Tuesday, September 15, 2009

Served

Hey all -

Just found out that I have a certain civic duty to fulfill...for an entire MONTH. This means I might be posting less - as work will be seriously spilling into personal (AKA blogging) hours.

Please keep checking back, particularly as Seandian has been stepping up his game again - as has a strapping lad I met at Hogs & Heifers (which you may know as the bar from Coyote Ugly, which ironically comes close to how I'd describe this dude).

xx

Friday, September 4, 2009

Active Produce?

When I run, I typically wear two sports bras to keep the girls in check. However, I've recently discovered one I can wear solo that does a fairly good job. The only hitch? It doesn't hold items as well as a double stack of sports bras. (My ability to carry things unseen in my bras recently won me the nickname Poppins - as in Mary - as in her big ol' bag of goodies)

So when I was running up Columbus last night to meet my friend Kate and give her an official (AKA boozy) welcome to New York, I was constantly feeling above my right boob to make sure my keys hadn't slipped.

Now, if I'd been running on the LES or in Midtown or UES I would have fully expected that a quick movement could easily be interpreted by a pervert as me groping myself. I did not expect any reaction on the UWS - afterall, aren't people supposed to be more sophisticated up there?

Much to my surprise, the perfect storm arrived as I stalled by a Windstar during a red light: my Taylor Swift running playlist was between songs, I did a key check and I was jogging in place next to a minican driving moron. And this is what I heard...

Yeah, you like that, huh? Feel anything good in there? I bet you do. Melons. Giant melons.

Seriously, if what I have to look forward to is a man who forces a minivan on me, then harasses a sweaty girl on the UWS, referring to her chest as melons, I'll just stay single thank you very much. The dude could at least have just kept those thoughts up in his brain.

Thursday, September 3, 2009

Polltastic

Hey guys -

Thanks for responding to yesterday's post - I love that this baby has followers that are so funny! I decided I'm going to add a poll each week, asking a "Would you rather" question related to dating/this blog (look to the right).

Results will be revealed in a weekly post and I would love if you'd share feedback, rationale for your answer, etc.

It's not like the only whackos are in New York - so I know you people all over the good ol' GLOBE (WIS is international, folks!) can relate - keep on sharing your stories!

xx

Wednesday, September 2, 2009

Riddle Me This...

Would you rather date a sober homeless guy if he had a good sense of humor and an exceptional ability to juggle a variety of unexpected objects (I'm thinking traffic cones, bike locks, shoes - you know, stuff hobos have access to) OR a rich, rude i-banker with a bad attitude? You have to pick one.

And what's the rationale for your pick?

Don't think I won't be weighing in, too.

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

AC Epiphany

One of my summer adventures this year was a girls trip to Atlantic City. Now, I'm not much of a casino/clubs/fake swanky lounge girl - but I'm a good sport, so I buckled in for a "crazy" weekend.

Our first night was typical, get a little gussied up, hit the hotel bar and call it a night. The hotel bar was alright. The characters there were not. I don't think there was a solitary guy wearing anything other than a graphic tee or a tight button down. Needless to say, not exactly my style. Then again, I wasn't exactly hoping to pick up a guy who enjoys spending his time in places like Atlantic City.

The second night was going to be our "big night out" - so I dressed the part. I wore a 70's looking teal dress that is supposed to kinda look like a wrap. Due to my sizable boonies, the drawstring waist hit snugly beneath my chest (yes this is relevant to the story). I rarely intentionally show off the girls, rarely wear more than a single coat of mascara and - you guessed it - rarely do more than run a brush through my wet hair before running out the door.

But not this night! Oh no. I went all out and my friends went nuts (I also got a bizarre number of compliments from guy friends when pictures from the weekend hit Facebook - they might not have known I had it in me).

As my friend Lauren and I navigated the planks of the boardwalk in heels, a fantastic gust of wind threw my dress in the air. I scrambled and like to think I saved myself (then again, what does it matter? I've had more Marylin Monroe 7 Year Itch moments in New York than I care to discuss). Lauren looked like an adorable purple cupcake and I looked like an adorable jolly green giant-boobed whore.

I felt self-conscious and holding my dress down to the best of my ability.

Then I heard, "Hey baby, don't worry about holding that skirt down! You look great!"

I turned to see who would be saying such a thing - only to find a sea of hair gel and graphic tees.

And that's when I remembered I was in New Jersey.

We went to a great dinner and while I was in the bathroom, the decision was made that we'd head back to the hotel and go to the hotel bar from the night before.

I knew the Ed Hardy crowd was going to like my outfit and braced myself for an evening of wishing I was wearing a Dickie under my dress.

Well, lo-and-behold, the moment came when I did the awkward "I'm trying to get around you and you're trying to get around me and we keep picking the same direction - God when will this end?" thing. Fred Astaire finally made it past me - he was looking for his friends, I was looking for an opening at the bar.

We end up running into each other at the other side of the bar, where I'm standing with Lauren and he seemed to have forgotten what he was doing.

"Find your friends?" I asked.

"Oh right," pause. pause. pause. "No."

"OK, well, bye."

Then he turned to Lauren and asked for a hug.

She was quick to respond, "Uh. No."

I should take lessons from her.

Then he asked me for a hug.

"Sure, good luck finding your friends," I said as we had a departing little hug.

Then he squeezed a little tighter.

Then he pulled away.

Then he looked at my chest.

"Hey!" He was shocked.

"Yes?"

"Wow." He was mystified.

"Yes?" I was voted Class Hug in high school.

"They're real." He was poet laureate of the Borgata. "I just can't believe it."