Picking on Pick Up Lines

Since it’s spring and we’re all hitting on each other, I wanted to take a quick moment to analyze some of the most common going-out pick up lines and why they’re effective, or not. Check it out here.

On a separate note, a matter of great importance has been weighing on my mind making my nights restless and my days intolerable:

Can someone outline some sort of protocol for dirty text messaging!?!

Do guys like it? Does it make you come off as a slut? Does it make you come off as hot? Does it categorize you as ‘non-girlfriend’ material? Is it appropriate during the day? Or only late at night when drunkenness can be used as an excuse? If something’s just asking for a dirty joke is it unladylike to go for the laugh? How long should you know each other before it’s appropriate to get verbally raunchy via phone? How raunchy is too raunchy?

Any and all insights are appreciated. Feel free to taunt me as well. Cajun boy has actually witnessed me take over forty-five minutes to compose a simple ‘what’s up’ text message to someone I liked. Curse of being a writer I guess…

OH. And those of you who haven’t been watching the Youtube series ‘The Guild,’ you should be.

Wild Abandon

A reader recently wrote in that she felt my recent posts were lacking my usual ‘wild abandon.’ I thoroughly appreciated her insight and in an attempt to redeem myself, figured I’d divulge a recent experience below.

Since my emotional state of well-being often resembles the sine graph (for those who you who don’t remember what that is or failed high school math, click here for a visual), it’s not uncommon for me to spend one night in, alone, wallowing in misery and the next sporadically strapping on stiletto boots and singing annoying things to my girlfriends like the ‘Party All The Time’ song, which FYI is also a highly amusing video.

On this particular night, I was feeling pretty neutral but forced myself out since I’d promised my friend Femme that I’d help her model / promote these clothes (don’t ask) that a designer friend of hers had wanted us to wear out. We were going to Lollipop (which I just wrote a review of here), but getting together at her apartment first to drink and don our outfits.

I’ve written before about pheromones and how I’m utterly fascinated by them. Technically defined, pheromones are “a chemical secreted by an animal that influences the behavior or development of others of the same species, often functioning as an attractant of the opposite sex.” Well, my pheromone alert button starting wailing at an emergency level the moment I entered Femme’s apartment. This isn’t something that happens often. I had to do a 360 scan to visually locate the apparent object of my desire. I looked right, left, then BOOM – dead center in front of me beyond Femme’s open kitchen, I saw my guy.

Next I was confused because this guy was not my type at all (an article discussing my type available here) but it’s essentially classy, euro casual, long hair, slightly taller than me but not too tall. The man my pheromones directed me too, while goodlooking, was outrageously tall, non-euro, and sporting a shaved head.

Huh?

Pheromones have a way of bringing people together quickly, so it didn’t take long until we were talking and I learned he was from Brasil. Suddenly, this made slightly more sense. I recently caught South America fever and in the past six months have traveled to Uruguay, Argentina, and Brazil. We therefore had a lot to say to each other. We chatted until I was dragged upstairs to change my outfit. My girlfriends stripped, prodded and changed me, warring over whether I should wear this stylish headband that I felt made me look like a pirate.

This headband was so tight that by the time we got to Lollipop, I felt like it was molesting my brain. I took it off so I could focus fully on chatting with the Brazilian – the only social activity either of us had been engaged in for the past hour. Now however, we’d dangerously entered bottle service land. It was also a Saturday so there was no reason not to consume drinks with bravado. I’d been switching between vodka and champagne all night and stared at the Brazilian aghast when he proceeded to pour a flute of Vueve into my mixed vodka drink. As if I wasn’t already wasted, now I was drinking vodka flavored champagne.

As I emphasized in my review, Lollipop’s shoe box level small so it’s practically impossible not to invade other people’s personal space. So put the equation of pheromones, Saturday night, drinks, and small space together and you get touchy-feely with someone pretty fast. What’s amazing about the Brazilian people is their utter directness in regard to love/sex. It’s not uncommon for someone just to look you square in the eye after knowing you ten minutes and proclaim:

“I like you.”

This often leaves Americans dumbfounded because we feel you should go on a date, hold hands, watch football and attend a barbeque before making blanket statements this bold. It’s hard to take a comment like that seriously because the person barely knows you. The flip side is: In all seriousness, don’t we form a subconscious opinion on someone in about ten seconds flat? We are animals. Our general instincts about somebody are usually right.

So in Brazilian style, after what must have been at least three hours of ‘get to know you’ time, he moved for a kiss, which I darted. I’m always out seeing people I know and truthfully pretty shy about sexual things, so never engage in the public make out move. I find PDA of all forms annoying so remain super hesitant to engage in it myself (unless of course I’m madly in love and accidently flaunting my happiness…that doesn’t happen often either.) I did my best to explain this to him and he smiled at me with warm eyes:

“Don’t worry. I totally understand,” he said. Before I could heave a sigh of relief he added, “I’ll wait for you in the bathroom.”

He then disappeared down the stairs while I double-taked.

I responsibly labeled myself incapable of handling the situation so deferred to my ever faithful roommate Tatas, who naturally let out some sort of squeal when I told what just happened.

“Go down there!” she urged.

I felt pretty uncomfortable because while some may think “it’s not a big deal, it’s just a kiss,” I am one of those people who doesn’t kiss lightly. I don’t recreationally make out. If I go as far as to kiss you, it means I’m all the way in, and would probably be pleased to do many other things together as well. So for me, a kiss is essentially my mental point of no return. Which is why I was quaking in my heels as I crept down the stairs.

His strong arms instantly appeared and swept me into the bathroom. Before I even had a chance to open my mouth, his lips were on mine in a pheromonal frenzy. The best part of this story is that he was wearing / modeling this designer’s clothing as well, and therefore in dress pants and a dress shirt. Since I’m a fan of checking out what you’re dealing with ASAP, I began unbuttoning his shirt (I mean, that just seemed like the correct next move when you’re in a bathroom making out with a Brazilian.) Then I had my second head spin of the evening when underneath the designer linen I revealed tattoos, nipple piercings, the works. I think I physically took a step backward and made a ‘Time Out’ hand signal.

I had no words.

The formal attire was just such a shocking contrast to what I found underneath that I felt helplessly confused.

“Yeah,” he explained, “I used to everything pierced.” He motioned to his ears and face. “These are all that’s left cause no one can see them.”

I remained dumbfounded and uncomfortable, but finally turned to confront our paused reflections in the bathroom mirror. For some reason it hit me that my mother would utterly disapprove this man without his shirt on…and that is perhaps the steamiest, sexiest thought in the universe. So I just grinned glided back toward his mouth, then helping him rebutton before we rejoined our friends upstairs for a long night out.

The Six Thirty Date

Dear Men Who Date and Aspire to Date Model Behavior,

Question: Do you think I wear stiletto boots over my jeans and a sexy lace underwear when going about my normal daily activities like grocery shopping, trekking through the city’s sleet storm, and sprinting between appointments?

Do you think I’m magically manicured and waxed all the time because I’m addicted to pain and have an emotional connection with my non-English speaking manicurist from Taiwan?

No. No, you probably do not. Because hopefully if I’m attempting to date you you’re not THAT stupid.

Why then, do men seem to think its okay to plan dates giving me two hours or even twenty minutes notice?

This is unacceptable.

Example: Saturday I received a phone call from a gentleman I’d actually like to see. The man had a plan – big dinner with mutual friends, party afterward.

Fabulous, right?

WRONG.

Because he called me at 6:30 P.M. the night of. Let me clarify that I’m a chick who’s totally open to last minute things. I hate ‘reservations’ of any kind. Especially, for brunch. I’m easygoing about where we go and I usually even offer to pay. When last minute things work out, I love it. The problem is that last minute in New York usually works out two times out of ten. If seeing each other is a priority, there needs to be a plan.

Weather factors in too. This isn’t easygoing summer anymore where you can slip on flip flops and be out the door showcasing your beautiful tan and walk to meet up with friends with ten minutes notice. Sadly, those days have passed. We’re in anal-retentive winter now. Right now, we’re in what I call the winter crunch. This period between Thanksgiving and Christmas is a whacked-out work-fest for most of us. Stress is high. Temperatures are low. Time is more precious than ever. It’s dark at freakin’ five o’clock.

So when you call me out of the blue to make dinner plans at six thirty PM on a Saturday night in December, it’s a struggle for me to just appreciate the gesture. New York isn’t the real world. I tend to plan with even my closest friends three days out. We’re all just that busy.

Doesn’t my date understand that?

He’s busy too!

And this is when I start to get suspicious. Was I number three on a list of “possible dates” he already called? Is he expecting me to be that pushover girl who’s always available at a moments notice? A girl who rushes to get ready, nicks herself shaving in the shower and shows up panting but pretending she didn’t just do the beauty equivalent of the 100-yard dash.

IS THAT WHAT HE THINKS I AM!?!??!?!?!?!??!?!?!

Men, take note: Even the simple, thoughtful task of asking a women out to dinner with you and your friends has the ability to enrage her.

Since I have a life, and by six thirty in the evening already had plans for Saturday night, we didn’t end up seeing each other. Granted, I was disappointed. But I can’t rearrange my life last second for someone who doesn’t have the common courtesy to call me at 3:30 PM instead of 6:30 PM. With the advanced notice of a 3:30 call this story might have had a happy ending. I’m sure a spectacular evening would’ve ensued.

Instead, I remain dateless, bitter, and wondering what number I was on my gentleman’s potential “push over date list.”

Get with the program guys. Women will thank you…and you’ll thank yourself when you see the hot undergarments we’ve had time to specially prepare and change into.

It’s a win-win situation.

Please Don’t Be Nice

So you have a relationship that’s all about fun and all about sex. You don’t share problems. You don’t share morning coffee. And you especially don’t share distressing life information. Weighty words like ‘girlfriend,’ ‘boyfriend,’ and ‘commitment’ don’t exist in the stratosphere of this non-relationship. It’s that fake grey relationship that I’m perpetually harping on about, primarily because I’ve so many times been a willing victim of it. The only requirement in this self-indulgent love affair is to revel in each other while partying like rock stars. It’s childlike. It’s sexy. It’s simple. And by not adhering to the rules of a real relationship, you still have tons of free ‘single’ time to be an ambitious workaholic, get your laundry done, and watch tons of bad TV while giving yourself at home facial treatments. Life is near perfect.

And then something terrible happens.

A teeny tiny section of your sternum (yes, I truly believe this particular sentiment originates in the sternum) begins to wonder: ‘What if?’

What if this person (who I don’t even really know), who I always have so much fun with (mainly because there’s a lot of alcohol involved) is actually boyfriend (What? Who said that?) material? What if this grey relationship was just a romantic detour and our lifelines are actually leisurely converging? The slow but steady blossoming of something wonderful. Wonderful in the sense that we massage each other’s feet while commiserating on our taxing work-party schedule, not so much wonderful in the sense of kids and a white picket fence (come on, I’m delusional not insane).

All the questions and comments above exist in a realm I like to call ‘Wow That Girl’s Totally Deluded’ or charmingly abbreviated, WTGTD. I can be aware of my mind creeping over into WTGTD territory, yet somehow still slip into this not-so-even-appealing fantasy until I feel like a woman possessed by the object of my affection. What spurs this dreadful sickness nastier than a full-on flue? What upset the ‘no strings attached’ equilibrium my grey relationship existed in so healthily before?

In my case, it happened over early morning / late night (think 4:30 am) breakfast with me, Mr. Grey, and two friends. Why we were even having breakfast together was inappropriate to the nature of our dysfunctional relationship in the first place. Thank God we had other people with us so we couldn’t be mistaken for an actual couple. I guess we let the intimacy of the situation slide since the sun wasn’t up and we still both had house music echo ringing through our ears. Club? Restaurant? What’s the difference.

The four of us were laughing and drinking. My emotions were intact and everything was going swimmingly until my pizza arrived, which had been mistakenly covered with anchovies. I hate anchovies. And I didn’t order them. But I guess waitresses who work at five in the morning think an error on an order here and there won’t come back to haunt them since the majority of patrons in the restaurant are too drunk to form sentences. Yet before I could politely bitch about the mix-up, our uniformed server had spun on her heel to attend to some gorilla-like men by the bar. Believe it or not, this wasn’t the problem. The problem is what happened next.

In a quick moment, Mr. Grey somehow understood my anchovy predicament, even though I hadn’t the time to fully voice my complaint to our waitress. He slid the pizza toward him, and painstakingly embarked on the mission of removing each anchovy from its bed of cheese. All this without a word. And when he finished, he sprinkled some Parmesan on the pie to kill the anchovy flavor. He proceeded to methodically cut the first few slices for me as if I were an incapable little girl. He then returned the pizza to me with a smile.

Now don’t get me wrong, time did not stand still and romantic music didn’t suddenly swell. During this surprisingly affectionate moment, conversation continued between us and our friends as usual. But as I started eating, I knew something had changed. It’s not just that Mr. Grey and I aren’t tender with one another; I don’t think he’s tender in general. I’d never seen him do something so simple and yet so caring with anyone. Ever. And it got to me. It got under my skin just like that whole pizza got into my stomach. And from then on I knew I was screwed.

Why did he have to be nice, and by consequence, three-dimensional and attractive? When our relationship functioned so splendidly on uncomplicated bouts of random fun? The whole thing got me thinking about him in sappy WTGTD language. And I really wish that acronym had vowels so I could effectively chant it to myself on a day-to-day basis as a reminder not to act like a total douche. Because it’s in those moments that you realize you’re not in a super part-time relationship that leaves you oodles of “you time.” You’re in a truly real grey relationship: despite how much your psyche may protest, emotions are involved.

For the ladies and gents who can keep this stuff super straight all the time, my hat’s off to you. But I have a hunch that for most of us, it’s never than simple. At the end of the day, if you’re lucky, you can console yourself with the fact that your partner’s probably just as confused as you are.

My Dating Ego

Let’s all take a moment, close our eyes, and imagine a solar system in which our dating life and our ego were not intrinsically intertwined. What a simpler universe that would be. I’m guessing that in such a world, people actually say what’s on their mind and store bought CDs are actually easy to open. While I’ve strived to create such a world of emotional sanity for myself, it ain’t happening. Why? Because the older and theoretically wiser I get, the more I realize my ego is the evil brute force behind ninety nine percent of the bad decisions in my life – especially romantic ones.

Let’s use as an example the utterly pathetic love story that inspired me to write ‘The Grey Relationship." In me and my partner’s agonizingly subtle grey relationship break-up, he put the sexual breaks on the relationship before I did. Had I considered doing the same thing weeks, if not months earlier? Yes. Did I know this relationship was unhealthy and going nowhere? Yes. Was I hoping it would end soon anyway? Absolutely. Yet naturally I was filled with pure outrage when he decided we should maneuver toward the land of ‘just friends’ before me. Instead of being happy I put yet another worthless relationship behind me without a difficult and uncomfortable confrontation, I just feel rejected. My pesky ego then begins thumping through every fiber of my body screaming: ‘work to get this guy back.’ Suddenly, Mr. Wrong is Mr. Hard to Get. And every girl loves a challenge. An inner dialogue ensues that goes something like this:

Me: Why would I want this dysfunctional grey relationship to continue? The sex wasn’t even good enough to make it worthwhile.
My Ego: I bet the sex is good with the new Norwegian super model he dumped you for.
Me: He knew we mutually wanted to end things. It was a tacit understanding. He just took the initiative.
My Ego: ‘Tacit understanding.’ The drugs you’re deluding yourself with must be really powerful. Wake up! He doesn’t want you anymore.
Me: That’s fine. I knew this wouldn’t work out from the get-go. And I’m sure my hips have nothing to do with it.
My Ego: But how you smell might.
Me: He’s fine with the way I smell. At least…he was…
My Ego: Explain all the wasted hours envisioning what beautiful children you’d have together?
Me: We WOULD have beautiful children, so what?
My Ego: Honey, you’re future husband just DUMPED you like your months of faux intimacy didn’t even matter.
Me: (finally in nervous breakdown mode) GAAAAA! Do you think if I wear my red cocktail dress and slut heels tonight he’ll take me back?
My Ego: It’s worth a shot.

Hence my pride prevents me from acting rationally and letting a relationship come to its natural end. I think our female ego is one of the biggest obstacles to a clean break-up, right next to loneliness. And sure sexual rejection hurts, but when it’s in both of your best interests, you’d think a mature, intelligent human being would get over that and move on. Instead, I end up performing the emotional equivalent of running into a wall repeatedly until I slither, beat-up, into the fetal position in the corner, feeling rejected now not once, but ten times. I think this horrific image transitions into my next frightening, existential question: How much of why we date someone in the first place has to do with them, and how much has to do with our overly ambitious pride?

I’ll be first in line to admit that often, subconsciously, I’m attracted to someone for all the wrong reasons – chiefly being that they make ME look good instead of that they are good FOR me. Men that I feel make me look good are usually handsome types that can pull off wearing white linen pants or headbands. Neither of those qualifications mean they’re
a) literate
b) tolerable or
c) a good match for me
Therefore my initial attraction to the opposite sex is fundamentally distorted from the beginning thanks to my exhibitionist side forcing me to care so much about what the outside world thinks. When it comes to micromanaging and especially ending dysfunctional relationships, my evil ego whispers in my ear that I shouldn’t be letting that ‘catch’ get away. In reality, my ‘catch’ is an essentially unemployed partying playboy with no personality, no sensitivity, and no future that doesn’t involve jumping up and down on club banquette couches.

How to tame the ego? That’s another topic for another day. I’ll get back to you when I have some answers.

The Grey Relationship

Most of us at some point in our lives have gone against our better judgment and gotten involved with someone for all the wrong reasons, which can include but not be limited to:

1. Because they’re more fun and charismatic than Johnny Depp in Blow
2. Because you like hanging out / partying like an animal with their friends
3. Because they offer your really nice dinners / long talks on the phone / sex / a TV watching companion / tables at clubs / whatever it is you seem to be inexplicably lacking at the time
4. Because they’re so good-looking it hurts / disintegrates your brain

Relationships that bloom out of any reason similar to these are usually doomed before the fateful first kiss. You embark on what I like to call, “pathetically using a guy to fulfill whatever given emptiness you have at that time,” whether it be a need for a cooking partner or a need for a partner in crime at New York clubs. An underlying, universal cause for why this happens usually has something to do with you as a woman just needing feel sexy or validated. Men are aware of this annoying and damaging gene we posses, and most strive to take advantage of it at all times. Women let their guard down and allow the male specimen of their desire to fulfill whatever’s making their days just good instead of great, and embark on what I like to call the “grey relationship.”

Instead of being based on love and mutual respect, a grey relationship allows you and your partner to essentially use each other as a quick fix to much deeper-rooted emotional problems. And it makes sense. Why would anyone, male or female, want to really wallow in the fact that they feel depressed when instead of processing disappointment or pain, they can cover it with a nifty and distracting band aid in the form of a fellow human being. If you’re an excitement junkie like me, this kind of self-manipulation is especially pleasing because you never have any idea what’s really going on. The conveniently using one another grey relationship has no rules. What you and your partner share can’t be defined in the world of reality. It can only be rationalized in the smoke and mirrors emotional world that justified you using one another in the first place. You’re not exclusive, although all your friends know you’re intimately involved. You both know the relationship’s not going anywhere, but choose to mutually ignore this fact. In public you feign close friendship, in private you revel in the warped intimacy you provide each other. And this intimacy is like a spoonful of Robitussin. It’s medicine. A quick fix. There’s no danger of embarking on the frighteningly feverish ride that is real intimacy and dependency and the heinous sore throat that results from when real true love goes sour. All these heavier concerns don’t exist. You live in a seemingly safe playground with this person. You work as each other’s friendly medicine, ultimately undermining your deepest genuine wants.

This is not to say that you and your grey relationship partner can’t truly care for one another. Often times you do. And everything feels genuine at the beginning because they’re helping you fulfill your very real impulses. You get attached. Then the environment goes from grey to industrial strength fog machine, because now you’re also one another’s guilty pleasure habit. The reasons you’re even together get more blurred because now you’re just following through on preset motions. And the longer you manage to make this work, the genuine feelings that felt so throbbingly good while you were ‘getting to know each other’ subtly vanish and backfire, until you see the person across a dinner table or dance floor and realize you don’t even know them at all. How they feel about you is just as perplexing an enigma as how you truly feel about them. There’s just a huge question mark and pangs of a familiar craving.

In my experience, this progresses to the point that when you speak, you’re almost talking in code. Your initial carnal connection boils away until you’re left with a surface relationship. You talk like you’re conversing with an anonymous disgruntled stranger you’re forced into conversation with at a wedding. All the unspoken, non existent rules that generously allowed for your feelings at the beginning, now serve only to seal both of your lips shut like duck tape. No longer being able to actually communicate is an initial symptom of the grey relationship break up.

One would think that because you never fully trusted this person and were essentially using them for emotional and entertainment purposes that the grey relationship break up wouldn’t be difficult or heart wrenching. In my experience: WRONG. I’ve found grey relationship break ups to be a rare and excruciating form of hell. Because no rules were established at the beginning about how much you saw each other and how much you meant to one another, no one needs to speak up and alter these statements as is necessary in a formal relationship. Your partner is free to just subtly drift away with no required explanation. You can’t talk about it, because it’s theoretically not a ‘big deal’ that you’re going separate ways. And while rationally you don’t care, emotionally your quick fix medicine is being ominously pulled away from you. Then your ego kicks in and you begin wondering: Why does he want to change things? Why is he pulling away? Wasn’t this relationship mutually convenient for the both of us? Why now? Have I suddenly started to smell? God dammit I’m going to make this work! The sad reality is that what you’re craving to ‘make work’ never actually existed, and the only reason you want your faux relationship to endure is to avoid feeling those initial emotional holes that got you into this mess in the first place. Before, the holes were present and seeking to be filled up. Now as you move away from your grey partner, they’re actually being drained out – a really not fun feeling. Before, you had some subconscious strategies to ignore the holes. Now having embarked on your grey relationship, the holes have gotten a ton of attention. They’ve become the spoiled super brats of your emotional solar plexus. And now that your grey relationship over, you have huge red arrows pointing to the spots that you’ve long since forgotten how to ignore. Your deepest emotional shortcomings are now miserably flashing on display. And that usually doesn’t feel so hot.

The solution? Besides ice cream and bad TV I don’t have one. In my humble opinion, grey relationships should be avoided from the get-go. Sure they take your on a roller-rocket space trip where you feel totally lucky and complete for three or four months, but the crash back down to reality doesn’t always make that super human space voyage worthwhile. We’re humans; we’re supposed to feel full of holes most of the time. My current project involves just accepting that that’s normal, and trying to do the plug work myself.

***

A perfect wedding does not have to have the fashion jewelry and designer watches. You can wear watches off from a second-hand store and still have a wonderful time. It is high time you throw away those binoculars.

Sharing and Caring

Whether you’ve entered into the ominous ‘live-in’ relationship or on what I call ‘the cheater’s live-in relationship’ i.e. the long distance relationship, where you cohabitate during prescheduled visiting hours, you and your significant other will inevitably be forced to partake in some kindergarten-spirited sharing. Since you’re most likely fantasizing about how yummy your significant other will look lathered up in whip cream while packing your suitcase, it’s no real surprise that you usually forget stuff on visits (face creams, razors, cell phone chargers and toothpaste for example, never make it into your bag). Upon arrival, you turn to your partner to supply these missing items. For me, here’s what constitutes Barney-approved sharing versus crossing the line creepy.

Okay to Share:

1. Hairbrushes and Combs: You love each other’s hair; you’re constantly caressing it, smelling it, tugging on it. And what’s the danger? If one of you has lice, you’d have already infested each other by now to the point where your lice families are celebrating the birth of great grandchildren. Communal use of the hairbrush is OK by me.

2. Socks: I’m prefacing this by clarifying that I mean ‘clean socks.’ When packing for conjugal visits, I often focus so much on lingerie and skimpy dresses that practical items like socks get overlooked entirely. When I want to hit up the gym and realize there are critical gaps in my working out wardrobe, my significant other’s oversize socks work just fine.

3. Hairdryer: Who needs to be possessive over a hairdryer? I like guys with longish hair (see definition here) and the practical side of such a preference is that they often need to mechanically dry their thick, manly locks before hurrying off to work in the morning. I’m always happy to sit back and watch this fascinating male grooming ritual. If they use hair products such as gel the entertainment level increases considerably.

4. Beverages: You’re lip-locked twenty percent of your time together anyway – so what’s a little mixed saliva on a straw? Granted, at restaurants or out with other people, it’s not so classy. But when enjoying a slurpie at the beach, I vote share.

5. Sun block: He never carries any and squints in confusion at the concept of ‘a sunburn’ or ‘skin cancer.’ So unless you want a boyfriend that looks like a boiled lobster, I say sharing is the way to go. (On a side note: Has anyone ever seen a man buy sun block, EVER? I’m asking my local Duane Reade employee – I doubt such a purchase has ever occurred.)

6. His Clothes: We love wearing his boxers and oversize t-shirts. They smell like him and unlike our corset-tight tank tops, are so roomy we actually feel comfortable pigging out on the various boy junk food in his fridge. If he can fit into your comfortable clothes…that’s just weird.

7. Sunglasses: A friend of mine has a stolen pair of shades from every man she’s ever dated. It’s like a reduced, one time alimony payment / a fashion scrapbook of past loves. Whenever she puts on a pair we’ll be like, “Oh, love those Armani. They were Alex’s, right?” Besides, dark man glasses only make a woman look more powerful and mysterious.

So now that we’ve explored some of the items that it’s okay for lovers to commune-style share, let’s examine the flip side of the coin.

NOT Okay to Share

1. Toothpaste: Even men who seem harmless and refuse to kill bugs menacingly destroy the life of your toothpaste tube. First off, they throttle the thing instead of politely squeezing from the established corner of your choice. Secondly, they force enough toothpaste out of the tube for an army of dentists and their assistants. They then use a fraction of this amount, and then irritatingly attempt to close the toothpaste lid, which is now flooded in a thick, chunk-like substance stickier than a four-year-olds’ hands. I cringe, shudder, then scream at the sight of such a toothpaste corpse in my bathroom and refuse to touch it without the aid of latex gloves.

2. Toothbrush: The ‘You’re lip-locked twenty percent of your time together anyway’ excuse does NOT apply to toothbrushes as it does to straws. Toothbrushes are a serious oral hygiene tool that have ONE designated user. They promote fresh breath and sanitary behavior. For me, if you’re sharing such a private tool you might as well lick each other’s teeth clean. No thank you.

3. My Favorite Pillow: I’ve made it clear which pillow it is; it’s the absurdly expensive fluffy one I splurged on during a weak moment at Mattress World. I compensate for the whacked amount of money I spent on the thing with unrelenting adoration and emotional dependency for its downy texture. It’s become the adult equivalent of my childhood ‘blankie’ and sleeping doesn’t feel satisfying without it. Sharing is not going to happen.

4. My Delicious Entrée: Let’s joyfully pick at each other’s appetizers and desserts – desserts were created to be shared. But my main course is MINE. I should not be punished for my partner’s inability to choose his own eatable entrée. The fact that I’m smart enough to LISTEN to the waiter’s specials announcement and order accordingly while my significant other is honed in on the football match in the background, doesn’t imply that I should share my delectable main course with the less competent chooser. Take your fork and back off.

5. Expensive Hair Products: Stuff purchased at CVS or Duane Reade is fine for my guy to lather up in. Pantene Pro V, Frieda’s Blonde collection and L’Oreal are all in my shower for him. Take a silver dollar size of product and wash away. Anything salon purchased however, i.e. products with names you can’t pronounce (Biolage, Kerestase, Keihls), products with French on them, and products that are the international-sounding names of gay man (Frederic Fekkai, Ted Gibson, Louis Licari), are OFF limits. Using fist-size glops of these products is the financial equivalent of burning twenty dollar bills with a set of matches. Don’t do it unless you want us to cry.

6. My Bathroom in General: Sharing the bathroom area during visits is understandable and inevitable, especially because let’s face it – who can afford a two bathroom apartment in Manhattan? If pursuing a ‘live-in’ relationship however, I’m overtly certain it would fail if I shared my bathroom area with a man for an extended amount of time. I think separate watering holes are in fact, one of the foundational keys to all successful relationships.



Maybe that’s why so many couples move to Brooklyn …

Method 3 X 1

“Basically smart women should always be dating three guys at a time.”

HUH? I precariously leaned back in my chair, gripping my espresso with excitement for what my petite, spindly pal Max (MaxMara to friends) had just announced to me.

“Not only will it make you happier,” he continued, “but it will help you marry the man of your dreams.”

Excuse me? Had Max suffered one too many bitter breakups and gone haywire? Or was he actually onto something?

Max was essentially my Milanese father. He performed the paternal duties of listening to, driving home, and socially promoting many foreign girls in the city, and no, this isn’t as creepy as it sounds. A long-divorced sweetheart now living twenty minutes outside Milan with his parents, Max socialized with the Milanese glitterati while being distinctly more soulful than your average Italian shmuck. He also knew literally EVERYBODY. His cell phone contact list made my bursting Rolodex look pathetic. Not only that, but he had everyone in the city coded in his cell phone with special figures next to their names like Marco$#%^*. Let me explain:

# For example, meant men who had spare apartments in the city they’d let him use to fuck women (should the opportunity arise).
$ meant the contact had money.
* meant they were single.
^ meant they had a house in Sardinia
% meant a hot woman

I initially found this system appalling and clinically insane. Yet since Max was the cupid of all Northern Italy, this kind of categorization actually made sense. It helped him remember who people were (cause let’s face it, when you’re pushing six hundred plus contacts it can be easy to forget) and it was extremely useful if you were Max’s friend. Say you wanted to date someone who was a lawyer, under forty, and the owner of boat. Max could quickly pick out five candidates for you from his phone based merely on his system of symbols. GENIUS.

Let me preface Method 3 X 1 and Max’s system by stating that the dating scene in Milan is harsh in a horrific way. Take all the crazy, faced-paced, big city issues you have in Manhattan, add twice the amount of crazy fashion people, six times the amount of drugs, a half a cup of Italian sketchiness, another three tablespoons of superficiality, and then keep in mind that Italy has a negative birth rate – THAT’S how much people AREN’T settling down – and you’ve basically got the social scene in Milan. You can’t just blubber around in that kind of world looking for true love. You needed a game plan.


With this back-story it’s really no surprise that everyone knew Max and Max knew everyone. The tragedy is that I don’t think Max ever scored ass ever, and I often wondered if the real reason he’d become a social diva of sorts was to get himself a girlfriend. So while acting as the agent, social coordinator, and unpaid therapist of every female model he deemed worthy in Milan (a job I wouldn’t wish upon ANYONE) Max came up with this tri-pronged dating system, which, lucky ladies, I will now divulge to you.

THE THREE MEN YOU SHOULD BE DATING:

Man Number 1: The Sex. This man exists solely to serve your carnal pleasures. It’s blissfully uncomplicated. It’s wrong. It’s scorching hot. It’s usually at 5 a.m. Since there are two men still to come, you don’t need to search for qualities in this person like “soul mate” and “career oriented” that they don’t posses. You can enjoy man number 1 for what he is – fun. I mean, sex with someone you don’t like on practical, real-life level has always been hotter for me. Just make sure there’s mutual respect going on and you’re good to get all sweaty with each other.

Man Number 2: The Friend. This is the guy all of your female friends adore. He’s polite, charming, and always clean-shaven. He’s impeccably dressed and on time. You can take him anywhere from a dive bar birthday party to a black tie wedding. Even better if he has an accent and car. Most importantly however, you’re best friends. You sleep in the same bed and non sexually cuddle on lonely nights. You look like the perfect couple, and allow everyone to think that you are, but your relationship actually functions around the fact that you DON’T screw each other brains out. It allows you to idealize each other in a magnificent way, and depend on each other because sex never makes anything weird. Man number 2 is your in-public male sidekick who’s faithfully by your side for all work, social, and brunch-like functions.

Man Number 3: The Love of Your Life. This is the “it” guy. The man you actually want to marry. Now here’s where I asked Max: “If you have him, why are the other two necessary?” He patted my head and called me naive under his breath. See, this method assumes you haven’t fully conquered or found the love of your life (a situation I imagine many of us are in). In order to make him fall in love with you, you need to be cool, calm, together and unavailable. Men like to chase things. That’s why they play sports, and that’s why as cavemen they chased women and wild boars with clubs. It’s just the way they are. By having all your social and sexual needs satisfied via the sex and the friend, you’re in a position where you can take your good old fashion time and made him work hard to earn you. We all value something the more difficult it was to procure. That’s just basic psychology 101.

So does it work?

Well, I tried out my own version of Max’s method years ago and scored one of the most eligible bachelors in Milan, a longtime crush and close friend of mine – a feat I literally never thought possible. And I do believe, that it had to do with the fact that I held out on him for so long, and didn’t necessarily take him to every party or event for which I needed an escort. When we finally got together, after what was months of courtship, it was a real relationship – and he respected me tremendously (if he only knew, right!?).

Sadly, he didn’t end up being the love of my life, a fact we never had to say out loud because I had to move back to New York from Milan and we let the whole thing politely fizzle out.

I still like to think that true love doesn’t involve playing games. But if you live in a large metropolis and can’t seem to score anyone serious, I’d play method 3 X 1. Might as well roll the dice.

Your Boyfriend has an Alternate Identity: Part III

LC had a standard, English name. To make this entire explanation simpler let’s use John, which is what I called LC in the comedic stage play I wrote about our relationship. When we had initially met in Capri, I had questioned him about the origin of his name. I remember it distinctly. We were in the Quissina elevator coming down from his hotel room to take a moonlit walk by the pool. I asked why he – a half-Italian, half-German, had the name John? It seemed strange, especially since his last name was vowel heavy and undoubtedly Italian.

“John’s short for the German name xx?” I inquired, answering the question for myself. He nodded and we slipped out of the elevator, me never thinking about the oddity of it ever again. In the months we’d been seeing each other, I’d seen LC’s British passport (he did his PHD in London and earned British citizenship) with, “John His-Italian-Last-Name” printed crystal clearly under the lamination.

So flash forward to our Florentine dinner and imagine my surprise when I see the name “Mario His-Italian-Last-Name” stamped across his credit card.

LC met my wavering gaze: “You saw my credit card.”

“Yes.”

“What did it say?”

Me: “Mario.”

Awkward silence.

LC leaned forward into the table.

“I’ve been John for the past ten years. And I’ll be John for the rest of my life.”

I did a mental double take before managing to sharply spit out:

“Who were you before?”

LC scoffed, “I’ve tried dozens of names. I encourage my patients to choose a name for themselves. A name that they think represents their true identity. A name that they can’t wait to introduce themselves as to the next person they meet. An name that makes them happy.” LC was getting passionate now. “Think about how random and unjust it is that our parents decide how we’ll be addressed for the rest of lives, before we’ve even come into our own. When we’re infants.”

OK, as true as that statement might be…trying on names like hats in a boutique?

I melodramatically met his gaze over our candlelit table and leaned toward him: “Who are you?”

LC laughed and leaned back into his chair. I pressed on.

“Who the hell are you? This isn’t funny. Tell your real name.”

“Never.”

“Is it Mario?”

“No. I tried Mario for about a year and a half and still have some Italian cards with it. Mario wasn’t a good fit.”

“Isn’t that illegal?”

“No. As long as your last name stays the same it’s really not an issue.”

“Who the hell else have you been?”

“I’ve always been me! It’s about finding the name that I felt best represented who I am. A name that unites my personality.”

Me (incredulous): “And you chose John!?!?!?!?”

“When I first went to the states in high school I became Brian. I made everyone call me Brian, but it wasn’t right. When I first went to school in Britain at a polo match I met this kid called Andrew. I really liked the way he walked. He seemed so solid, powerful. So I became Andrew.”

“Didn’t this get confusing for your friends?”

“It’s not like I was changing everyday. Every year or so.” Okay. Then I also remembered that LC didn’t really have that many friends. “Everyone calls me John,” he continued. “For the past ten years I’ve been John. It’s on my passport.”

“I know, I saw. What does your family call you?”

“Ah, well they still call me the name they gave me.”

“Which is……?”

“You know I was talking on the phone with my father the other day. I told him about you…and well, he asked me ‘what’s the name of this girl?’ and I froze up. I couldn’t tell him. So I said Elizabeth.”

OK readers: I have a unisex name. Actually, it’s more of a male name. See, my parents were both journalists and knew I was going to be a writer. They never wanted my journalistic work (which I’ve failed to ever produce) to be turned down because I was a woman (not that I really think that would really be a problem in this day and age, but they wanted something gender neutral. Whatever). LC strongly disliked my name, and often told me so:

“You’re so feminine. This name doesn’t fit you. You should change your name.” To which I’d retort: “You change your name.”

Then he’d just smile smugly. Now I understood why.

Elizabeth is my middle name. And apparently that’s what he was referring to me as, since him having a girlfriend with a gender neutral real name was just too embarrassingly horrific to handle.

“How about Rachel?” He proposed to me as we left the restaurant and began a long walk through Florence’s smooth cobblestone streets.

Rachel!?!?!? I vetoed it.

“How about Laura?”

A nice name like Laura for a girl as wildly inappropriate as me? Uh-un.

“How about Lauren?”

These suggestions slowly ceased and we ventured through the silent beauty of piazza Santa Croce. We laughed later about this entire revelation and the look on my face over dancing and hot chocolate at a nearby café. And he told me his real name – an Italian name – but I’m sworn to secrecy.



More life coach stories at a later date …

Your Boyfriend has an Alternate Identity: Part II

“Wait,” I gasped still attempting an air of nonchalance. “She’s pregnant with her husband or …” He shook his head. “With you.” I stupidly finished my question and now felt as if I might throw up.

LC continued to calmly sip his water. “But she’s having taken care of,” he said reassuringly.

“Taken care of?”

“It was an accident. It was never meant to happen. We met up for an emergency session in Monaco to go over this. It’s the right thing to do. I got her to see that.”

First off, he was still referring to their dates as therapy sessions? Secondly, this man, who as a neurolinguistic programmer is fully capable of hypnotizing people, just convinced this woman to abort her baby?

“How old is this woman?” I asked for lack of anything better to say. I was trying to properly visualize this whole screwed up picture.

“Oh she’s a good deal older than me. Mid-forties.” LC was in his early thirties when we met.

“This woman’s in her mid-forties and you think she’s going to get rid of what's probably her last chance at a child with a man she adores?”

“It was an accident. We’re going our separate ways. I just hope she really does…you know…”

“You don’t KNOW for sure she’s having an abortion? You didn’t go with her?”

“She will,” he said almost as if to convince himself. He turned and began unpacking some dress shirts from his suitcase that needed to be hung.

As nycponderings chick commented on yesterday’s entry, I should’ve at this point packed my things and sprinted out of that hotel room like a cheetah on steroids. Sadly, I’m far too dysfunction to do anything that rational. Instead, I tried to swallow all the information I’d just learned like those oversize vitamin C pills and tried focus on the upside: This guy just proved my initial theory correct. I had predicted that anyone as wonderfully genius and inspirational as this man, a life coach who transformed the existence of thousands of unhappy people and executives, must inevitably himself be fucked up to the core. LC looked over at me nervously, still waiting for my official reaction. I stood up on our plush hotel room bed and proceeded to jump up and down like an exuberant child.

“You’re just as screwed up as everybody else, you’re just as screwed up as everyone else,” I sang bouncing around in a half-teasing half-serious manner. I pointed at him. “I knew it! I knew it!” I chimed. LC laughed and tackled me back into bed.

The rest of our time in New York was great. We were on my turf and I called the shots. We embarked on more insanely healthy dinners and more extraordinary discussion about life and career management. The whole "you're fucked up" revelation experience had bonded us somehow and we continued to meet up whenever our schedules allowed: A weekend in London, a conference in Florida, a night in Milan, a getaway in Florence. Often when apart we’d chat on the phone for hours, usually about a problem of mine and how I should tackle it proactively or about the places we wanted to visit next. I was mainly being lectured to. I usually didn’t care.

Before I go into the next story of LC absurdity, I want to make sure you readers understand what a truly strange creature this man was (and what a more pathetic weirdo I was by association).

He could only have sex once a day (twice would be to draining and he had to maintain his energy for his clients) and we absolutely had to sleep on separate sides of a king bed, not touching – otherwise his sleeping patterns were disturbed. Our hotel room also had to be on the highest floor possible so noise from the street wouldn’t infiltrate his delicate ears. We more than once changed hotel rooms midway through our stay somewhere since our initial abode was “unsatisfactory.” On a trip when I was especially jetlag, he asked if I was going to get up or move around in the middle of night. If so, he’d get me my own suite. The thought of being woken in the middle of the night was an atrocity too intense for him to bear.

LC wore a neck chain that contained a small nuclear force field at the end of it and while disgusted with pop culture, he loved the song “Turn the Beat Around” by Gloria Estefan and played it at his motivational conferences. He was painstakingly anal about what he ate and had to have a large serving of fresh greens at every meal. We went to five Milanese restaurants one night in search of broccoli. He once went into the kitchen at Del Binari, an extremely famous and fancy Milan restaurant, to discuss the details of his salad with the chef.

LC compulsively showered and instructed me to do the same. He was paranoid that hotel comforters harbored germs and always immediately removed them from the room. He’d then call down to housekeeping, asking them to bring up three sets of clean blankets which he’d inspect upon their arrival. He was a large fan of colon hydrotherapy (as is apparently Tony Robins) and often encouraged me to attend a session with him. I declined. It was one thing for him to be paying for my dinner, quite another for him to be financing the cleansing of my asshole.

At the end of a blissful dinner in Florence at my absolute favorite Florentine restaurant, La Giostra, I insisted on paying for the meal. Naturally LC protested, and threw his credit card on the table beside mine. While we waited for the waiter to come by, I glanced at the card in front of me and furrowed my brow.

The name on the credit card was not LC’s real name.

To Be Continued….

Your Boyfriend has an Alternate Identity

Those of you who followed last month’s “The Happiest Place on Eart