I know that many of you come here looking for my usual rants on my love and sex life… ok, my sex life, but today I’ve got something else to bitch, bitch, bitch about: Marie Osmond’s collapse. I know, you’re thinking who cares? Right? Well, I don’t really either which is why the constant mention of it on television lately drives me fucking nuts!

I don’t really sit down to watch TV unless I am too sick to write or am hosting a scary movie night with cocktails, but I do sometimes like to have the television on as background noise when I am working in order to drown out the sounds from the inconsiderate loud talkers in the laundry room across the hall from my apartment. In recent days, I swear that every newscast, entertainment show or commercial for either/or has started with a headline in a dramatic and disturbed tone saying something to the effect of: “America’s sweetheart collapses! A look at what caused her dramatic collapse on live television!” or “We’ve got the scoop on the real issue that caused Marie Osmond to collapse live on television” and: “Find out what really caused Marie Osmond’s collapse”

The urgency in the announcer’s voice is enough to make me stop writing and turn my head even if only for a millisecond. If that isn’t irritating enough, they role the clip, then a replay, then another and then a fucking slow-mo play by play with more dramatic music and urgent words followed by a whole lot of speculation as to what possible “hidden condition” could have caused the faint and how the divorce she is going through may have played a role, blah, blah, barf. Naturally, the most commonly speculated cause for her little fainting spell remains her Nutri-System diet which has now slowly morphed into a “possible eating disorder”. Wtf?

I’m here to set the record straight so we can all return to our lives 2007 BC—‘Before Collapse’. First, I have been on Nutri-System and I can tell you that the amount of food I ate on the program is more than I eat when I am not dieting, so if Nutri-System is considered some sort of eating disorder, I would have to guess that it is of the over-eating or binge variety as the calorie count they enforce is far greater than what is considered starvation. As for the divorce? Come on! She got dumped—shit happens! If I passed out every time a man fucked me over I would spend even more time on my back than I already do!

Even Marie Osmond’s response as to why she passed out irks the crap out of me! I got sucked into watching ET where she gave her “exclusive interview since the dramatic collapse” and nearly threw up in my mouth when she played into all of the hype and speculation and had a little pity party for herself by stating that it has to do with this trying time in her life. This irks me because, as someone who has had her share of fainting spells (dramatic collapses that have horrified fellow gym-goers!), I find the real reason so obvious! Watch any channel at any given time today and at some point they are bound to show the “dramatic footage” again (and again and again…), and when they do, pay attention to her breathing and expression just before she collapses. She is breathing way to quickly and trying really hard to keep her cool. Hello! Rapid breathing/hyperventilation often causes fainting. The woman had just danced her ass off, maybe couple that with a little anxiety as well as God knows what happy pills she may have been abusing since the 70’s and voila—dramatic collapse!

Now can we please, oh please go back to more important celeb news like Britney’s pooter flashing and paparazzi hit and runs or Paris’ missionary work??

Friday I found myself in the unusual position of being above 14th street in the heart of enemy corporate territory – the 50s and Madison. I’d had to attend a meeting at 30 Rock, naturally scheduled at an ungodly early morning hour. The good news is that I was liberated by 11 a.m., and as I bee lined for the nearest express subway stop to take me back to the haven of downtown, I started to see an disproportional amount of yuppies carrying black and white Abercrombie shopping bags. I sniffed the foggy air (which smelled like burning dollar bills), looked to the sky, and realized I was on 5th Avenue and 50th street, just blocks away from Abercrombie’s ginormous New York six-floor headquarters which had taken every unemployed model in the city and half the student population of NYU to staff.

While usually I would’ve blocked all uptown stores out of my line of sight, sporting an imaginary human version of those equine visors they strap onto the abused carriage horses in central park, on this particular morning I did not. Just a week before, I, a girl who hasn’t set foot in an Abercrombie store since age fourteen (and even then thought it was pretty lame) was actually searching for an Abercrombie establishment near Washington Square a mere week prior. I only succeeded in finding a Rugby (sort of the same thing), and called a girlfriend to ask where the hell Abercrombie was downtown and why I was too stupid to find it.

“There is no Abercrombie downtown,” she replied. “There’s only the mega store on 5th and 55th.”

“Really?!” I was dumbstruck. “How could the corporate Nazi’s at Abercrombie forgo putting a store near NYU…easily a third a their clientele in Manhattan?”

This made no sense. And I was peeved. While I generally dislike Abercrombie and don’t own any of their clothes, I recently abducted one of my roommate’s tank tops that fit me notably well. It was just the right length, the right amount of elasticity around my chest, the right amount of support so that I didn’t have to wear a bra and the proper transparency so that forgoing lingerie would not be inappropriate, just slightly sexy. I quickly turned the tank inside out, and my mouth gaped open in astonishment when I saw the oversize Abercrombie & Fitch label on the back, followed by the delightfully sick ‘Made in Vietnam’ tag.

Hence my quest for an Abercrombie store. It was my intention to sprint in, and sprint out with the same style tank top in two basic colors.

As I approached 52nd street, I began mentally preparing myself for what treacheries might await me at this fabled Abercrombie Disneyland. I’d never been, only heard it was massive, and that Abercrombie’s corporate office were stacked about the five-floor store. That’s a lot of Ambercrombie energy for a sixty-meter radius.

“This shopping experience is probably going to be horrific,” I cooed to myself while forcing down deep breathes. “But I can do it.”

* * *

No amount of mental training could have prepared me for the shit show I witnessed the moment I entered this store. There were two models at the entrance; the girl in a bikini top and yes, the guy was actually TOPLESS, but not nearly attractive enough for me to be okay with it. I think they offering perfume samples or something. I honestly have no idea since I ran away from them as fast as possible.

I then entered the first room of the first floor: a miniature model zoo. The model workers stood behind registers and booths like animals in pre-assigned cages. Most were folding clothes; some were just staring wistfully into space, perhaps fantasizing about freedom.

Two things jumped out at me immediately as odd. One was that the store was darker than a basement. How were you supposed to shop when you needed a flashlight to see the clothes? The second was that the music was at a decibel level I’d be comfortable with if at a club like Marquee, but absurd for a store in the daytime. It was remarkably loud. And peppy. I almost left right then because it was taking my ears an unusual amount of time to adjust to the abuse. Then a saw a male model worker at a jeans display who I swear I know from Tenjune, so I rushed to the next floor before we could properly make eye contact.

If the store had any kind of organizational structure, I was too inept to figure it out. I kept looking for those signs that most department stores put near stairs and elevators that inform you that ‘the first floor is Women’s, second floor Men’s, the third floor Accessories etc.’ At Abercrombie, every floor looked exactly the same…the displays were similar and sported the same clothes. Men’s and women’s were mixed together throughout every floor. As I rushed up and down staircases and circled stacks of clothing, I couldn’t help but feel I was seeing the same outfits over and over and over again. I was beginning to feel mildly insane so contemplated asking someone for help. Then I realized that doing so would force me to scream at the top of my lungs over the techno remix of Beyonce they were blasting, so I didn’t bother.

I later caught a glimpse at the changing room line, which looked twice as large as the usual morning stack up at the Starbucks on Astor Place. The registers were clogged as well. And it was eleven a.m. on a Friday.

What was this jungle like on a Saturday at noon?

That thought, coupled with the Justin Timberlake spunked-up glitter music that was now pulsating through the stereo confirmed that I had to leave this store immediately for my own well-being – despite the fact that I had miraculously located the tank tops I wanted. I ditched them at a men’s display and fought my way out of the store like trauma victim.

On my way out, the topless male model tried to approach me with some sort of flyer and I almost screamed in panic, in part because his chest was hairless and clearly waxed (men without chest hair frighten me) and in part because I recognized him from karaoke night at Cipriani’s Upstairs.

To the Abercrombie store: never, ever, ever again.

Before I get into some real wicked shit for today, I wanted to say thanks to all of you who commented on my last post and especially those that took the time to email with words of wisdom and stories of your own fuck-buddy confusion. To the person who said that the numbness is actually self-preservation: you couldn’t have been more right! I suppose my heart knows better and decided to throw some numbness my way to save me from further upset/confusion/heartache/bullshit.

Now, onto some gay sex… yes, you read right: GAY SEX!!

I am such a Craigslist whore, meaning that I have an insatiable appetite for the dramas that unfold in the Missed Connections section of the site. Maybe I would get my fix from Soap Operas if I had cable, but for now the MC’s are doin’ me just fine in terms of following who is banging who and who is hating who, etc. This week I have noticed some very steamy posts which made me realize that just cuz’ I am not getting laid, doesn’t mean that the world around me has stopped fucking! O contraire! Naughty and oh so hot and casual sex is alive and well — at least in the gay community! Seems that while I am sitting here fighting myself from begging a certain someone to come and console me with his magic-stick after a horrible week (don’t ask); gay men are getting licked, sucked, banged and brown-cowed all over the city! Hoorah for them!

Check out some of the latest posts:

we f*cked in the fitting room at The Bay - m4m – 30:
you said my jeans were too tight, and then you grabbed a pair of Levi’s to try.
We were quiet and went on for a while.
want to go shopping again?

Loft 18 - Seeking guy from private booth - m4mTuesday afternoon around 12:30 in a private booth downstairs. You, HOT/shaved head/5′7″/160lbs./black pants and dark dress shirt/hairy chest/7 cut. Me: Mohawk/5′7″/155lbs/black T shirt-jeans. We sucked and fucked in a private booth. You shot your load down my throat after I ate your ass out. I want to meet you again. So I know its you when you reply…tell me what you yelled when you came in my mouth.

How hot are those?? Is this going on in the hetero community as well?? Where the hell have I been and why don’t I ever get to walk in on any of this if it’s happening so casually everywhere??

Kudos to the gay community! So long as you’re being safe; you make me so proud I could cry… or at least get off and come up with a few hot story ideas.

There are things that you struggle with that you keep to yourself forever, whether in fear of being judged or simply because you know that saying them will simply have no impact and may only make you seem ridiculous… or in this case certifiable.

I have always been one to write about my feelings or share them with a few close friends, though as of late; with the world wide web as well.

I wrote this “letter” a little while back and toyed with the idea of sending it to the person in question and then came to my senses and tucked it away.

This is probably one of those things that I should keep to myself… mainly because it’s just a bunch of confused thoughts and feelings that will mean nothing to anyone except the person they are about, but in the off chance that someone else has been this messed up over their feelings for someone or that maybe someone — anyone — could shed some light on this matter; I have decided to post this.

God help me.

How can this be? Why does it happen? How can I loathe so much about you at times and feel so indifferent when you are sitting across from me, yet actually long for you when you are so close that we are touching. It’s in those moments that I feel like I could save you. Yes, très cheesy, but just like in your favorite song; I feel as if I can somehow help you get away from that part of yourself that seems to have you on a constant and undying quest to find God knows what. I believe that I could make you perfect — or at least your true idea of perfect so that you don’t feel like you need anyone else (so many others). What the Hell is wrong with me?? I have this pathetic longing to make you happy and please you in a way that I don’t believe anyone else could and then in the same instance, when you say something cold or like that day that we were just talking and not touching; I just go numb. What the fuck?

It’s a rainy Thursday and as I sit here with a steaming hot chocolate, complete with mini marshmallows (yes I’m still five), it seems the perfect opportunity to reflect on the other immature aspects of my life. Yep, you all guessed right. I’m ranting about grey relationships yet again. Cut me some slack. Today the sky’s grey, the rain’s grey, my sheets are grey (they used to be white, I need to wash them, I realize that’s gross). Grey is inevitably on my mind. So using my Milanese ex-fantasy man Grin as an example, I’m going to go over some of the common symptoms that stem from dysfunctional big city relationships, all of which I suffered through with him, some of which still plague me now:

1. The Silent Treatment: Remember that game you used to play at age eight when after losing a fight with your brother or sister (usually over some glossy toy or gross piece of play dough) you’d give them the ‘silent treatment’ until your bruised ego felt like it had ‘punished’ them for an adequate amount of time? While we’re no longer playing with Barbie’s (hopefully), we still treat our grey relationship partners in the same irrationally emotional way we did our siblings. By not calling them, not texting them, not emailing them you’re both protecting yourself from being hurt when they potentially don’t respond and winning in the infantile ‘silent treatment game’ sense of victory. This transitions beautifully into our next symptom.

2. Playing to Win: Often when I post about grey / faux relationships, I’m surprised to receive reader comments encouraging me to confess my true feelings for my partner, talk it out with him, take it to the next level – all reasonable suggestions if one’s goal was to live happily ever after or fall in love. I feel in all my writing about this topic, I’ve evidently failed to properly illustrate on what a high level of immaturity the grey dynamic operates. Stability, normalcy and happiness aren’t the goals here. People in grey relationships are too afraid to fall in love. They’re terrified of living happily ever after. Happily ever after, despite its charming connotations, is frighteningly final, and grey relationship participants tend to be commitment phobic. The implicit goal may be to get closer to another human being, but the explicit goal is to win. The dysfunctional relationship rule book clearly states that whichever entity appears to care less about the relationship is considered the winner. Let’s look at an example:

After five days of giving one another the silent treatment, Grin texts me for an aperitivo. Grin initiated contact (+10 points for me) with a detailed plan for getting together as opposed to a vague ‘how are you’ (an additional +15 points for me). He’s putting himself on the line.

I happen to be busy that night (+12 points for me – I’m seemingly not prioritizing him), but phone to thank him for the invite (phoning means reaching out / caring so minus 15 points for me, + 12 points for him.)

The ultimate goal is to keep both our scores equal. If one person seems to care more than the other, things get unbalanced and someone tends to freak out and disappear. The grey relationship is destroyed. Ideally, both your scores rise at a matching rate (I mean if your scores didn’t rise you’d never see one another at all.)

So while this game may seem cruel, it’s actually a process of you both nurturing for your faux relationship so it can continue to exist at a level of intimacy you’re both comfortable with. And while the whole score keeping thing may seem confusing, it’s actually not at all. Most 21st century Manhatteners are capable of making virtually all of these calculations subconsciously. Often I don’t even think we know we’re doing it, but in a grey relationship, someone’s always keeping score. There is self-imposed control. I mean, if you just let things just play out naturally you might find yourself actually being intimate with someone (God forbid!), which in the dating game of most major metropolises is a no-no.

3. Pacing Intimacy: Pacing intimacy has a lot to do with knowing how to properly keep score. It also requires obeying certain boundaries, some of which I explored in Please Don’t Be Nice. Even though you may be crazy about this person, you have to keep in mind that you’re not each other’s significant other. The grey relationship is about fun, excitement, adrenaline, and intensely high doses of middle school cattiness. It’s not about companionship. Your partner cannot become to ‘real’ to you. I mean if you start shoe shopping together you’re just a hop, skip and a jump away from him farting in your face and you no longer shaving your legs. Or as a friend of mine put it:

“If you spend more than fourteen consecutive hours together, you’re fucked.”

Fucked in what sense? You may thoroughly enjoy each other’s company, but going out to dinner or brunch several days a week is just crossing a line. You might actually start to feel like boyfriend and girlfriend (again, God forbid).

4. Hide and Seek: And because there are so many questions you’d like to ask your grey relationship partner, but know you can’t (doing so would obliterate the cloudy grayness in which you both feel comfortable), you try to attain knowledge about them indirectly from other sources. Like:

My friend (casually): Hey, you know I ran in Grin the other night at Pacha.

Me (suddenly sweating bullets): Wait. When? Where? At what time exactly? Who was he with? A girl? Several girls? What was he wearing? Dressed down or dressed up? Did he ask about me? Was he wearing jeans or dress pants? What was your exact conversation word by word? Tell me Godammit!!!!

Since I’d often be paranoid Grin was out partying when he claimed to be at home, I’d go out when I’d normally stay in and go to as many Milanese clubs and bars as physically possible with our common friends, scouring each location to make sure he wasn’t there. He never would be and I’d come home, exhausted but victorious. Mature, right?

And at the end of the day, I think one of the reasons dysfunctional relationships are so common is that they allow us to recapture the joys of childhood immaturity. These adrenaline-based affairs may be absurd, but they help us feel like kids again. The relationship games we play are rarely stressful, they’re somehow as relaxing and familiar as a game of tag, a battle of hide-and-seek.

So far, that’s the only explanation I’ve come up with about why we keep coming back for more.

I may have covered this one before, but obviously to no avail if I have to mention it again. Just because I write about sex and enjoy a guy who gives good flirt that borders on the naughty does NOT mean that I want a guy talking dirty to me every time we speak—especially before we have had a chance to meet. Seriously, this is not the way to get into my super sexy and oh-so tight jeans!

Picture it; you start chatting with a truly gorgeous man; great eyes, amazing smile and yes, a rock hard body that stands at well over six feet. You chat, he seems intelligent and animated and respectful with just the right amount of sexual energy and confidence, so you agree to meet. Then, in the days leading up to the date, you graduate from online chat to text messaging. The first messages are super sweet: “Hi Baby”, “Hello Sexy”, “Can’t wait for our date”.

Then, sprinkled in amidst some practical messages planning the deets of our date are one or two messages to the effect of: “You’re so sexy baby”, “You make me hard”. This is a little cheesy and quite odd—especially seeing as how this is not really going both ways. I chalk it up to a guy who is really excited and maybe trying to impress me with what he thinks I must want considering the stuff I write. I decide to let it go, send back a polite and funny reply and it seems to do the trick and get things back on a less greasy track.

A couple of days later; during hour two, maybe three at the salon with a crap-load of low-volume peroxide on my embarrassingly dark roots; I hear my phone play the little you-got-a-text-message ditty and welcome the amusement as it beats the month old magazines I’ve been offered. I see it’s a message from him, and while my breath doesn’t quite catch in my throat, nor does my heart skip a beat; I am delighted to hear from him because I am waiting to hear if my new suggested time for our date works for him. Here’s what it said:

“Just tell me when baby… you really turn me on”

Huh? Where did that come from? Guess someone’s feelin’ a little randy this afternoon. So I send back a specific time and simply ask if it works for him. He replies:

“That’s fine…do u have sensitive nipples?”

I laugh nervously and then let my sarcasm take over as I reply in hopes that it comes through in the message and type: “Umm…yeah.”

He replies: “I want u”

Obviously, this is weird as he is having a filthy conversation all by himself, so I put the phone down and decide to not reply. Minutes later, I hear the little ditty again and hesitate before checking the new message—I do want to keep liking him of course. The message reads:

“You make me drool”
My reaction: I spew cold coffee from my nostrils as I try to hold in my laughter as I am surrounded by several older ladies getting their hair done. Phone goes flying, coffee spills, and a foil full of blue goop falls to the floor. Clearly, I do not reply.

His next message promises to show me the best time I’ve ever had and the ones that follow are a weak attempt to convince me that he is not just looking for sex. They slowly trickle off after that. And needless to say; I don’t think that we will be meeting after all. I believe that we have mutually decided this without really needing to express it to the other; him because he is starting to realize that ‘sex writer’ does not = ‘easy slut’ and me… well… you read the messages.

It’s so sad that so many men are incapable of getting past the silly notion that they need to be raunchy in order to impress me. Yes, I do love using words as foreplay and yes, I am capable of prose that would make Larry Flynt blush, but this is in no way the best route to take if you wanna get with me—no matter how tall and chiseled you are… or how sexy you look with sweat running down your body or even how hot your tattoos look scribbled over your bulging muscles… *sigh as I wipe sweat from my brow*

Here is a little bit of advice: save the script that seems to be straight from an issue of Swank for the day that we do end up in bed together. Anything before that should be witty, intelligent and natural. And hold the cheese.

Age 11—you had a huge crush on that cute new kid in homeroom. You loved him even though he had braces and a slight mullet. You wished that homeroom lasted more than just fifteen minutes a day. So finally your second-best-friend talks to that guy who’s first chair trumpet in band who also just happens to live next door to the man of your sixth grade dreams. And instead of this cutie jumping for joy because you are so completely and utterly amazing, he starts being really fucking annoying, pulling on your hair, pushing you in the halls and accidentally knocking your library books out of your hands.
Age sixteen—Blake Howard who got totally hot over the summer sits across from you in Honors Chemistry. You conveniently forget that this time last year his face was so covered with zits you couldn’t even see those gorgeous brown peepers. After endless conversations at lunch and on the band bus to away football games your friend Sarah finally talks to his friend Mike and suddenly Blake Howard is not only talking to you but asking you to be his date to the homecoming dance. Finally, just as the sun is shining down on you, the dance comes and he decides to hang out his guy friends all night save for one KC and Jojo song, and you’re stuck with that third tier group of your friends who don’t have dates standing by the punch and cookies table.
Age 21—your first real and true serious relationship. Jason Jones. He’s everything you could have ever want in a man. You met at a party after his best friend fell over on you during a kegstand gone wrong. He brought you a roll of paper towels to mop your shirt off with and suddenly you were his partner in a doubles game of Quarters. You spent the night throwing up on the curb outside of his fraternity house but the two of you have been inseparable for a record breaking (for you anyway) seven months. Then suddenly he’s all distant and weird and three days before the end of spring semester you get an email saying he needs to take a break and will be spending the summer discovering himself in Antigua while teaching English as a second language. Two months later you discover he actually spent the summer in Florida at his ex-girlfriend’s beach house and couldn’t tell you the truth because he “didn’t want to hurt you.”
Age 26—Mark Kelly. After four years of post-college dating you finally meet someone you could definitely see as being “The One.” He’s 36 years old, a senior VP at a top public relations firm, owns his two-bedroom Upper West Side co-op. And he’s cute. You meet at a friend of a friend’s art show—he accidentally bumps into you as you’re trying to make sense of a masterpiece that consists of three badly drawn lines on white canvas. You start talking about the absurdity of the painting’s $5,000 price tag and you realize that this guy really is something else. Four months later you guys are officially boyfriend-girlfriend and a year later you’re ready to say goodbye to your roommate and your fifth floor West Village walk-up and hello to the utter domesticity and sereneness of 76th and Central Park West even though he hasn’t even hinted at you to moving in or anything. You’ve decided that Mark Kelly is the one and you’re ready to say yes as soon as he pops the question. And then he starts to pull stunts that remind you of all the boy habits you thought were left behind when one enters into adulthood. Somewhere along the line you guys stopped actually communicating by voice on the phone. Instead your conversations consist of text messages in which “are” turns” to “r” and numbers are liberally substituted for actual words. When you finally do see him again he tells you that while you happen to be an amazing woman, he’s not at a point in his life where commitment is a viable option. His life is so busy now but your time together has been a treat. He leaves you with a not a kiss or a hug but a chummy pat on the shoulder and a shrug that uncannily reminds you of the cute boy from homeroom in 6th grade.

You stand watching after him as he walks away and disappears around a corner, knowing that maybe he’s not a point where he can commit to you but your coworker saw him in a very committed pose with another pretty young thing just last week but of course; you swear a little for not being able to mention that before he walks away. Turing back towards the subway, you wonder why it’s seemed so easy for you to transition to adulthood but every guy you meet is in a permanent stage of arrested development.

I’m not what you’d call a warm and fuzzy person. I’m not so into animals and only really cute babies make me smile. Yet I’m always inevitably touched when readers email me comments about my writing that aren’t derogatory, abusive or spiteful. I even glow an extra mega-watt when it’s clear the reader has a sense of humor, gets my sense of humor, and knows damn well how to write. So naturally I was thrilled when I received this email:

Dear mb,

I accomplished the Wall St. thing, though still w/o the means to spend 10k at The Box on a Thursday evening. And I know, you having been around models and one yourself, that you have an idea of what generally your friends look for in a guy. Tell me if you think I am getting close…money, lots of it, and ummmm….charisma? I’m working on the money thing but the likelihood of me getting anywhere close to Giuseppe, by the time I am 40, is a somewhat far reach. I obviously can’t make myself European, only coming close by attending the London School of Business. And I can’t go out every night and still have a career…impossible w/o a trust fund. So, let me know your enlightening thoughts, if you would be so kind…

First off, making yourself more European by attending London School of Business is a fabulous idea! The sexiest option after Oxford or Cambridge is LES – London School of Economics. That place pops out moneymaking, briefcase-carrying, gold cufflink-wearing, heartless-men machines. And you don’t need a trust fund to go out every night and have a career, you just needs lots of cocaine! Scratch that, you need generous trust fund wielding friends who do cocaine and are willing to share. And as for models wanting “money, lots of it, and ummmm….charisma” you’re way off the mark. X out the charisma part, multiply the money factor by three, and you’ve much more successfully outlined what your average accent possessing, chain smoking, heartless model wants out of a relationship.

JUST KIDDING!

If only the answer to this email were that simple.

I think the first thing men need to understand about what women want, is that the majority of us vagina-possessing creatures have absolutely no idea what we want. Or we’re in denial about what we want. Or we have what we want, we’re just incapable of fully recognizing it or giving it credit.

We’re generally really confused. Does that make sense?

We’re an extremely capable gender so hell, if we knew what we wanted we’d go out, tackle, and mount it with success – there’d be no time for gossiping or shopping or beautifying or reality TV or any of the other ten thousand ways we find to distract ourselves from the fact that we ultimately have no idea if we want a man like or father, a best friend, an authority figure, a masochist, a sex object or a teddy bear. We just don’t freakin’ know. At least I don’t freakin’ know, and I think women who disagree are either in denial or have succeeded in establishing what they want in the short run (like, for the next three weeks while I’m up to my ears in tax returns I need a fun-loving playboy.) But in the long run? Geez. Next question, please.

So to get back on track and actually give some advice to the lovely chap that emailed in, I’d say if the goal is to date a model (or model poser) that’s an extremely easy feat in Manhattan. Just go to Beatrice Inn, dress well, pretend to be a big shot, mention that you summer in Como, sniffle in an I’m-on-drugs-way and surely some inexperienced female model victim will bite. If the goal is to have a successful relationship with a smart and beautiful woman, I’d say be extremely polite at all times (most mothers have engrained their female offspring to prize chivalry) and then take a serious interest in her. Really work to get to know this woman – what makes her tick, and if you genuinely like her, this shouldn’t be ‘work’ at all.

My theory is that women respond well to men who

1. Make them feel at ease (don’t be creepy, desperate, or sniffling)
2. They can identify with (from the same geographical area, common schools, common friends – no don’t lie) and
3. Want to get to know them (in a non-stalkerish way)

Ask her why she decided to wear pink instead of yellow, chose lasagna over sword fish, the story behind why she called her cat Oreo instead of Freckles, why she likes Giuliani over McCain, why she has an Alanis Morissette poster in her room, why her apartment smells like corndogs. Delve into her quirks. No, you shouldn’t sound like an annoying five-year-old or like a freak writing a book. Be genuine. The fact is that most women love to talk – it’s been medically diagnosed as therapeutic (why do you think we spend hours on the phone with our girlfriends every other night?) Remember that most women are just humans immersed in the continuing battle of figuring out who they are. Life is somewhat of a continuing identity crisis, or challenge, or game (choose your own noun). So anyone who takes a genuine interest in a loving, non-judgmental way allows us as women to show off the parts of our personality we like and gives us a trusting space to figure out the parts we’re still trying to piece together.

Maybe I got a bit too philosophical here, and emailer, please feel free to write in again with a more specific question. Like if you’re just looking for a top ten list of surefire seduction tricks, I could provide you with that as well (with the obligatory price of $199.99). I guess my point was that if men want to know what women want, they should know that women are just as confused the next guy. As for what I specifically want in men, that’s another delightful (and frightening) laundry list for another day.

Oh man—this is such a funny coincidence that I can hardly wrap my sex-filled little brain around it!

So, in the days leading up to my birthday I begin to have some anxiety about the age thing. Add that to the fact that I have been horny as all hell lately and you’ve got a girl in need of a fix. Though turning to a fine, powdery white substance–like Britney Spears–would probably give me the skinny body I crave, (she didn’t look that fat at the VMA’s!) I opted for something more wholesome—cupcakes and Chinese food.

This is a huge deal as I haven’t had Chinese food since that faithful day back in…well… I don’t know what month; when I found out that the love of my life had just gotten himself a Chinese mail-order bride of sorts. That news came just as the delivery guy rang from downstairs with my Chinese food. But that’s not the point.

Anyhow, I eat the meal as I watch YouPorn to try and fight off the reality that said love preferred some stranger to adorable and incredibly-great-with-my-lips me. I get to the end of the meal, waddle over to the kitchen and reach for a fortune cookie which I cling to as if my destiny really depends on it. (Note that by now my 2 glasses of wine have already begun to kick in) My hands tremble as I crack the cookie open—almost gagging cuz’ I’m so fucking full. I pull out the little paper and expect some wise insight from Confucius and find that my fortune reads:

“Chinese food is your fuel for life”

I shit you not!

Chinese food? That’s what will nourish my soul?? Not “love” or “kindness” or even “passion”???

This is just as funny as it is pathetic. Funny because I just got shit from a reader last week who got all cunty about my Fuel For Life blogs and pathetic because according to Confucius; my destiny holds nothing more than some greasy take out and quite possibly another cranky email from that reader for mentioning Fuel For Life again.

** Just as soon as I figure out how to upload pics off my new camera; I will post a pic of the fortune just so you can all see it for yourselves!!

PS - Thank you all for the b-day wishes! Muuuuwaaaah!