Singledom.

The last time we went to Vegas, my best friend was such a bore.

“LET’S GO!” I cried, “YOU HAVE THAT HOT SWEDISH GUY, ANDRE, WAITING FOR YOU AT THE CLUB!”

She’d been sulking around our hotel room eating room service watching Rush Hour flicks in her granny robe and hair bonnet. After 15 hours, she pulled herself out of bed, slopped on some make up, and left with me to the club.

The girl was too comfortable being single.

It’s easy to get cozy when you’re single: No need to shave, no need to do your laundry, you’re free to eat too many burritos and let your ass get fat, you can actually get some sleep!!! Or not, because you were out last night with what’s-his-face. You don’t owe anybody anything!

But is it healthy?

Have you ever been with a girl or guy who has been célibataire for too long?

Sometimes they jidder and shake from the lack of release.

Some dudes get angst and pick fights.

They lurk behind chicks at clubs unsure of how to approach.

Girls get needy with their friends. They throw themselves at nerdy or unsafe men. They come on to their guy friends.

They’ve lost their ability to make human connections, to flirt, to have a bit of fun. They’re desperate!

I normally hate on relationships

…but tonight, I’m hating on singledom.

One is the loneliest number? Je pense pas.

La première rencontre (idéale).

The Perfect First Date.

1. Meet for breakfast at Philip Marie in the West Village. Share stories about Paris and Shang-hei. Drink mimosas until you are asked to leave.

2. Demand that the taxi driver stop at 9th Ave and 13th Street. Race to Agent Provocateur. Browse their Spring Collection.

3. Stumble upon a parade. Make fun of the traditional music. Tease the policemen.

4. Stroll through Central Park. Make out beneath cherry blossoms.

5. Draw opinions from the nude Matisse paintings at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

6. Take a taxi to a bar to meet a friend. Order a Manhattan. Make your friend feel uncomfortable.

7. Ditch your friend and hit up a sleezy pub. Take pickle back shots. Forget that you are dancing.

8. Suddenly awake in your bed (alone) at one AM, unsure of how you got there.

La coquette milieu des hommes.

I went out dancing with a bunch of guy friends the other day.

As the token lady, I took it up on myself to make sure everyone had fun.

The tallest one, a med student, needed the most attention, so I gave him a prep speech, told him he was worth it, spotted a hot lonely brunette, and we went in for the kill.

From our faces, she could tell that we were up to something suspicious, and so she gestured to her friend – a tall, dark-haired mec.

“I’ll distract him, you distract her!”

I shouted above the music, and we each made our moves.

It was easy to slide over to the handsome homme and introduce myself….“salut”

…My buddy, on the other hand, lurked two feet behind the brunette, giving off a creepy vibe that freaked us all out.

-Take Two-

We tried a different chick, another thin brunette standing with her friend. I could tell they wanted attention because they kept eye flirting with guys.

(They probably don’t know about la dance d’amour)

This time we took a team approach: me casually at the front, him gradually from behind.

And of course, with his lurking creepiness, he freaked her out and she gravitated toward me.

“I think I may have a girl crush on you,” she yelled to me drunkly.

I stopped.

Noted her tiny hips tucked snugly into black pants,

her peep toe platform Jimmy Chou pumps,

the gold chain of her Chanel purse wrapped slender shoulder…

And I thought…Damn, I may have a girl crush too.

Les aventures d’une fille perdue…

Monday, April 2, 2012

Dear Diary,

I had an appointment to see an apartment in Midtown. When the tiny girl opened her front door, she shrieked and scared the both of us (I don’t think she expected me to be six feet tall). She showed me the cluttered apartment and talked a lot about her diet.

I left feeling awkward, I’ll put it in the “maybe” pile.

Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Dear Diary,

I was contacted by a guy named Joe, who lives in the Upper West Side. From the pictures, the apartment looked spacious, decently furnished, and full of light.

Then, Joe told me that I could use his towels and didn’t mind if I cooked dinner all the time. He mentioned that he had a 7-year-old son, and didn’t allow cocaine in the living room.

He was pissed when I cancelled the appointment later that day…

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Dear Diary,

I went to see a BEAUTIFUL little home on the Upper East Side owned by a married couple. The husband, a tall dark-haired man from Quebec, showed me the place, including his shared bedroom downstairs, and we began to speak in French.

When his wife stepped out of the bathroom, her head shot up and she stared me down the way a coyote scrutinizes a dog before a fight.

She said they were meeting other tenants and slammed the door as I left.

Awkward…

Thursday, April 5, 2012

Dear Diary,

I just read in the Daily News that a Russian guy, Sergey Mamontov, chopped up his room mate after a fight, because he partied too hard….

Another reason not to move to Brooklyn.

Friday, April 6, 2012

Dear Diary,

It makes NO sense that Carry Bradshaw lived alone in a 1-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side, ate out all the time, and had so many shoes. She must have had a sugar daddy or a rich uncle in Vermont…

Spotlight: Spa 88

For $35, you can take spa day at Spa 88

Enjoy unlimited use of the locker rooms, steam room, several saunas, ice bath, lounge, and restaurant. The upstairs facility included a huge pool and jacuzzi. There are also a number of moderately priced treatments for an additional cost.

To be honest, I was creeped out by this place. Too many hairy fat men in the jacuzzi and nearly nude Russian girls chatting in the steam rooms. Swimming suits are required — thank god — but buff men still bathed themselves with soap in the sauna…

I’m the spoiled spa type, but you may like it if you are a man unaccustomed to bathing facilities.

Currently, Bloomspot has a great $25 for two voucher. Go with a buddy if you’re not grossed out by hairy men. There are also a lot of fit Russian girls chatting about in their bikinis.

Wall Street Spa & Bath 88

88 Fulton St

New York, NY 10038

Between Gold St & William St

(212) 766-8600

www.wallstreetbath.com

Spotlight: Reebok Sports Club

My New Year’s Resolution is to improve my self-esteem….

…and that begins with taking care of my body.

The abuse my liver has suffered these past few months is written all over my face … dehydration, fatigue, stress, and too many marshmallows…

So opened I a membership at Reebok Sports Club.

Sporting Clubs are not cheap expenses, but when joining a facility, look for December specials.

The club features TVs on the cardio equipment, a huge rock climbing wall, a full Pilates studio, two basketball courts, and a unisex jacuzzi, sauna, and steam room (my favorite).

It’s encouraging to work out in a beautiful facility amongst hardworking people.

We all can use a little work on our self-esteem, so throughout the year I will share the secrets I find throughout the City…

…and of course share the indecent anecdotes you all love so much

Portrait d’une Negresse

There is a satisfaction to be gained from dating the black man or woman,

the negro you once heard your great aunt sneer about under her breath,

yet upon our introduction, you realize that there isn’t much difference between the two of us, except perhaps the amazingness of our lips, the pleasing complexion of our skin, which does not impair the eye with its pale vulnerability, and how love making comes more easy to us than music.

If one more Republican motherfucker chases after me, I’m going to scream.

I think they are the worst. I would say it’s the repressed guilt,

but then why would they want to cheat on their perfect girlfriends?

History  cannot help  but repeat itself.

La Vrai New Yorkais.

New Yorkers don’t realize that there is a more reasonable way to live….

You don’t need to spend $2,500 on a tiny studio apartment. If you’re visiting friends outside of Manhattan, it’s not necessary to spend $200 on a private vehicle to pick you up.

 I see it all so clearly, and yet, I’m the worst kind of “new” New Yorker.

It’s been four months and I’m already equipped with my:

1. A tiny apartment complete with malfunctioning cookware and Chinese roommates.
2. An obligatory pair of Tory Burch shoes.
3. Three x-boyfriends who live within a 5 mile radius (and yet I never see them!)
4. $500 in season hair style (Black people multiply our hair care expenses by 98 % … )
5. Regular mani-pedi found on Groupon.
6. A newly discovered adoration for Proust.
7. An escalated tolerance to whiskey and vodka (nowadays, I have to settle for tequila)
8. A pretty damn good rotation.
9. And two jobs to pay for it all.

La mode.

I’m in love with a pair of Tory Burch boots.

Just look at them. Go ahead.

A pair of tall glistening leather equestrian boots with an elegant little golden logo that gleams glamor at the ankle. Classy. Sexy. Sophisticated.

$500.

Monday through Friday I’ve been getting up at 7:30 AM to do admin work at an office off Times Square. Then on the weekends I pass out menus at a restaurant. It’s not glamorous, but it’s the sort of thing a college student has to do if she wants to get established. These boots — these boots are what get me through the day. Whenever things start to get rough, I close my eyes and imagine myself strutting down Madison Ave with the wind blowing through my hair, Jimi Hendrix’s Foxy Lady playing in the background and men in suits straining their necks to say “Damn, look at that hot chick in those sexy ass Tory. Burch. Boots“.

The funny thing is, I’d never even heard of Tory Burch before I arrived to Manhattan.

You see, this is what New York does to you. Even in Paris, I was perfectly content with my kitten heal leather boots from Clarks. They were sharp. Sensible. They kept my feet in style in the fall, warm in the winters, and dry in the spring.

Now, screw Clarks. My grandpa wears Clarks, I want Tory Burch.

In the Wealth of Nations, Adam Smith wrote that social pressure delegates how much we decide to spend. We’ll purchase anything to avoid feeling embarrassed by our lack of it — even when it’s beyond our means.

So what do I want to purchase? A pair of beautiful boots? Or a stamp of approval that says I’m worth something? And if that’s the case, does that mean I don’t feel like I’m worth something?

I know, I know, the whole thing is so shallow. I’m a smart cookie, I know what’s going on here….

…But I also know that’s gonna feel damn good when those snotty little fashionistas’ heads snap into place to gaze at my shiny legs or when I hear gay men mutter to each other, “Damn, look at that girl’s boots.”Ahhh.

I promise, after this purchase I’ll focus on a savings plan or figure out what I’m going to do with my life or work on my film or something and not have anymore of these unreasonable splurges…

(I mean that is right after I get a Longchamp tote to carry my schoolbooks)

Just a couple more weeks of answering phones…

Me prendre si je tombe.

I think this one is getting to me…

And it’s different from what I’d ever imagine for myself.

Since I moved to New York, I feel like I’ve been thrust into a real life that twists, turns, and suddenly those sorts of inordinate things that I normally count on for stability don’t matter so much.

“I fall sometimes,” was one of the first things that I told him about myself. “Not very often, but sometimes,” I twisted my face into a wince that only drunkeness can educe. He looked back at me with penetrating scrutiny, but his expression remained still. “That’s fine. I can catch you.”

And that’s how it started.

It’s funny, those other inordinate things that I used to talk about so much –education, height, family, bank account — none of those things replace presence. Those inordinate things are illusions for security; they mean very little if a man is not there in his head or in his heart.