009

Written By: Emily O’Neill

What are friends for if not to help facilitate breaking and entering?
Last week, I received an email marked urgent to my inbox at work. My
best friend, Liz, went home with a stranger and left her amethyst
cocktail ring on his bedside table. She didn’t even know the guy’s
name.

This is where you play detective and help your friend retrace her
steps to a pre-war building in Union Square and knock on the first
door to your right on all five floors. In searching for a man with a
British accent, you are disappointed to encounter only a handful of
born-and-bred Americans. Driven by desperation, your friend scribbles
a brief note addressed to no one, providing her phone number and a
plea for the jewel thief to please return the ring at once. She then
sticks it under door 541.

Despite my love of playing detective, my life does not have a Miss
Scarlet-in-the conservatory-with-the-wrench appeal to it. That’s for
amateurs. The femme fatale of my version of Clue would undoubtedly be
Miss Emily in the hallway with the bobby pin. Well, how apropos that
the Brit’s mailbox was opened just enough for someone to maneuver a
small object inside. Using my bobby pin, I attempted to expose the
name of Liz’s one-night stand by plucking a message from the slot.

Remember Ashton Kutcher’s popular celebrity prank show, Punk’d? Well,
I felt like the victim of candid camera when, just as I had retrieved
the letter and felt confident that I was straight out of an Agatha
Christie novel, the Brit came cruising through the door. I was caught
red-handed.

This is one of countless misadventures that women in New York come
face-to-face with. The home of Bernie Madoff and A-Rod is undoubtedly
a place of enormous opportunity. But any woman in the five boroughs
will tell you that with a surplus of choices comes the option to never
commit. For those with the XY-chromosome, moving from job to job and
woman to woman is the norm. And although we are normally endowed with
a smidge of common-sense, honking horns, deafening bar music, and
pre-recession stock-market cheering have left women with an inability
to hear the voices in our heads, much less pay attention to them.

Well, whoever said that the hardest person to trust is an addict
wasn’t living in Manhattan. Those living within the five boroughs are
well acquainted with the fact that the hardest person to trust is the
man next to you. It’s a strange thing, dating in New York. For those
in the serial monogamist category, feeling abandoned and humiliated is
the norm. And just as trends start in New York, the craze to avoid
being emotionally connected to other people is spreading to other
cities, as well. In New Orleans, Christine has resorted to having an
affair with her married boss. Devastated by her boyfriend’s decision
to leave her for a recent SMU graduate in his home state of Texas,
Holly quit her job in DC and headed for Austin. And in New York,
constant rejection has prompted Liz to replace men with drugs and
date-nights with late-nights frequenting warehouses in Brooklyn.

Of course, there are some success stories—or, as “He’s Just Not That
Into You” would call it— the exceptions. For instance, Andrew and
Jonathan— my two gay friends living in Boston— just announced their
engagement. And after years of playing the field, my friend Chris—now
thirty-five– has finally proposed. Just last week my one non-single
girlfriend told her boyfriend that their relationship lacked passion,
only to have him reply with “I have passion for you.”

If parting is as sweet a sorrow as Juliet once said it is, then there
should be a nectarous rhyme to the reason that my personal Romeo of
11-months keeps turnings on his heel. Until I figure that out, I
continue to search for missing treasures.

Advertisements

Bad Boys

November 18, 2009

Written By: Dara King

It is said that every girl likes a bad boy. The good guys never finish first. I myself prefer a tattooed, tight pants wearing, young professional– a doctor on a motorcycle, stethoscope flying in the wind. Although I like that perfect mix of good guy gone bad. Am I adverse to dating wholesome, plain, nice guys?

Counting my past relationships, I realized my good boy vs. bad boy scale tipped overwhelmingly to the bad boy side. What is it with girls and their bad boys? I mean I am an upstanding young lady. I don’t curse, I don’t drink, I don’t smoke, and I keep the partying to a minimum. Yet I like a boy who does all of the above. My only requirement on the good boy scale is employment.

Bad boys are like high heels. You know when you tried them on in the store that you wouldn’t be able to walk very far in them. But they were beautiful, and they made you look so skinny. But they weren’t a perfect fit. And you purchased them even though you knew you would only wear them to one party and they would spend the rest of their lives in your closet looking pretty.

That is a bad boy. You meet him and you know he wont fit you. But you try him on. And you mull over it. And in the end, you decide to take him out for a spin. And then after a painful few weeks, or even months of dating you realize what you knew when you first decided to purchase. They just don’t fit.

So you break up and he becomes just another in your closet full of skeletons. You may even decide to wear flats for a while and vow never to buy heels again. But then you go to the store. And you see the beautiful Proenza Schouler heels on the shelf and you want to try them on because they are just so beautiful… it’s the Justin Bobby effect for all of those who watch the Hills (I know you all do).

Long Distance Relationships

November 18, 2009

Written By: Dara King

Long distance relationships never work. At least they never work for me. The saying “absence makes the heart grow fonder” Never really worked for me. It was in the same unrealistic vain as a “penny saved, a dollar earned”. I embraced the mantra ‘a dollar spent is a shoe in the closet’ just as I embraced the philosophy “out of sight, out of mind”. So as soon as a boyfriend moved away, no matter how in love we once were, our ships soon sailed on to other destinies.

I once dated a man that lived in Brooklyn. Even though I was hesitant to travel to any borough outside of Manhattan, I dutifully trekked to see him a couple times a week. I was impressed with myself. I embraced this new bi-coastal lifestyle like I was a jet-setting A-lister. With me being on the East River and he on the Atlantic Ocean, we were seas apart.

Our distance became more apparent when I finally asked him to meet me in Manhattan instead me coming to Brooklyn. Even through the phone line, I heard the panic in his voice. He repeated the word Manhattan like I asked him to visit me in the jungles of the Amazon. Eventually he agreed.

We were supposed to meet at Columbus Circle. I took a rickshaw there (yes, a rickshaw… I believe in experiencing life) and patiently waited. An hour later and 23 phone calls to his cell phone (each phone call going straight to voice mail) I gave up and went home. It was too much for him to handle, my long distance lover was not coming to see me.

An hour later I received a frantic phone call. He had been on the subway for the past hour (yes, it literally takes that long to get to Manhattan from Brooklyn) and now he was lost on the mean streets of the Upper West Side. Hearing the panic in his voice I asked him “Haven’t you ever been to Manhattan?” He informed me that he hadn’t been to Manhattan in over a year and even then he never went past 14th St.

I was shocked. We were more than an island apart, we were worlds apart. People come from Tokyo to visit Manhattan and they fare better than he was. With that realization and despite his panic, I left him there. We never spoke again. While I am all for traveling to foreign lands, I decided it is probably best to keep my relationships local.

To Flirt Or Not To Flirt

November 17, 2009

Written By: Ashley Morgan

Dating someone long distance means having to survive in a weird symbiotic relationship where you get all the loneliness of being single coupled with the constant agony of missing someone you love. Luckily, it gets easier over time. I’ve learned that with patience, trust, and most importantly, unlimited texting, dating long distance can be almost bearable.

But other things in my life have changed outside of my cell phone plan. For one thing, I shave a lot less often. Why bother when I know no one will be feeling my legs? Another change is my attitude about long phone conversations. I used to hate them but now, they’re kind of necessary. But the most notable change for me is my going out routine.

Before I met my guy, I would get all done up in one of my ‘going out-fits’ which included lots of sparkle and little fabric. I’d dance with my girlfriends and thoroughly enjoy collecting free drinks, compliments, and the occasional sloppy make out with a friendly classmate in a dark corner of a sleazy bar.

Then I started seeing my boyfriend. We’d go out together. Me, in a more understated yet still adorable outfit, getting drinks for each other while occupying said corner with him.

However, now that we’re apart, I find myself pausing in front of my closet when I’m getting ready for a night of drinks and dancing. Do I reach for my fun, flirty outfits when I’m clearly not looking for anyone? Is it wrong to advertise when the goods aren’t up for sale?

I tend to think no. Sure, I’m happily in a relationship but I still want to look great and have a good time. My friends are mostly single and looking for Mr. Right Now so they’re decked out in their finest; I’m just trying to keep up.

I have limits of course. You won’t see me getting dirty on the dance floor with the nearest available crotch. But I will bust a move with my friends in my sexy heels. I tend to not accept drinks from people—I don’t like to lead guys on—that being said, if they insist…who am I to be rude?

Sounds like I have it all under control, right?

Nope.

Although I am an independent person and I know my boyfriend is very trusting, I feel a little guilty when I go out without him. I’m always thinking, ‘Am I dancing too close to this guy?’ ‘Should I have laughed at his joke?’ ‘Was that flirting?’

My rule of thumb is, if the tables were turned, would I be upset if he was doing what I’m doing? If yes, I change my behavior. But it doesn’t stop the guilt. Like say my friends are trying to work a group of guys and I’m cockblocking by not flirting with the guy no one wants. Do I screw over my friends to be faithful in my relationship?

Another one of my friends is in a long distance relationship as well. She is of the mindset that being ostentatious in anyway is a type of infidelity. In her defense, she was never a big fan of going out and her boyfriend is the jealous type. But I’m not going to only go out in a burqa and avoid any hip swinging. I’m going to enjoy myself, single or taken.

As for the guilt, I’ll gauge each situation as it comes, try to keep the girls in check, and end each night out with a text that lets my guy know just how much I love him.

She’s With The Band

November 17, 2009

Written By: Emily O’Neill

On a recent Saturday at the National Underground, the Texas-style music venue in the Lower East Side, I ran into Becky, my old friend from college.

“Don’t look now, but I’m dating the drummer!” she squealed. “Well, one date. But he did invite me here tonight.”

While I’m not known for being a willing ear or a frequent dispenser of good advice, my immaculate heart couldn’t resist reaching out to my dear friend. And so, to my surprise and the sheer disbelief of my closest gal pals, I managed to dole out my first practical tip for evading heartache: to take that one last shot of tequila and then run.

Judging by my actions of late, it seems that I’m a bit common-sense disabled. Coupled with the indisputable fact that I’m a lightning rod for unwholesome men, the consequence is that I recently found myself on the fourth and final date with the semi-famous drummer of a legendary band.

Rather than indulging in my usual routine of sulking and harping on what might have been, I’ve set out on a goodwill mission, devoting myself entirely (at times I exaggerate) to warning women about the perils of dating men with star-studded hearts. Although peace, love and drugs seems glamorous to those of us who were captivated by the rock n’ roll world of tour buses and “band-aids” illuminated in Cameron Crowe’s Almost Famous, dating a musician is right up there with attacking Israel on Yom Kippur or the Treaty of Versailles. It’s just a really bad call.

As with all relationships, being in the eye of the storm renders you incapable of seeing the danger around you. This is especially true when it comes to men in the music industry since they are, by definition (mine, probably not Webster’s), purveyors of bad-boy status. Emitting high levels of untamed masculinity and confidence, musicians are undeniably aphrodisiacs in themselves. Case in point: I received a voicemail from Becky yesterday. “Why didn’t you stop me? All he talked about was himself!” she screamed. “All he cared about was HIS needs! He’s the Bill Clinton of the band world!”

Alas, the stereotypes about band dudes seem to be true. Ask anyone who has dated a musician and they will confirm that their guitar-strapped Don Juan was narcissistic (“His ego is so big he doesn’t even realize he’s balding”), financially irresponsible (Why am I supporting him?”), impervious to criticism (“He thinks he dumped me!”), and has a sincere aversion to growing up. Essentially, they are male versions of me.

Of course, I am not referring to men who were once members of their high school marching band, attended the Juilliard School, or spent years preparing to become an orchestral player for the New York Philharmonic. Seeing as it’s not cool to put time, effort, or energy into anything these days (look no further than the hipster craze and the paperless post trend), these accomplishments are the epitome of nerdy. Rather, I am talking about rock stars who learned early on that the easiest way into any in-crowd is through unstructured, uncivil, and slightly out of control behavior. These men were probably not known for their good grades in school, and they sure won’t be earning A’s in my book anytime soon.

Being up close and personal has its perks. But when it comes to members of the band, I will be opting for the cheap seats in the back.

A Man And A Vehicle

November 17, 2009

Written By: Dara King

For some reason, men think being stationary decreases their chances of picking up women. I rarely get approached by a man at a club or a gathering that seems like the appropriate time for exchanging information. Instead, men usually seem to feel most comfortable when in the security of a moving vehicle. It is like when you were 11 and your mother arrived to pick you up in the car pool lane. At that stage in your life, you were too cool to acknowledge her and she embarrassingly yelled your name until you responded. Men use the same tactic.

We have all had those men that yell out the windows of their cars telling you how much they want to get to know you. It is as if men expect you to go cheetah on them and chase their cars down the street. Or even worse, yell your number at the top of your lungs and then wink and say call me. It is like their car is their armor and if you shoot them with bullets of rejection, they can quickly drive to safety without too much collateral damage.

Point in case: I seem to be a Maserati magnet. Walking through the streets of Manhattan, I seem to stop Maserati owners in their tracks. Why, I do not know. I would never give a man my number who is in a car regardless if the car costs more than most suburban houses.

But Maseratis aren’t the only moving vehicles that seem to bolster a man’s confidence. Taxicabs offer free rides, bus drivers nearly run over school kids while yelling at the lady walking up the street. I even had a man once ask me for my number on a crowded bus while he was comfortably sitting and I was standing in 5inch heels. He didn’t even have the decency to offer me a seat before going in for the kill.

What is it about a man and a vehicle? In the history of mankind, has there ever been a woman that has walked up to a man in a car and gave him her number? I am beginning to suspect that there has been. It is either a successful pick up tactic that I do not know about or it is a knee jerk reaction akin to boobs walk past, man looks.

Whatever it is, just like I didn’t respond to my mom yelling at me from the carpool lane (and she often sped off to teach me a lesson… and in that case, I often did go cheetah and chase her car down the street) I feel that most women don’t respond to the battle cries being yelled out the window. But for those 2 percent that do, I judge you. You give men that false sense of confidence that the rest of women kind have to deal with on a daily basis. Thank you.

Upgrade

November 17, 2009

Written By: Dara King

The other day on the subway, I saw a man with a Walkman. Since I
haven’t seen a Walkman in years, I thought to myself, does this
man know the meaning of upgrade? On the same train, a few seats
down was an older gentleman with a younger wife and much younger
children. Considering my earlier question, I realized this man
was probably on his second wife and second set of children—and
that he obviously understood the concept of upgrading.

This led me to think, what is the benefit of upgrading? Why isn’t
love like a house? Why doesn’t love appreciate over the years or
at least gain that comfy lived-in feeling that can’t be
replicated by the new condo across the street? On the flipside,
why would you stay in the tiny brownstone when you could live in
the high rise with the skyline views?

Having recently upgraded my old PC to a brand new shiny Mac, I am
no stranger to wanting the newest and latest model. I am in my
early 20s and I prefer to date men who are in their mid 30s. I
figure that at 10- 15 years younger than them, I have enough of a
shelf life to survive their mid-life crisis before being traded
in for my younger counterpart. I also figure that by the time
they are looking at my blue book value, I may be ready to trade
them in for a younger model as well, so no love is lost.

But then I step back and look at my logic. I once had a friend
tell me that she thought her current boyfriend would make a great
“first” husband. Is this what love is supposed to be? Is it love
until your first tune-up? Or are we still abiding by till death
do us part? I see cute couples on the subway and hope to be that
one-day. I have parents who have been married for 25+ years and
are still in love. It is beyond cute. But since I need a new
Blackberry every 6 months; I am programmed with the idea of built
in obsolescence and unfortunately I am convinced that an upgrade
will always be—oh so necessary.

Friend Sex

November 17, 2009

Written By: Dara King

We all have that friend that we have slept next to fully clothed
and not once pondered what that person looks like naked. The
friend who announces he is coming over and you throw your dirty
underwear that’s on the floor in the hamper but don’t bother to
wash the dishes in the sink. He is the friend that has seen you
in your glasses and sweats as many times as he has seen you in a
dress and heels.

We all have these friends. That is, we all have these friends
until we don’t. One day while watching the football game and
throwing back a chicken coup full of chicken wings you suddenly
look at that friend in a different light. Who knows what the
reason is, you may be in a yearlong drought or you may just be
bored with the football game, but the next thing you know, you
are sleeping next to your friend without a stitch of clothing in
sight.

This is when it all gets confusing. You suddenly find yourself
asking– can men and women be legitimate, platonic friends? With
all the games played between the two sexes, is it possible to
have a perfectly good player on the bench that never wants, or
gets to play in the game?

You are now looking at your friend in bed. He just quickly went
from spectator to pinch hitter and now you have to decide whether
to promote or to demote; whether he is now a starter or whether
you to have to cut him from the team. This is always the
unfortunate situation faced when one engages in friend sex.

We all know at this point the relationship has changed. Will
there be more sex? Or will this incident never be mentioned
again. Is he now a boyfriend or still just a friend? If he still
is just a friend, what happens when he tells you about the chick
he just met at the bar the other night?

We all know the answer. He has to be cut from the team. Friend
sex is never good sex, no matter how toe curling, sweaty, and
hair pulling the actual event is. My best advice is to avoid all
friend sex at any cost. But then again, I am the same woman who
usually errs on the side of avoiding men at all costs and filling
your life with shoes instead.

Falling Asleep on the Job

October 15, 2009

Written By: Sarah Jacobsen

I had an embarrassing experience a few weekends back. We’ve all been there – those nights when we drink a bit too much and think we’re superwomen capable of hours of fabulous sex without dozing off. Oh, is that just me? I had one such evening recently. It was all the fault of the sake bombs at my favorite sushi restaurant (and maybe the fault of those soco and lime shots too). I don’t know what it is, but it seems alcohol just makes people want to get it on. It’s a terrible side effect, really – when you think about it, not only does the drink make you look uglier and act sloppier, but often, it renders you unable to get the job done. It hits your bloodstream and suddenly you want to have sex with everyone around you, and yet, you’re often too tipsy to do so.

Gentlemen often complain that alcohol incapacitates their member. Ever heard the phrase whiskey dick? Well, it doesn’t just happen with whiskey. Men are criticized for these moments, moments when they’ve simply had one beer too many and are unable to get it up, let alone get it in. But what happens when the tables are turned? When the girl is the one who can barely keep her eyes open? Do the men hate like the ladies do? Certainly, there’s something to be said for a blue-balling experience. We all know no one likes that. But should the gals be as embarrassed as the guys when one too many makes them a bad hookup buddy?

Men, I need your opinion here. After my failure to perform (and by failure to perform, I mean I’m pretty sure I fell asleep), I apologized profusely. Come morning, I was shameful, though the feeling was momentarily shut out by the thudding headache that accompanied my horrible hangover. Is this cause for a dismissal? My friend with benefits and I have no rules, and we’re certainly not exclusive. But lord knows what I said when I didn’t know I was saying anything at all. I’m hoping it was nothing offensive, but at the very least I know things were supposed to happen that didn’t because I was unable to operate any sort of machinery.

My guy says it’s fine. He forgives me; but I’ve got to make it up to him. The problem is, with my beer goggles on, I’m all for getting it on. But once I take them off and my hangover subsides, I see that we’ve got nothing in common and I don’t really care to do much at all. But since I’ve already propositioned him while tipsy, I feel a bit caught. Must I hold up my end of the deal? Why is it that I’m so enraptured by him when I’m sloppy but once I’ve cleaned myself up I have no interest in him? I may have fallen asleep on the job, but now that I’ve woken up, I’m lost in a state of guilt mixed with relief. One thing is sure: sake bombs aren’t for me. As for my inability to follow through when I’ve had too much to drink, I’m lucky I’ve been forgiven. Where we go from here, however, I’m unclear. Any and all suggestions appreciated!

Don’t Judge a Book by its Text Message

August 25, 2009

Written By: Sarah Jacobsen

In grade school we were taught not to judge a book by its cover. This meant that if the girl next to us wore ugly shoes and smelled funny, we were still supposed to be her friend, and if the boy two-seats-ahead in our Math class wore the same shirt every day and had a weird haircut, we were still supposed to give him a chance. Now that we’ve grown, we’re taught that we can’t judge a person by their looks. But what about their text messages?

Call me judgmental, but I think there’s quite a bit that can be told from a text. This is a modern age, and I’m a modern gal. The text is as ubiquitous as the email, and is often used in place of a phone call. In the olden days, women over-analyzed their calls, discussing everything from word choice to tone of voice.

If this is so, why can’t we analyze the text? Recently, I was set up on a blind date. In texting back and forth with my date (who, I should note, chose to text instead of call and I did not judge him on his choice), I came across a big no-no in my book: what I like to call “the LOL.” Since seventh grade, when “the LOL” overtook my class notes and AOL Instant Messenger conversations, I’ve despised it. I’m proud to say I’ve never used it in a conversation, mostly because I rarely find myself in situations where I’m laughing out loud to the extent that I need to write down that I’m doing so. I despise the way it looks and the way it sounds; I’d even go as far as to say I believe it makes the speaker sound dumb.

This being said, in my date’s first text, I was hit square on with not just one “LOL” but two. I might add here that my date is almost thirty, way past an age during which usage of the terrible abbreviation could be seen as acceptable. I was immediately turned off. Would I be dating a guy who acted younger than he was? Was he a frat boy who couldn’t carry on a legitimate conversation? Terrible possibilities swarmed my brain…

…Until some friends snapped me back to reality. I was being way too judgmental, they claimed. I couldn’t judge a guy on his text message, especially not on his usage of one specific word. The thing I hadn’t divulged? He was also a “u” type of guy. It’s another pet peeve of mine. As an English major, I always prefer that those around me spell out full words. A “C U Later” doesn’t do it for me; I’d like the real thing. The angel on my right shoulder told me to get a life and stop giving my date such a hard time. I hadn’t even met him yet. He could be the one! Except that my one wouldn’t say “LOL.” I’m sorry, angel, but he just wouldn’t.

The devil in me wants to judge, but my angel has prevailed. I’m meeting him for drinks next week. If he talks the way he texts, I’m outta there. But in the meantime, I’m going to attempt to keep my judgmental thoughts where they below – in my imagination, because as my mother taught me, you can’t judge a book by it’s cover, and you most certainly cannot judge a man by his text message.