Every inhabitant of Manhattan needs the ability to decipher who is gay and who is not. Especially the straight female population who is often lulled into a false euphoria by a pair of dreamy blue eyes, before realizing they are attached to a man talking about Madonna. Initially, I was thinking that people should be required to wear some sort of marking that denoted their sexual preference, but that seemed rather Nazi-esque. Plus, if Diesel jeans and a great haircut aren’t enough of an indicator, I don’t know what would be. And so I arrived at the conclusion that gaydar training should be made mandatory when one attempts to crawl to Manhattan’s nightlife.
Case in point:Last night I went out with The Model and a few people from his work. My friend from work--a kooky, crazy thing who I adore for obvious reasons--had one too many gin and tonics (or just the right amount, depending on how you look at it) and began talking to my friend The Model and his “friend”. Both are very, very good-looking.And lived together.In a one bedroom.Who both work in creative fields.Who wanted to discuss their many celebrity friends.Who were wearing matching designers. (it certainly wasn’t helping to create an image of heterosexuality.)Within an hour or so the girl had whittled her obvious fascination with both down to a more focused crush on one. We decided to go next door to a local karaoke bar. (I know.)I wanted to say something but she seemed so happy with her prize, even mouthing to me “He’s so cute.” So I said nothing. Besides, I told myself, I shouldn’t get involved and crush her heart. But couldn’t she notice their startling attractiveness and attention to grooming. This was the era of the metrosexual, wasn’t it? Couldn’t straight men be hot?Apparently not. At the next bar the man in question (The Model’s “friend”) tipped the woman running karaoke so he could sing immediately. Then he pranced (there is no other word for it) around the stage. Then he called my friend "girlfriend". I found myself thinking “it is so obvious.” Many karaoke songs later, (no, I did not sing) The Model and I decided to go home. My friend looked alarmed. “But this is going to be so awkward. You’re going to leave me alone with him?” (she had no idea that The Model and his “friend” were sexually involved)“Um,” I said.“Do you think I should go home with him?” she asked as she leaned forward conspiratorially. “He’s soooooo cute!” Oh my God. I had never heard her squeal before. It was frightening. I had to say something.“Don’t you think he might be...”Just then the “friend” ran up behind her and gave her a hug. I stopped talking. She would figure it out eventually. Plus, he really did seem to like her in a platonic sort of way, so at the very least my friend had made a new pal. She could find her Prince Charming, or at least Prince Heterosexual, another night.Still, if she had received gaydar training upon moving here (she’s from the Midwest), she could have wasted one less night in the all too common pursuit of a man interested in penises. See? This is a great idea. I’m charging 500 bucks an hour bitches!
Posted in:
gays
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After a bottle of wine at lunch, I decided that going to the gym (after) sounded like a good idea. I don’t think I had enough cognitive power to actually have a reason for this decision. I was just following some strange instinct, lacing up my Nike Airs and walking over to the gym on 6 Ave. from my office, stopping to have a cigarette and seeing absolutely no irony in it.Once on the treadmill I felt a little unstable, but mostly fantastic. I began to feel as though I was cleansing myself of all those alcoholic toxins. I was an Athletic Person who cared about her body. I was a Picture of Fitness. In the throes of my deluded health-fantasy, I pulled off my t-shirt, threw it to the ground and kept jogging in only my sports bra. Obviously, this was the moment in which I should have taken a figurative step back and realized that I was far too intoxicated to be using any sort of exercise equipment. But at the moment, all I could think was Goddamn I am HOT. And man, I can run FAST.This bliss couldn't last long. Soon enough I lost my footing, and began fumbling for the red emergency STOP button. The button was either broken or my hand-eye coordination was woefully impaired. Either way, the treadmill kept going. I managed to stay on through a series of strange movements that were too mad and desperate to be called running. It was clearly time to abandon ship and jump onto one of the sides of the treadmill. Unfortunately, this move resulted in me falling off the treadmill in a complex series of motions that included banging into the sidebars and kneeling on the running surface. I sprang up from the floor where I had fallen, my fight or flight response kicking in, and ran (at approximately the same pace I had been running on the treadmill) out of the gym.I have a pleasing and annoying knowledge that I cannot go back to the gym for at least a month, possibly ever.
Posted in:
Random Musings
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This past weekend has been so fucking eye-opening. For the second weekend in a row I have been too tired to do anything but sit and watch movies. I have been too emotionally, physically, and intellectually exhausted to even write.
I also got a burst of inspitation from watching Garden State...I have not felt like that after a movie in years...completely enamoroured with the protagaonist the sexy vulnerability combined with stirrings of self-awareness and the observances of suburbia, were so on point that...anyway. You get the idea.
Going through my own emotional journey because of someone else's creativity made me realize I forgot what kind of power words and images can elicit from the audience. I want that power. I want to take people through an emotional journey, a journey b/c the trip isnt that far from where they are comming from.
I hate movies like that. Movies that get your hopes up for finding a love that is just so fitting and special...but then you date in NYC. And you come to realize that it just doesn’t really exist. There is a contrived way of dating, you present yourself...and after a few months, you may be able to tell each other something heartfelt. Or you just continue to receive compensation in the form of food for all of the money you spend making yourself attractive. I think I was just attracted to the vulnerability...and I know myself that if a girl opened up to me that quickly...I would run the other way. As would most women...there is something about wanting to be protected...and I am supposed to be the neurotic one. Perhaps not actually.
That is why I love movies, it is a forum that allows you a safe place to daydream and live the life if everything was perfect...always having a happy ending, then hitting the stop button, so not to destroy.Enough about me sounding like a self-aware Bridgett Jones.But there is something I have been missing, connecting with my writing...writing as a way for me to force myself to be more observant with the world as opposed to putting on my I-pod and distracting myself into believing I am someplace else.
Posted in:
movies
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I haven’t done one of these open letters to myself in a long time…Dear NYC.Lezie,
I know that you are quite taken with- dare I say smitten? – A certain lady who is a great kisser and knows how to pick her cocktails. She is attentive and she is dorky in the best kind of way.
And I can see that the chemistry is there.
That said I encourage you to stop the freefall plunge into attachment just yet. It is perfectly fine to want things to work out. You do deserve a nice woman who is capable of having an adult relationship and have an adult/intelligent conversation (remember your last one? – enough said). But you can’t confuse this lusty flirtation with anything more than the beginnings of a really good crush with fun extracurricular activities.
And until she shows her hand, hold yours close to your own body. Call me cynic, dear, but there is nothing that says that slowly giving into your desires and developing feelings is bad. In fact, truth be told, it is probably much better to take a step back and wait for her next move. You are stuck in the haze, my dear. You are even having inappropriate thoughts about her involvement in your life. Aren’t you? I know you are. And that one about…was fantastic, if I do say so myself.
Make sure she is right before you get attached. Don’t put the dreams of a relationship before the right girl.
Put down the phone. Stop checking it obsessively. And if she doesn’t call, let it be. She may be busy.
Now go, have a Cosmo and stop thinking about her.
Sincerely,
NYC.Lezie.
Posted in:
Open Letters
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This morning during my usual “I want to be a hot sexy trophy wife workout” a random girl (Let’s call her Gym Whore) comes up to me and starts a conversation, which I did not want to be involved in at 630am. Some people have no clue and no game, and no charm when it comes to appropriate gym etiquettes.
Gym Whore: Hey there good looking
Me: [giving her the “what the fuck do you want” look]
Gym Whore: I see you often, you work around here?
Me: Yeah. [What a fucking psycho stalker whore]
Gym Whore: You lift?
Me: [while lifting some weights and checking out my sexy triceps] yeah
Gym Whore: So you like working out?
Me: uh…um…yeah
Gym Whore: my name is Ellie
Me: oh nice to meet you Nellie
Gym Whore: no um. It’s E-llie
Me: oh sorry Kellie ….oh ok Ellie, well, I have to go to work [walking away to the locker rooms]
Gym Whore: Where are you going?
Me: change, uh…locker room
Gym Whore: oh you aren’t staying?
Me: eh...nooo..I usually get dressed before I go to work ya know?
Gym Whore: ah well I guess I'll see you later, I mean I'm going to keep working out, like I gotta keep lifting you know, (I have already started walking away at this point) like i lift a lot you know, cause like I'm really into training, like big muscles and whatever, but like...I guess I'll see ya later…
Seriously. Working out has become the new let's mack it to “NYC.lezie” spot.
Working out is my life, please don’t try and talk to me Gym Whore, Can’t you see I have no time for you and your chatty chattyness?
Posted in:
Creepy Lesbians.,
gym encounters
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I feel some restlessness which is a result of loneliness right now or clearly it's PMS. Instead of going out and slamming back alcohol and fixing my boobs or my ass all night, I threw myself a pity party, with me acting as the guest of honor. It was one of those nights that no matter how many people I made laugh, or grabbing dinner with co-workers after work for a few hours, it just wasn’t enough, and it failed to provide me with a feeling of security and distraction from my emotional roller coaster last week. Sitting in front of the computer for hours taking screen shots, didn’t help my mood either. As this past Friday afternoon rolled around, and although my body craved the effects from a bottle of ice cold champagne, and my mind needed a friend seated across me in an outdoor café, I realized that there wasn’t anyone who fit the mood available. Either my closest friends don’t live near me, my friends who live here are in relationships where the ass is plentiful and the Friday evening plans are “We’re staying home and watching the 10pm news-sorry”, or my laziness won out and I didn’t feel like putting forth an effort to have a conversation with someone except for The German, I always like our conversations.That’s what makes afternoons in cafes so special. You tend to want to be seated across the person or persons at the table, and the wine in front of you is there as a prop to loosen tongues instead of acting as a vehicle of social lubrication. Very few people are absolute pleasures to be around, where the friendship is so comfortable that neither one takes offense to the inevitable silence, instead the break is seen as kismet, both parties taking a break at the same time, instead of simultaneously having run out of things to say.It’s nights like those which reminds me why I am ready to leave my house. I just hope that my homesickness won't leave me romanticizing an already strained relationship with my life in NJ. Because, a relationship that sucks, is a relationship that sucks, no matter how unsure the prospect of a new one is on the horizon.
Posted in:
Random
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O ne reason that is equally fabulous and awful about blogging is that you have your entries set in archives. Your thoughts and experiences – the disturbing and humorous ones are set in this little webpage, where you can easily access when needed.
It is fabulous because it gives me a chance to look back at how I dealt with things and reacted to situations and curve balls, which were thrown at me. And blatantly awful because I realize how often I fall into potholes and get fed up with things that really aren’t worth worrying over. I am most, my worst enemy and my biggest fan and probably the worst self-critic. And this is okay, I think, as long as I don’t build myself up too much or let myself fall too far behind.
I always wanted to be a writer. But there is one moment that I remember; clear as day when I knew I could be a writer. (Trust me, there is an infinite body of water between wanting and knowing.) I was in College and I was taking a Magazine Writing class and one of the assignments was to write an article about an experience you had – whether it was a blissful one or a tragic one, but it had to be about you realizing something great about yourself or someone close to you. I remember it took me a mere 4 hours to complete. I remember crying when I was writing it and even crying more when my professor decided to read it to the class. This specific article ended up being published a couple of months later. Till this day, that article I wrote years ago still remains one of my favorite pieces to showcase for freelance gigs. And since the day I sat glued to my computer for 4 hrs I knew then, as I knew now that I wanted to write professionally.
My professor saw something in my story that day. And she read my article and modeled my work and expected everyone to follow my work. I kept my head down while she read each painstakingly prepared phrase aloud, taking in what I wrote and blending it with my soul. She read it anonymously. But somehow, my classmates knew.
I remember everything about this moment – my Professor (she was a nun) and the rhythm she gave the words as she read, the shiny parquet floor squares of the 5th classroom, where I sat, with my back to the window, pride welling up in my chest and a tear in the corner of my eye. I never thanked her properly for this four minutes, when I went from wanting to be a writer to knowing that it was in me somewhere, obscured by uncertainty and immaturity.
I wonder if one day, years from now, when all of this dating and partying is in the past, I will look back on my stories and ridicule myself or cry.
Who knows, probably both.
Posted in:
New Start,
Random Musings
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