Don't hate me because I'm beautiful...

There's a famous line I remember from one of my favorite iconic 80's movies ( I think it was Weekend at Bernie's) where the "Don't hate me because I'm beautiful" Pantene commercial airs and an average looking girl subsequently screams "I don't! I hate you because you're a bitch!" and hurls something ( a slice of pizza? a drink?) at the TV.

This topic was explored on CNN and several other sites this week, http://www.cnn.com/2009/LIVING/personal/09/28/tf.friends.with.pretty.women/index.html?imw=Y&iref=mpstwhere the self proclaimed "average looking" author explores the difficulties she's had with "pretty friends"and admits the resentful feelings she harbors toward them. Her main gripe with beautiful women is that they aren't used to hearing the word "No", as they've often wielded their beauty to gain power and influence over their less attractive friends.

She may be right. But then again, how many times do beautiful women get stuck with "the bitch" label for no other reason than outright jealousy?

It's easy to label a pretty girl as a "bitch" and make her an outcast, because then people can justify their feelings of jealousy and insecurity, instead of dealing with the origin of those feelings. A majority of the most beautiful women I know don't have very many female friends, and that's probably no coincidence. What if "average girls" received "the bitch" label because of the lack of male attention they receive? Would they be exiled in the same manner? Not likely.

No one feels sorry for the pretty girl. Maybe they should.

Surely a Hot Babe...

The following post comes to you courtesy of a friend that was kind enough to share one of her MySpace messages ( yes, I said MySpace- it apparently still exists). The following dialogue needs no introduction, but does come with a subtle warning of the urge to vomit all over your keyboard. You have been warned!

"HI Sexy - You look so sexy, seductive and Beautiful that i cant stop gawking at your pics...Your sex looks and sweet face and hot figure... You are a tease.. surely a HOT babe..Burning hot.. And of course an angel.. I honestly adore the body.. the face , the baby.. what a turn on You honestly are , i cant even describe in words...please be my Babe..

You are so amazingly awesome and beautifully beautiful babe.. i donno why am just drooling on & on... but u really are the best n hottest n sexiest n most gorgeous n most beautiful babe if not on planet earth then on this site for sure babes... such a burning smoking hot chica who can make jaws drop to floor with adoration and adulation. I am sure that you must get tons of messages like mine, from guys interested in u and probably u might not even respond to me, but i wanted you to know that beauty doesn't gets better then u hunny and good luck in life.. Though we deep breath i request this hot angel to talk to me? can we talk hunn?? will u be my babe .. can we chat sexy Girl?

I would love to get to know the hottest chic on this site... plzzzzzzz sweeeetsss, i would be your slave for life for sure :) write back babe... am waiting... p.s. - you turn me on so much and are so beautiful that i don't even have enough words to compliment your sexy looks, wish i had more compliments for this hottiee.."

Besides the fact that he likes her "sex looks" and"adores the body, the face, and the baby" (she doesn't have a baby), his use of alliteration alone impresses me. I'm now 100% confidant that social networking will be the end of the human race one day. Someday, we'll all have weddings via Skype and use the"remove husband/wife" tool on Facebook. Until then, let us be grateful for the poetic genius of the MySpace Romeo above and his letters of online love.

- KJ

There's a bug in my Red Velvet...

Red Velvet and I have a tumultuous history. At first bite; just a few short years ago from a bakery named Buttercup, there was love. "Love at first Bite?", catchy eh? I swear that wasn't done on purpose.

Like all relationships, this one evolved. Commitment was the next step, as I chose Mr. Velvet to be the guest of honor at my wedding. The guest of honor that everyone eats. I remember sitting in the catering hall office, asking if there was anything at all that could be substituted for the traditional (yawn) fondant and buttercream. I could easily have paid for a cake at an outside bakery, however when you are building a bar from scratch, complete with lighting technicians and mini palm trees, cake gets moved to the back of the priority list pretty quickly. And so, Red Velvet, my catering manager promised me, was "Not a problem, not at all". Trust was born.
So much so, that I didn't even ask for a tasting.

Mr. Velvet and I had a good run, and as the wedding day approached, we were on very good terms. Until the cutting of the cake. The happiest day of my life had one glitch, my cake tasted like a type of tropical fruit. What kind? I have no idea, it was that ambiguous. To quote my grandmother, "Beautiful Cake, so many FLAVORS!" Need I go on? That's what I thought.

I swore off Mr. Velvet and his undelivered promises. I considered myself lucky to have the cake be my only problem on my wedding day, and "cut" my losses. (there I go again!) We immediately broke things off and hadn't seen each other again until yesterday afternoon, when I decided to give him another chance. I didn't realize Mr. Velvet had a vengeful side, until I found a piece of a creepy crawly in my "Crumbs" cupcake.

If there's one phrase to sum up how indescribably shiteous this week has been, "There's a bug in my Red Velvet" would be it. Yes, this week involved the severing of important relationships in my life, some that will most likely leave a wound forever. I say, you have no choice but to let go of relationships that cause you nothing but grief. Goodbye Mr. Velvet, I'll miss you.

-KJ

The Chiquita Bamana

Happy Friday! Meet the Chiquita Bamana. Brought to you by the crazy streets of New York and lots of illegal drug use.

Chiquita Bamana struts around in a fire engine red thong and give a whole new meaning to the term boyshorts. The cornucopia of fruit on his head complements the vibrant colors of his necklace, which is probably an ancient tribal gift from his ancestors; or a hallucinatory dumpster project. Take your pic.

He pushes his shopping bags, filled with God knows what, around in a baby carriage. For the love of Christ, I hope this man has not spawned. I shudder to think of the humiliation that child would endure at the hands of this creature.

Additionally, everyone that owns a pair of Crocs should take a good look at this man and immediately throw a burning rubber party. Because if there is one good that can come out of The Chiquita, it's singlehandedly eradicating the evil that these plastic mitts from hell bring.

-KJ

It's not sunny in the subway.

Tourism in NYC; the bane of my existence. Every day they stroll in front of me in packs, at the slowest pace imaginable, forcing me into the street; nearly risking my life so that I don't have to be whacked in the face with a fanny pack or Nikon. They often ignore the presence of my IPOD, asking me for directions; shouting, "3!?? Canal St? Threeeeeeeeeeee??!! or"Times Square????" as if I have the words SUBWAY MAP tattooed on my forehead.

It's torturous enough that I already have to deal with their sneakers, visors, chinos, and mid -calf length socks every single day. Yet now i have to deal with their mockery too. What could a backpack clad European traveler possibly mock me, a native New Yorker, for? Try my Ray-Bans. Now, I am by no means a proponent of sunglasses at night, in restaurants or clubs. I, however, have no qualms about protecting my eyes from the downright ugliness of the subway.

On many an occasion, I have seen the most grotesque things a person can witness, right there under the bustling streets of the city I love the most. From public urination and far worse; to a plastic lawn chair, placed between the metal poles, because the man sitting in it "never gets a seat" and decided to bring his own. For some reason, I find people that consume food down there absolutely repulsive. Whether it be a banana or some Indian street food, it's dirty and disgusting and shouldn't be done. It's the equivalent of eating in a public restroom; while sitting on the toilet. That's right MTA, your subway is a toilet. A toilet that keeps upping the admission fee. You have to pee, right? And I need to get to work, stat.

I was on the 123 yesterday, when I noticed two very large Italian women staring at me curiously. It takes a lot for me to notice anything on the train, since I do my best to block out my surroundings until I reach ground level. The gawking turned to giggling, and then before I could figure out what the joke was, they simultaneously put a pair of sunglasses on, and began to cackle uncontrollably. It was at that point I realized they were laughing because it wasn't sunny in the subway. Immediately, an urge to display a necessary hand gesture came over me. But then a curious thing happened; I laughed back. I even waved. I'll be damned if they stereotype me as another self -important, crass American.

Go home turistas, I'm wearing my Ray-Bans so I don't have to look at you.

-KJ

Sponges, the silent killers.

The average person is exposed to approximately 3,000 advertising messages in any given day. Buy this, eat that, invest your money here, "Just Do It!", "I'm lovin' it", "You would be home already if you lived here", and on and on it goes. There are about 1,000 minutes in each day that we spend awake. Theoretically, it would take every minute of the day if we did nothing else but look at these messages. Yet, they're subliminally there, in everything we do, in every place we go. Right this very second, I see logos for Dell, Glaceau, Lucky, Comdial, Avery, Mead, BIC, Papermate, Staples, Totes, allure, Google, Office Depot and Ray Ban at my desk alone.

As if that's not enough, we still have to wait for the subway/sit in traffic, work, check Facebook, work some more, gchat , more work, cook/order dinner, book appointments, pay bills, go to the gym and make sure we check to see if its going to rain again tomorrow.

When we finally do find the time to kick back, relax and watch TV or read a magazine/website, we often find conflicting or downright useless messages. Most recently, I found a little gem titled, " 9 Things in Your Home that may be Killing You" on the website of my favorite mag.

The article warns of the dangers lurking in your "wet towels" and advises not to share them with your boyfriend (boy cooties, gasp!), and wash them often. If your male friend does happen to touch your towel, you are promptly advised to "send that towel where it belongs, the washing machine". It then goes on to suggest that your laundry machine may be harboring bacteria, and that if you use a public washing machine, you should ask the building manager to make sure the temperature is a "germ killing" 155 degrees. I don't know about you, but the "building manager" where I wash my clothes doesn't speak much English, so much for that idea.

Think your salt & pepper shakers are cute? Think again, it warns, since they are touched at all phases of the food handling process. Using disinfectant to clean them? Don't even think about it, unless of course you are using EPA-Registered disinfectant! Might need Google's help on that one.

Better yet, have you traveled lately! Beware of bed bugs, they say. Wash everything in your luggage in hot water and be sure to scrub that suitcase with a stiff brush before giving it a good vacuuming. Right. I'll be sure to do just that, right before dunking it in a vat of rubbing alcohol and setting it on fire for good measure.

Tired from thinking too much about all this? Time to relax with your laptop, you say? Not without daily disinfecting wipes! Your germ harboring keyboard likely contains more bacteria than a toilet bowl! Yikes.

All this talk of germs makes me want a shower. What's that, they say? I can't even shower without the fear of dying?! Not if my shower curtain contains PVC, which "studies suggest" may be harmful to my health.

You know what else "may be harmful to my health"? Worrying about being killed by my salt & pepper shaker, towels, laptop and shower curtain! Never leaving my house for fear of the dreaded "bed bug" and microwaving my sponges before every dish wash. What's next, avoiding sidewalk street cracks and wearing protective face masks during my weekly manicure? I'd rather take my chances. I think tonight I'll curl up inside my dirty suitcase, with my spice rack and all the sponges I can find laying around my apartment, sans microwave and EPA- Registered Disinfectant. Wish me luck.

- KJ

They call me Mellow Yellow...

I'll admit it. Sometimes I'm jealous of men. When I see them running outside on a 85 degree day without a shirt, when I watch my husband get out of bed, rub some gel in his hair, splash some water on his face, and fly out the door in 10 minutes flat, and when I'm wearing three inch heels to a wedding and have to gimp my way home/to the hotel at 2am.

Life is about appreciating the little things, they say. It's those "little things" that make us happy, and in my opinion, it can also be those "little things" that ruin our day. How else do you think the recent "FML" (F my life) phrase crept into our everyday vocabulary? Little things, I tell you, little.annoying.tedious.ironic.cliche things.

Take being the victim of a "cat call" while on your way to work in the morning. Harmless you say? Complimentary even? Try getting one every day, when you're having a bad day, or when you're wearing a neon yellow dress. Okay, so you might say I'm asking for it by wearing something so bright, so attention grabbing. Yet, I see various forms of the male species wearing outlandish things every.single.day. Do I scream " hot skinny jeans, hipster!!!"? NO. Do I chase them yelling, "OH BABY, GOD BLESS YOU!"? Certainly not. Do I yell "DAMN HONEY. NICE ASS!"? Absolutely not. Never have, never will. Does being female automatically give men the right to act like they're at the zoo? Is wearing "highlighter yellow" a reason to be visually violated? I don't think so.

I'd like to take this moment to thank a truck driver this morning who sang to me. You read that right, SANG.TO.ME. "They call me mellow yellooooooooow" his melodic husky voice rang out in the morning smog. And it made me smile. No easy feat when I've been conditioned to roll my eyes while silently wishing misfortune on the perpetrator in question. (Not evil misfortune, mind you, the harmless type, like spilling coffee all over himself or face planting in a dirty water puddle while ogling). Highlighter yellow may not be mellow. But I certainly am, thanks to my new found friend.

Moral of this story? Want to truly impress a gal you think is cute? Serenade her. And try to be witty and tasteful about it. No one likes to hear "I like big butts and I cannot lie...." as they're walking by. Now you know.

-KJ

Fabio? Hold Me!

It's no secret that approximately 1/3 of the nation's females read romance novels and most likely wear I love my cat t-shirts when they're feeling "dressy". You know who they are, you see them a few times a year, at places called airports. And sometimes, if your lucky, they're playing the slots at 4am when you stumble out of mur.mur in Atlantic City.

So what is the fascination with the Fabio's of the world? And why have images of this golden maned real life he-man singlehandly launched an empire of soft-core paperbacks at thousands of Barnes & Nobles?

The fascinating creature in the photo above appears outside my local Starbucks every single day at 5pm, his towering physique on display for all of Union Square to see, shirtless no less! Why has such a gift been bestowed upon my afternoon coffee break? And more importantly, who is this man who passes for a second rate Fabio and why does half of the male species aspire to look like him?

Psychologists would probably tell us that men are born and raised to be the breadwinners, lift weights (while grunting, natch) and throw back muscle milk and "jaegerbombs... jaegerbombs... jaegerbombs" with the best of 'em. It all goes back to the pre-school days when boys played with trucks and toy guns and girls perfected their EZ Bake recipes and dreamed about one day owning a Malibu Dream House. Fast forward fifty years and men still subscribe to the school of the thought that "bigger is most certainly better" and women are still trading recipes and sample sale locations. But when did Barbie's Hair and He-Man's body melt into Middle America's fantasy man? As long as I get to burst into uncontrollable laughter each and every day at 5pm, I don't care. Thank you my Fabio, thank you.

-KJ

Hot, Sweaty and 8 Inches

It is late morning, and I lie awake in darkness--effortlessly draped in soft folds of down and cotton, not quite enveloped yet not quite exposed. A steamy flush of perspiring dew glistens down the length of one calf, thirsty for a touch from the fan’s breezy fingertips.  My leg curls over blanket, my hair waves over pillow, my hand slips over his.  The morning performs its magic as my eyes slowly blink away sleep’s souvenir, heart accelerating as the blurry silhouette of his eyelashes, lips, shoulders and chest become sharper in my eyes.  Soft hints of Bluegrass and baked goods waft through the weathered window’s slight crack, while sunlight’s golden compass traces geometric artistry down my lover’s arm. 

I draw the shades tighter, protecting him from sunlight’s thievery of sleep, and tiptoe out of bed across the summer-swollen wood floor.  Loosely sweeping my hair in a knot, I splash icy water on my face, and climb out onto the fire escape, desperate for a gust of air, a bit of cool and a moment of peace in the July heat.  Spotting a lone cigarette, I light it as a companion, carefully ashing into the tiny windowsill gutter that is sized perfectly for my bad habits.  As I observe Subway-riders, 9-to-5ers, coffee-sippers and paper-readers indulging in their morning routine, my head spins as though I hear their every thought.  “I hope my metro card has enough money to get to Layfayette.” “Is last night’s orgy and vodka binge a reason to be laid off?” “I need three espressos every morning, it’s in my blood.” “Did you read the article in Glamour about Michael Jackson shape-shifting into Bubbles the monkey?” and so on, and so forth.  Stress, sarcasm, self-doubt, secrets—the weight of everyone else’s world tearing at my heart and clawing at my back.  I shudder, close the window, and shut off my mind to the problems of those around me.

With that, I climbed back into bed, hoping he had missed the warmth of my presence or the comfort of my thoughts. Successfully, he stirred, and I knew he was hungry for more.

“I’m gonna do bad things to you…” he throatily murmurs, drawing me closer and sinking his teeth into my neck for a very personal version of the mid-week Bloody Mary…

Intimate hallucinations of waking up with 173 year old Bill Compton.  This is what happens when your window is 8-inches too big for a standard AC unit, you own an $8 fan from Duane Reade, and your 5th Floor Manhattan walkup apartment has a summer temperature that rivals Bon Temps.  Bite Me. -EB

 

Pessimism is a problem. Just not your problem?

We all know her. She tells you the exact amount of calories in the food your eating, while you are eating it. When it rains, she updates her facebook about how miserable she is. When it's nice out, you get to hear about how unbearable the heat is. She'll criticize every decision you make and disagrees with absolutely everything you have to say. She's the human equivalent to rain on your wedding day, and a death row pardon, two minutes too late. She's Debbie Downer, and she's a major burden to us all.

Often, she masquerades as a a perfect person, and chooses the one thing in her life that is superior to everyone ( her morals, home, wealth, body etc.) and preaches about it constantly. She's a walking, talking contradiction and may even reprimand you in the most hypocritical way possible. There's the time she told you not to take that nice vacation you want, calling it "irresponsible in this economy", and then bitching about her credit card debt, after telling you all about her fabulous trip to the Caribbean.

Or the time she pointed out, ever so nonchalantly, that your boyfriend/husband/guy you just met must have done something wrong for sending you flowers, when hers just left her for his ex last month. She's very vocal about how lame the crowd is at the bar or restaurant you picked for your birthday/girls night out/happy hour, just because she didn't pick the location, and she wants to go home and is tired/has a headache/starts to cry uncontrollably before you even arrive.

Often, her presence in our life is not negotiable. We don't choose to spend time with someone who gets pleasure out of our misery or aims to knock us off our pedestal. The best we can do, is see past the negativity and refuse to let it permeate our lives. In my experience, people who do this are the first to complain and the last to make any effort to improve a situation. Everyone knows the reason for their misery, except themselves of course, and no amount of pointing it out to them will change their demeanor. So next time Debbie tries to inform you that your morning venti, skinny, no foam, extra hot latte causes cancer, or that your nightly glass of pinot clearly signifies an alcohol problem, remind her that pessimism is a mental illness and drink 2.

"Chick" Peas & other minutiae

It's one of those days when you could barely get yourself out of bed and muster enough energy to look half decent and make it to work. By the time you arrive, your hair is some variation of "tousled" and those rubber rain boots you thought were adorable now make you look like a toddler in her mom's work clothes, a very wet toddler in work clothes. Trains were all running off schedule (god forbid water touch their gears), the homeless were out in full force, dripping their garbage bag ponchos all over you on the subway, and that "Free Pastry Day" morsel from Starbucks had to be forfeited in hopes of making it to to work on time.

Normally such a day starts off horrendous, slowly turns into bad, and ends slightly better than fair. Until you walk into your favorite lunch spot and witness the following dialogue:

Girl: I'd like to try that soup (pointing obnoxiously)

Employee: Which? The chick pea moroccan lentil?

Girl: Yes, but I'm a vegeterian.

Employee: ?

Girl: It has "CHICK" peas in it.

Employee: ???? Yes, it's still vegeterian.

I don't know which is more disturbing, the fact that this person thought that "chick" peas came from actual chicks(!?!) or the fact that she didn't realize that the term "pea" usually signifies a type of vegetable. Onward I go, order my Clam Chowder and I'm on my merry way.

Until I realize that this is NOT the dumbest thing I've heard this week. Unfortunately for me, someone I know (someone with a very important title) instructed a group of individuals yesterday that "San Antonio is a STATE", and then went on to request that those individuals should really try to wipe the "SOUR PUSSIES" off their faces during Monday meetings. Awkward, yes. Uncomfortable? Absolutely. Surprising? Sadly, no.

After all, when you say something so dumbfounding that it makes employees contort their faces into something that vaguely resembles a sneeze to avoid laughter, you really can't complain about their "sour pussies". And that, my friends, is another blog post in itself.

-KJ

I'm gonna buy a gun and start a war...

“I’m gonna buy a gun and start a war; if you can tell me something worth fighting for”- Coldplay

I never knew what this lyric meant until recently. I always felt there was a purpose to my life and career, that I was on a track to greatness, somewhere I deserved to go for all my hard work in school and on my career path. Lately, with the fall of the economy and the collapse of every market imaginable, I’m starting to question whether my generation will ever get the chance we deserve, the chance to make a difference, when the companies we work for don’t let us and the rest of the world doesn’ t care. We are the first to lose our jobs, since we are neither cheap to employ (when recent grads can “do our jobs” or be trained to for less) or experienced enough to keep (since we have a mere 5 years of experience, compared to the 15-20+ years of our elders). Loyalty doesn’t exist anymore, and we will no longer have the luxury that our parents had of 20 and 30 + years at one company. Employees are now seen as disposable and devalued at every step of the way. We work 10 hour days, we skip lunch, we stare at a screen that makes our eyes blur with lighting above us that rivals a surgeons operating table. We don’t complain, we adapt, we refocus and we succeed. Until we are forced to change course, and sometimes wonder why we tried so hard in the first place. We are tired of ending up at square one. We are told to stick to one career, yet expected to be multi faceted. We are in sales, yet afraid to mention that our true passion lies in writing on interviews, for fear of seeming indecisive or unstable. We are hired for one purpose and spun off into seventeen others. Five of my closet friends have lost their jobs since last year, all in different industries, all intelligent, all responsible, all a tremendous asset to a company. And all disposed of like extra fat on a steak. What future does this country hold when it treats its future so much worse than its past. What should we be fighting for? We have the ambition, we are some of the most adaptable human beings that have ever lived. We can pitch a client, write a proposal, and calculate an algorithm all while shoving a $14 salad down our throat, drowning out an easy listening station, answering a coworker’s question, updating our Facebook and Twitter, returning 3 emails and checking our debit card balance, simultaneously. We are overloaded, underpaid and lack security on all fronts. We deserve more.

-KJ

F- You Harry and F-You Sally-You’ve ruined us all

Ask any woman to name one of the quintessential feel good movies of the 80’s, and there is a 90% probability that her answer will be “When Harry Met Sally.” Let’s be honest-the cult classic touches the heart and offers hordes of woman the greatest thing of all-hope. But, let’s also explore the fact that this small piece of cinema has single-handedly doomed countless women and the poor schmucks who don’t (and will never) realize that these women are their perfect Sallys. Thus making hope perhaps the most dangerous entity of all.

I admit I tear up every time that I watch the climactic scene (no, not the one where Sally/Pre-surgery Meg fakes the orgasm) where Harry finally declares his undying love for Sally. There is something so spot on about the dialogue that makes every woman feel that they ARE a “Sally.” Without a doubt, the things that Harry declares he loves about Sally are all things that we know our “Harry” loves about us! I get cold when it’s warm out, I have a hard time choosing a sandwich, I can crinkle my nose adorably (okay, it might not be quite as cute as when Meg Ryan does it), I KNOW that you want to talk to me before you go to sleep-you even called me last night!

And that is why when Harry Met Sally has ruined so many women. Countless women fell under its prey and got wrapped up in the message that the Harrys in their lives will eventually see that they are the only woman for them. It allows us to believe that, though they won’t openly admit it, they will eventually realize that we are the woman they want to spend the rest of their lives with (and of course, they want the rest of their lives to start as soon as possible). We all have a Harry in our life-that one guy that is always there for you, who you never think twice about calling, the one with whom there are never awkward silences, and the one who you listen to talk about the girls they are seeing, screwing, and/or pursuing and pretend that you don’t feel like you’ve just been punched in the chest. We sit there and listen and give them advice because we know that they just have to get it out of their system and go through the bad eggs for them to realize that their soul mate has been in front of them all along. We know that when they ask about the guys we are dating in an oddly protective and jealous manner, they are asking because they secretly want to rip out their throats and declare that we are theirs. Actually, let’s rewind-perhaps the worst scene in the movie is Harry’s infamous monologue where he explains that men and women can never be friends because the sex part will always get in the way. This crucial scene makes us believe that these men/friends can’t be with us without a sexual agenda- thereby screwing women even more. If we can have this amazing emotional connection wrapped up with the physical connection that *Harry feels for us, then we have the recipe for a lasting and beautiful relationship! We are meant to be together and it’s only a matter of time. Yes, we know it’s only a movie- but we secretly carry that shred of hope somewhere inside.
And that hope is what screws us. Because now that we have explored how and why we feel that “more than friends” is an inevitable reality, let’s look at the ugly truth behind it all. We are their friends, they never even thought that we could feel that way about them because it so far from how they feel about us, they can certainly be friends with us and not want to take it to a physical level, and we ARE their consolation prizes until they find the one who brings them the level of emotional and physical attractiveness that they want.

So here’s your silver lining. On New Year’s, your Harry probably won’t rush up and declare that you are the one he is meant to be with, but someone else’s Harry might. Because that’s the truth behind it all-that friend, who is too stupid to know what he’s missing, will find another girl who is not you and she will flirt back and maybe even have a long and happy future with him. But, maybe my Harry will find you and your Harry will find another, and her Harry will find me, and so on. So drink your champagne and don’t fret or lost sleep over the friend that will never be anything more than just that.

KZ

Dre Might Side with Rapunzel, but she Probably had Lice...

Dear EJ, and any other self-proclaimed ‘strong, independent woman’ seeking luck in love,

I am certainly crossing into Dre’s territory by responding, but every metaphoric tunnel deserves its glimmer of hope, don’t you think? Will my response get you laid? Unlock the door to romance? Probably not. But it’s another perspective, and as love is undoubtedly the oldest survivor of any human race, I will obey proper ‘etiquette’ and give her the respect she deserves.

Strength, success and intelligence. I agree with Dre that these elements are not necessarily intimidating—they are scarier than that. They level the playing field, and challenge the very core of masculinity on which human relations was founded. Man—the hunter, the provider. It is HIStory, after all. And in the ages of human existence, it was not until recently that woman obtained her voice and broke the barrier of gender roles that drove men to hang up their loin cloths (except for modified European versions of course) to accept a working version of ‘equality.”

But somewhere in the midst of shaking up the gender caste system, these (we) “independent romantics” burned our bras, donned our ‘powersuits,’ yet never stopped looking over our shoulder for our man on the stallion. Problem is, some other ‘strong, intelligent’ but jaded woman already kicked his horse in the balls, removed his reigns, told him his sword wasn’t hard enough and turned him into a knight in shining Armani. Somewhere, in the midst of it all, the rise of feminism fucked with Love.

So here is your light as promised, delivered with utter honesty as I am speaking as much for my own heart as I am for yours. One day I hope that man embarking on a new relationship will see that a woman who “Wants” to be with him is more rewarding than a woman who “Needs” to be with him. “Need” fills a void, is a necessity, and cannot be compromised. “Want” involves desire, emotion and free choice. I need a job, but I want a career. I need to drink water, but I want a glass of champagne. I “need” to find a mate and procreate, but I “want” to find my equal who will love me as much as I will love him.

And eventually, if Mr. Nuevo-Masculine and you, Miss Independent, give each other a chance, something amazing will happen. Without planning it, without the ‘damsel in distress moment,” you will suddenly realize you DO need him, just as much as he needs you. Why? Because need and want suddenly become synonymous with love, and love doesn’t give a shit about your gender, the shirt he wears, the expensive dinners he takes you on, or who saved who first.

So after much ado, and after cutting my Rapunzel-esque locks to a non “let down-able” length, I have yet to give up hope that there is someone out there willing to believe in true love versus “need fulfillment.” So EJ, Hang in there- I might have a bad case of tunnelvision, but I do believe that the light is worth the wait.

Points on proper winter dressing

Ok people, as cold as it may be outside, we have to hold ourselves to some standards people. This "nose warmer" I found on Etsy today while shopping for a scarf caught my attention. While violence is not normally acceptable, I think we can make an exception since this looks very much like a target. Quite possibly the wearer of this contraption is looking for a blow to the nose to clear up their sinuses. Honestly it looks like she took her thong and stuck it on her head, my lord, this world is going to hell. What happened to self respect and dignity, you can't go walking around with underwear on your head. "Hey, are you wearing a thong on your head?", "No, it's a nose warmer!" no matter what you tell anyone, they are gonna think your daft ass is wearing underwear on your head. I'm coming to a lose for words here, this is quite possibly the stupidest thing I have seen all year, and trust me I see a lot of stupid things. I want to recommend the manufacturer of this fine piece of apparel thinks twice about their career in fashion, I don't think it's gonna quite work out the way you were expecting. I still can't believe they got actual people to pose with a thong on their face and a bunch of them at that. It even comes with a manual, I would gather it's a big illustration of someone's bottom and the nosewarmer with a big red X through it next to a picture of someone's face and the nosewarmer with a big green check mark. Maybe I should go get high and look at this again, actually no, this is horrible. The older guy is particularly creepy, it looks like he's wearing a little girls underwear on his face, I think I saw him on Dateline. Someone call the damn cops!

-Dre

"When the last tree is cut..."

Money. The root of all evil or the key to a stress free existence? Who cares and why am I digging this deep on my first post to a blog dedicated to miscellany? Truth is, a recent bout of unemployment (yes, due to the recession) has me pondering life, liberty and the pursuit of (you guessed it) happiness. I am one of many, recently plopped into the street on a blustery day, gripping a bamboo plant and a fistful of Italian paperclips, pondering whether to frantically log into my Linked In account and renew old relationships, or stop to consider that there may be more to life than ACT notes and arduous conversation over chopped salad and unremarkable pizza.

Four years ago, I was a bright college graduate, headed for an exceptional future and looking for a way to rent the quaint yellow house (on some of the most coveted land Long Island has to offer) that was utterly perfect for EB and I to start our grown up lives. A job selling classified ads for techie trade mags was not glamorous, nor relevant to my degree (journalism), but it was a beginning, MY beginning, and I loved every moment of it. Little did I know that slowly my love of learning and thirst for living life to the fullest would slowly dissipate with each and every "cold call" and "Pot Luck" lunch. Gradually, a thriving collegiate environment is replaced with the dull hum of fluorescent lighting, late night cram sessions over nachos and beer turn into weekly sales meetings designed to inflate one persons ego and diminish eight or ten others. Three high profile magazine companies later, the pot luck transformed into sushi and a stunning view of Central Park. Just as Cinderella's carriage turned back into a pumpkin, this glammed up world was nothing more than a thinly veiled playground of insecurity and power, a deadly combination. Suddenly, a budding career evaporates in a cloud of BXM2 dust. But a new chance for integrity resurfaces, and the hope of finding fulfilling work returns with a vengeance.

In a world where we are overdue for a Yellowstone "Super volcanic Eruption" by 600,000 + years, where economic and natural disasters abound, and the end of the Mayan calendar (and supposedly the world) looms close on the horizon, is money itself enough of a reason to give up one's essence? I'm no longer drinking the Kool Aid.

As the Bhutanese say:

When the last tree is cut,
When the last river is emptied,
When the last fish is caught,
Only then will man realize that he can not eat money.

Discuss.

- KJ

CLICK HERE TO ASK QUESTIONS, COMMENT, COMPLAIN, MOAN, WRITE A LOVE LETTER OR SIMPLY PUT YOUR NOSE IN OUR BUSINESS

Listen Up!

An attempted list from top to bottom.  Enjoy:

Jack Pierson "Roses"

The Best Chocolate Mousse in New York

2 Packs a Day

My addiction to an old classic that looks like crap, tastes like magic

My mom and I would sneak out for midnight hot dogs at this Chicago staple

A Dirty Jersey tribute that makes every "Getting Ready" playlist 

Go to this spot, drink an Elixir #5 cocktail, get laid

My favorite website for a little French fashion flair

Love this movie; Karaoke-perfect theme song is an added, catchy bonus

Obsessed with this SNL skit

SNl Takes on the Lawrence Welk Show...Brilliant

I'm no Doctor, but if I was I'd be on my yacht right now with 30 women that need saving

Dear Dr. Dre,
I must say that you both look and sound (based on your above answer) like someone who quite simply, cuts through the BS. Therefore, I am going to ask you one of the oldest and most cliched questions that has haunted women for ages and hope for (finally) a straight and honest answer. Are men threatened by intelligent, strong, and successful women? I hear time and time again that is what every man wants, but over and over see the opposite-with beautiful, intelligent friends who seem to have zero luck. Do men really just want a woman they can take care of?

Look forward to your insight-EJ 

Dearest EJ,

 I will start with a simple disclaimer that I am not a Dr. and if you are seeking medical attention you should do it offline. Secondly, I will point out that it this is an etiquette column not a relationship one, and it is not proper etiquette to throw your personal issues out into the open, I know in this world of reality TV every one thinks it's OK, but it does not change the fact that it is not! But since you threw yourself out there, and luckily for you I do know quite a few things here is your answer.

 Men are NOT threatened by strong, successful women. The problem lies in that a strong, successful woman does not fill a man's natural paternal instincts to provide for someone. In essence, in a relationship of equals a man will not feel like a man because he is technically not needed. Men want a damsel in distress because it fulfills our natural instincts. "Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair. So I can get into your underwear!" - Beastie Boys

 And the same kicks back for women. Women need their maternal instinct to nurture fulfilled as well. Which is why you ladies love a project man, one you can dress up the way you like, change his hair cut, his friends etc. Women like an established man with class and style at first, because they think eventually they will be able to change him, but after realizing they won't they get bored and move on because their maternal needs are not being fulfilled.

 With that said, I wish you the best of luck. And I will leave you with a simple reminder that just because celebrities and wanna bees air out their personal issues in public does not mean that it is ok. Money and fame can not buy manners.

Stay classy.

-Dre

Communicate People!

Shocker. We can't read your minds and Dre has too much time on his hands, so do your part and send tips, ideas, questions, and topics that tickle your fancy excluding Crocs and Twilight (fucking ugly and overdiscussed, respectively) to ASK DRE

An Introduction to "Fabulosity" by KZ

Being that EB and KJ are two of the finest writers I have ever met, contributing to their site causes both excitement and trepidation. Therefore, it is with complete honesty and candor that I forewarn any readers that this weekly column will likely offer no insight, laughs, or wisdom. However, if one is looking for a new alternative to facebook, myspace, or any other brainless site seemingly made with the goal to kill time and ease the pain of the weekly grind, then you may have come to right place.

Being a single twenty-something in the city, the first topic that first sprang to mind was men, or in this case, “MEN-hattenites.” However, I found the topic overly reminiscent of Carrie Bradshaw and decided to pass for various reasons:

1) Carrie had much more experience than I ever had (I have yet to have a politician ask me to pee on him). Sadly, most of my encounters with the opposite sex are about as exciting as watching paint dry.
2) Carrie is infinitely wittier and cooler than I am. Her wardrobe and Blahnik collection alone are enough to make most women bow down in awe and her puns simply cannot be beat (“…checked more single woman boxes than her gynecologist”)
3) It’s already been done-and done well (why try to redo and revamp the best of the best-You’ll just end up looking like an ass)

That’s not to say that there won’t be the occasional man, sex, or related topic (because I am a woman and it’s just inevitable), but as a whole, this column will be an overview of life and ALL of the aspects that make it so damn fun. While it may not always focus on the important topics of Obama versus Bush, Global Warming, etc., it will comment on simple pleasures (or things that just piss me off) and everyday nuances that make us laugh, cry, and ask” what the hell were they thinking” (aka: The creator of Snuggies).

Dear Dre

Editors Note: We are pleased to welcome Dre as our contributing advice columnist.  As the global cassanova of cool, Dre expertly navigates between the worlds of professionalism and profanity, lending his health and human relations expertise to provide non-FDA approved A's to your Q's. 

Dear Dre,

I spent the summer in Europe and now I like eating European style and not switch the fork back and forth after cutting my meat. However, my mother tells me that since I'm back in the U.S., I should eat American style. What do you think?

Signed,
European Preference

Dear European Preference,

 The American style of eating is simply a waste of time and is quite silly. I would like to equate it to wiping your ass with your right hand and then switching the toilet paper to your left hand before dropping it in the toilet. It just doesn't make sense. Imagine doing anything where you had to switch your hands in the middle of a process for no reason what so ever, people would think you might be a little special! So my advice is to stick with the European eating style, and while you are at it stick with a lot of European style things, with one exception, SPEEDOS!

Dre

KJ Purchases a Snuggie™ & a Pointless Blog is Born

So I have been trying to figure out a smart, witty approach to kicking off this blog, and have come to two conclusions: 1.) Do not try to be smart, you end up sounding like a self-important snob and 2.) Do not try to be witty, you end up sounding like a self-important snob.  Truth is, there is no real purpose behind this project aside from the fact that we (KJ and myself)  have been talking about a writing collaboration for quite some time, but faced an unexpected 4-year roadblock (I will eventually explain).  And who knew that after 4-years of sharing sporadic "We Must Write!" conversations over spinach and feta omelettes, the barrier would be broken once KJ announced on Facebook that she is the proud owner of a Snuggie™.

Who shot J.R.? Why Snuggie™?  I have no clue, nor do I care.  Maybe it was the hope that the "Super-slim, totally portable Book Light" was indeed her gift with purchase, providing proper illumination for sleepless nights of blog contribution.  Or maybe it was the hope that if such a laughably ridiculous item is actually thriving during a time of economic demise, maybe--just maybe--accounts of our laughably ridiculous antics may also be well received.

So welcome to our blog: a little bit of this, a little bit of that (translation, a little bit of everything about nothing) anecdotes, observations, reflections and more, best enjoyed with a sense of humor and no expectations.  

And FYI- Snuggie™ this is not your moment to turn the aforementioned self important snob, as you are nothing more than the comfortable offspring of a poncho and airplane-blanket; In my opinion, KJ should have donned a sweatshirt and opted for the Magic Bullet.

Enjoy.