The Waiting Room

I've got no dental insurance and although I could use this forum as a place to rant and rave about my feelings over this country's brain aneurisms when it comes to voting for universal health care.... I'll spare you, dear reader, from the diatribe that I could express over my anger about getting medical bills from the doctor's appointments I had to make in order to stay healthy so that I won't need to suck more resources out of the system later if I didn't get checked in the first place. Those lobbyists/lawyers/politicians who opposed health coverage for all, need to live in an apartment in the middle of poop-slick Brooklyn with a couple mid-twenty-something's who are no longer covered by Daddy's insurance, have about 80K in debt to their college and are paying half of what they make a month at their menial day job to their rent for a couple months and then let's see how those lawyers and politicians feel about helping a brotha' out with some damn health care.

But, I'm not here to rant....

Instead, I took matters into my own hands. Being that it's been about two years since anyone's looked at my teeth, I made an appointment at NYU's school of dentistry. Why? It's cheaper than a regular dentist and they'll take the scum of the earth who have no dental coverage (i.e.: Me.).

I grew up in Manhattan covered by a pretty cushy Park Avenue, corporate America health plan that my father's job so graciously allowed my sorry under-age-ass to be covered by. I spent my younger years going to Madison Avenue "Dental Spas" where women wearing too much perfume greeted you at the door after you were buzzed in "Hello, Ms. Allen. You're right on time for your 3 o'clock". The kind of dental offices where if one were to run 40 minutes late, it's OK, because your insurance provider is paying the dentist a pound of flesh and a bag of gold for you to be there in the first place; they'll accommodate! These white and pink offices with the flat screen TV's playing re-runs of Oprah and the "personal massage" waiting-room chairs were the kind of places I have come to expect when visiting the dentist. And, after a prompt visit, I leave with a goody bag full of dental floss and a squeaky clean feeling mouth.

So, when I showed up at the reception desk at the NYU Dental building I was greeted with a completely different experience.

"Hi! I'm here for my 1:15 appointment!" Woah. Am I in the right place? That bum in the corner is the same one I saw begging for change on the F train last week. 
"Who are you?"
"Um. Natalie Allen?" Where's the Oprah and the water tanks full of colorful fish?
"Do you have any insurance provider, Ms. Allen?"
"No. I have health insurance, but otherwise I'm screwed, which is why I'm here." But, I'll bet you didn't know I have an iPhone 5. Ok? I'm normal!
"OK. Then I'll need you to sign these forms for me and then you'll be called to discuss payment plans in a minute."
"Great. Thanks!" I'm broke! But, I want you to think this was a choice! So I'll look really happy to be here. 

The waiting room was a sick teal color and was brightly lit by fluorescent lights. Mario Batali's fat pink cheeks were smiling at me from the only TV in the joint as a cooking show demonstrating how to make sausage on a skillet was playing. I sat down opposite a heavy set, middle-aged man, who looked deeply troubled and was rummaging through his backpack full of empty soda bottles. I tried to concentrate on my medical history survey when I was interrupted by large belching noises the middle aged man was now making. I'm not talking small "whoops, that's a burp!" burps. I'm talking full on belches, and this guy was ripping them like he'd just downed a 1 liter soda bottle. I tried to stay calm and focused, but the  sausage special on TV suddenly pictured a close up of the sizzling brown poop-colored meat in a pan and I wanted to scream.

I'm a middle-class brat. I'll admit it! I'm used to weird men: but in context! Weird men talking to themselves on the subway? Sure! Weirder men taking a dump on the street? Why not? Weird men belching loudly while dropping empty cans of soda on the floor of my dentist's waiting room? Nope! I want out! I pulled out my iPhone 5 to remind me of my roots. And to check the time. I'd been waiting for 45 minutes.

The Belcher was led off to another room by a very young looking man wearing a white coat before my name was called. "Natalia Alleny?" Yup! That's Me!

The examination room was also in a brightly lit fluorescent space with no windows. My cubical was just barely big enough for my examination chair and the three medical students who jammed themselves into the space after I sat down. I was poked, prodded, biffed, bopped, and rubbed by the time the "real" dentist (let's call him Dr. Langly) showed up and did the same thing again. "Got to make sure the exam was thorough" Dr. Langly said after looking into my mouth and slathering my saliva all over my face with his loose latex gloves that flapped spit every time he moved his hands to reposition my head.

I was told I might have a cavity. "Oh, no, wait..." I don't. I may have a cracked tooth! "Um, actually, sorry, you don't," and: "How long have you had that gap in your teeth!? Whoops. Gotcha, doctor, not a big deal, OK". The medical students seemed eager to find something wrong. "What about this, doctor?" They'd ask, excitedly pointing to my x-rays. "Is that cancer!?"

"Doesn't look like anything to worry about." Dr. Langly would reply, looking at the slides while scratching his eyebrow.

I left the building 3 hours later. The whole thing cost 95 bucks and a pint of saliva. I walked back to the subway and thought about my life. My teeth didn't feel cleaner, I was scheduled to have a cleaning next week. I felt annoyed and grateful. Annoyed that this was the option I had at the moment, and grateful that I even had an option. My health insurance ends once I turn 26 in September and then I'll have to start getting creative about who gets to assess the health of my vagina (shouldn't they be paying me? I mean, c'mon!) Or, maybe I'll flip this country the "bird" and go to Australia where I can get health insurance there for little to no cost. I shudder to think about the alternatives of having no coverage; I may be young and healthy, but I've been known to break my nose and get sick every now and then and the last thing I need is to join the ranks of the impoverished Brooklynite-20-somethings with 80K in debt from my medical bills and no voice in the government.

I have another date with the dentist next week.

Red Carpe Diem

In a towel, preferably red, I'd stand in front of the foggy mirror and deliver my oscar speech. I'd thank my parents, my agent, my director, my amazing husband, my dog, my garbage man, all the people who ever disliked me because I'd made it and they hadn't... etc. I'd wrap and unwrap the towel to try and find the most flattering drape. I'd picture showing up on the red carpet: wet hair and everything, and when asked about my appearance (like, why my hair was wet) I'd tell the reporters that it was a choice and that I was making a statement about being wet and the important message that should send out to women everywhere. WE SHOULD ALL BE WET!

I will always desire the tallest and sharpest point at the tippy-top of the Hollywood food-chain. I often dream of coming back to my high school and/or college reunions with Oscars, Golden Globes, and SAG awards sewn into the lining of my mink coat that I'd take off at the front door of the gymnasium we'd have our reunion in. As the 10,000 dollar fur is lifted off my shoulders my mere presence in the room will blind people. Who's that? They'd whisper to themselves. That couldn't be...Natalie, could it? I heard she recently starred in that film we've all heard of and gave the performance of the century. And I'd chuckle at the attention while reaching for a deviled egg.

Now that I'm a little older and wiser I look at those women, my age, walking the line; cameras and lights flashing in front of them with every step. I think of all the hard work those people have to do everyday. I'm not talking about memorizing lines, showing up to call at 6am for make-up, wearing a ton of beautiful costumes or flying around to different locations. I mean, the work part of being that famous. The little things in life that suddenly become very big and difficult, like: grocery shopping or taking a walk in the park. Being a famous actress they probably have to monitor what they're eating at all times, work out constantly, and then be torn apart by the press and fans over looking too fat or too thin. That's the work I don't want. I don't want to be so famous that I can't be anonymous.

I do, however, want to be successful. And I want to be successful enough so that when I do show up for the reunion and come in the door, no one stops talking because a famous person walked in, but when I join a conversation, people will be impressed by what they've heard about about the projects I'm involved in.

When I'm really having interviews in real life, and I make the occasional appearances on a Red Carpet, my "towel" (that I imagined in the bathroom mirror) would actually be a vintage 1960's style Versace, with the sleeves off my shoulders and a small understated diamond earring in each ear. Then, I'll go back home and make pig-nosed faces in the mirror and pretend I was a person who did nothing with their life and play with my towel so I looked like a bum. And when asked by an imaginary documentary maker as to why my hair was wet I'd say: GIVE ME FOOD AND I'LL TELL YOU ABOUT THE ALIENS! Because playing into a mirror is too damn fun to stop.

Toilet Paper

I shuddered at the staggering amount of toilet paper my apartment goes through in a month. Just looking into the waste basket by the toilet one can see the bones of the toilet rolls sticking their brown turd-like heads out of the basket as I reach for another wad of Cottonelle to wipe my butt with. Where does all of this paper come from? I mean, seriously, if I'm using a crap-load of paper, then there must be people all over North America, Europe and Asia who are doing the same. And then it dawned on me that Toilet Paper is a perfect mascot for the widespread consumerism that my children and my children's children will read about in Textbooks and laugh over. "Seriously, Mom?" They'd say. "Your entire family and all of your friends wiped your poopy butts with non recycled tree pulp treated with chemicals, threw it all into fresh water, and then flushed gallons of all of that into a plant that used a ton of electricity and fossil fuels to bleach that water which was then flushed back into the rivers and oceans?" And I'll nod, my head in my hands, and say "I'm sorry. We left you a world full of garbage covered in our crap and you have to clean it up."

In my month abroad in Thailand I was confronted, for the second time in my life (first time being India were I spent 6 weeks desperately stealing paper napkins and stuffing them into every available pocket), with bathrooms that carried no toilet paper at all. Instead (if lucky!) there was a hose attached to the toilet that one could spray down with and then call it a day. Being the Western Paper-dependent, Marathon wiper that I am, I had a hard time bringing myself to use the hoses until all of the paper napkins I carried in my backpack were used up. The first time I used the hose: my life was changed. I felt clean! The entire operation took a ridiculous 10 seconds! I stared in wonder at the hose, a happy little nozzle lazily hanging from its hook on the side of the bowl and wondered why I was ever scared to use it.

When using Toilet Paper, as the bear in the Charmin commercials charmingly demonstrates, there can be all sorts of... residue left behind. No so with water. Seriously, water washed away everything and left me feeling cleaner than when I fist sat down! I got so used to the happy clean feeling, that when I got back to the good 'ole U. S. of A. and habitually looked for the hose, I felt disappointed. The Toilet Paper I had once sworn by was now too scratchy, left me feeling kinda dirty, and was a labor-intensive activity that I found annoying. And then, unfortunately, I did some research on the TeePee phenomenon of our generation and was deeply disappointed in our collective lack of awareness to what impact all that paper is having on our planet.

According to Noelle Robbins of WorldWatch.org:

"Kimberly-Clark, headquartered in Texas, is the largest tissue maker in the world. Kimberly-Clark (K-C) products are sold in 150 countries, and the company estimates that 1.3 billion people use its tissues every day. K-C maintains a position of either first or second in market share in at least 80 countries. According to K-C's 2007 Sustainability Report, North America ranks the lowest in use of recycled fiber, at about 20 percent for all K-C tissue products. By comparison, Europe's recycled-content tissue product use is about 36 percent and Latin America's is 67 percent. "

Shit. Literally. We're pooping ourselves into deforestation. If only 20% of our tissue paper is recycled then someone's going out there to get the wood to make the pulp to make the paper and where are they getting it from? According to Leslie Kaufman of the NYTimes:

"...fluffiness comes at a price: millions of trees harvested in North America and in Latin American countries, including some percentage of trees from rare old-growth forests in Canada. Although toilet tissue can be made at similar cost from recycled material, it is the fiber taken from standing trees that help give it that plush feel, and most large manufacturers rely on them."

I think back to my days in India where even a hose was a luxury. Most of the time, if I had to use the facilities, I knew going in to bring my napkins or else be faced with the bucket of tepid water that is dutifully filled and left sitting in the corner of the latrine. But, despite my fear of the water, I noticed the bathrooms with no toilet paper were cleaner, smelled better, and had fewer lines. Although I haven't found a solid argument one way or another as to which is more sanitary, water bathrooms generally struck me as cleaner simply because there was less garbage to cover the floor and toilet with.

A bucket of water is still a mystery to me, however, as I got used to using the hose and not the standard pot of H2O. I wasn't sure how to utilize that until I came across this rather hysterical tutorial about how to use a bucket of water in Tamil Nadu, India.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dKkryfdtMNQ&feature=player_embedded

Honestly, I don't know when the culture here in the states will swing more toward a sustainable system of dealing with wiping. I'm just a guilty as the rest of us because I use oodles of paper products (although I do try to use as much recycled products as I can). According to Josh Madison of JoshMadison.com, he used 49 rolls of toilet paper in one year, stating that the average quoted in other websites were grossly understating the amount used which was originally cited at 23.6 rolls. That's a LOT of paper for one person! Imagine 1.3 billion people using that much a year! Imagine, if we all cut that amount in half by using water? Or, just using 100% recycled paper?

Sorry, kids. Mommy needed to wipe! Maybe you guys can come up with a better system, or, at least see that the system we have here in Western 1st world countries is ridiculous and led to a lot of deforestation and environmental problems.






List of sources used:
Robbins, Noelle. "Flushing Forests." World Watch Magazine. June 2010 <http://www.worldwatch.org/node/6403>

Kaufman, Leslie. "Mr. Whipple Left It Out: Soft Is Rough On Forests." NYTimes. Feb 25, 2009. <http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/26/science/earth/26charmin.html?_r=1&th&emc=th>

Madison, Josh. "Toilet Paper Usage Analysis." JoshMadison.com. May 9, 2007. <http://joshmadison.com/2007/05/09/toilet-paper-usage-analysis/>

Sick

The taste of mucus reminds me of being little. It's such a specific taste, and I think everyone can agree it is unique. Like a turkey dinner, the nostalgia from snot makes me think of all the blissful days spent at home missing school growing up. The night before elementary school, like Tuesday, I'd be feeling really crappy. I'd not do my homework because I could feel the cold sneaking into my sinuses and could probably bet that I could play it up in the morning and get out of going that day. I never took too much advantage of my parents; they were both reasonable people, I didn't have to have a 104 degree fever and a green tongue to miss going in. I generally got out of school with a slight warmth to my forehead and some well placed sniffles.

Sometimes, when I was younger, my parents would stay home with me and I remember a lot of fond memories doing scrabble with my mom, playing chess with my dad, paper-mache with Mom, table-top football with my Dad, etc. We'd watch movies like "Austin Powers", "There's Something About Mary", and "Sabrina". Other than feeling kinda crappy, I really enjoyed these days off. We'd eat chickarina soup and I got to drink all the ginger ale I wanted (I never drank soda!). The only annoying part was having to go to bed early. No exceptions. I remember lying awake and praying to still be sick the next day. Missing two days of school was a vacation that rarely happened.

Now, being sick is just an annoyance. It's like I have to go through my daily activities except I'm high on dayquil and feeling overall like a hot bag of garbage. When I'm home, couch-ridden, I'm usually alone and I don't buy myself ginger-ale. Instead, I drink gallons of sleepy-time tea and post Facebook status updates about the stuff I'm watching on Netflix. If I could not be sick ever again, that'd be fine by me. I Like being busy with all the stuff I do! I don't want to not go to school tomorrow! I want to do my homework! If I have a day off, I want it to be planned!

If I could tell my 8 year-old-self that one day, being sick will be a real headache, I don't think I would have believed myself. Because, who wouldn't want to spend a whole day with Mom or Dad's full attention, a nap in the middle, a hot cup of soup and someone stroking your hair as you both watch "Ferris Beuler's Day Off" on the couch? Hell, if that's what being sick still meant, I'd sign up for that about once a month.

One day I'll make my kid feel the same way about being home with a fever. And I'll drink a ton of ginger ale and get a day off, too.

Single-Awareness Day

Thoughts on Valentine's Day:

YES! To the couple on the subway: You guys are just too damn cute. Take a bow. No really. Take a fucking bow. She's serenading you! And she's holding a somewhat wilted rose attached to a stem that's 5 feet long! How romantic! I love that you included me in this! ...Who me? I'm on a date with my Mom and Step-Dad. They took me out for dinner, bought me chocolate and I'm now going home with them: score! I'd say that's how to court a lady, except, clearly, "Mr. 6 foot 2, chestnut hair, green eyes and ironic leather shoes" over here is winning the evening over because the entire subway car can hear your girlfriend sing a song you both had your first kiss to. Man. I'm jealous. 

Stooooooop the world! Let's all have a look at what's going on across the street for a minute! Looks like he's bending a knee... Oh! He's popping a question! He must have picked this day as a special day. Thursdays are super special, and this one happens to be Valentines Day! I wondered if he thought of that when going through the calendar. He probably figured she would be off work tonight. Haha! Happy Thursday, everybody! It's not Valentines Day: no! It's the couple across the street's special day, now!

More chocolate!? Don't mind if I do. But wait until tomorrow: the day after Valentines Day is really for the single ladies who can buy all that chocolate for half off. I'll call it: CheapChocolateThatsGoingInMyMouthAllDay Day. 

I think it's 11 days now since.... And about 10 months since my last boyfriend, pshht, who's counting though? Don't worry all you happy couples out there! I get a lot of hugs. 

Snot's rolling down my nose. I'm gonna lick it away and then I want to kiss you!

I think I'll buy myself some flowers, take a photo of myself with them, and then post that on facebook. 

Step A to D: A Stab at Success

In a recent conversation with my gym buddy, a "step-by-step" dating game system came into view for me. I can only write from the female perspective here, but here's a rough idea of what I feel the levels of dating are, and once realized, I came to the conclusion that there is a recipe for success (reaching Step C or D).

Step A: The introductory/friendly step. It's the step where we just chat at the bar after an event. We see each other at the gym. We hang out occasionally in groups. We chit-chat and gossip. That's it.

Step B: That's were we know each other better. We flirt. We hang out one on one. We surreptitiously graze each other with body parts. We make eye contact longer than necessary.

Step C: Can be anything physical. I think Step C involves a whole lot of letting the body "do the talking."

Step D: (if there is one) is the relationship status change on facebook. Yep. We're dating. Exclusively.

Reaching your desired Step is not overly complicated. If success were defined as the level you wanted to reach with a girl you're interested in it's important to note this procedure:

Do NOT have an obvious agenda. Don't. There is no A leads to B leads to C, here. It's really a matter of: "I'm fine with staying at Step A, however you want to define it. And I am not pushing for step B at all, in fact, you'd think I wouldn't even have thought there was a step B." And then you act super-duper busy and relaxed.

I think chicks love that shit. I know I subconsciously do.

Patience is an absolute. If interested in a girl, it's important to note that the female in question can probably pick up what your intentions are. And there are a whole lot of guys out there that seem to think they're giving off the "I'm a nice guy" vibe and are really walking around with a glaringly obvious "I want to do a Step C with you, so, so bad!" Plus, "Nice guys"? Who the hell are they, really?

Why are women seemingly attracted to the dicks? Because jerks are pretty damn good at staying at one level for a really long time. Like, the infuriating Step B level. If a hot guy I'm interested in stays at Step B for a long time: I'm Ga-Ga for him. Or, if a guy gets to Step C with me, then goes back to Step B and leaves me wondering when the hell I'll ever hear from him and do Step C again; then I'm really hooked. It's in those instances I start to imagine Step D with said guy.

When I get approached by a "nice" guy who really wants to hear everything I have to say and is super attentive I'll treat them with a Step A attitude. Step A only. When I feel them move into Step B seemingly quickly, I'm thinking: No fucking way. But, a "nice" guy who stays in Step A at all times? Who is sweet to me and is a great friend, but I don't feel threatened by or in any way like we're moving toward something? Suddenly, he's in Step B category, and then I'm jumping us into Step D in my mind.

Complicated? Yeah. Dating is.

Pancakes

I poured the creamy gluten free batter onto the hot pan and watched the "silver dollar" sized pancakes fluff and bubble in the oil. Goddamn that looks so good. I thought, already reaching for the honey I was going to drench my treat in.

I'd spent the better portion of my day trying to will myself into an idea for a blog post. I thought: I'll write about texting etiquette! ...No. I'll write about my feelings toward certain men in my life that are itching away at my subconscious! ...I can't formulate my feelings on that yet. My brain kept buzzing lazily around the idea that these guys could then read the post and then know all this important stuff about how I feel (which, let's be honest, they probably could already guess at or know at this point) but, the fear stayed my hand and I instead turned to my comfort food: pancakes.

When I was a little girl, my dad would set out the ingredients for home-made 'cakes and we'd carefully pour the dry ingredients into a bowl that felt like the size of a small tub. I'd then be given the very important task of mixing the dry ingredients before the wet ones would be added. I took my job very seriously, until realizing that when all the flour and baking powder and sugar has been added, one can make the best mountains and valleys with a spoon. Dad always cracked the egg into the allotted valley I deemed fit for the yellow egg and then, with great joy, I'd smoosh the egg into the white flour mixture and watch as the batter turned into the creamy goo I'd get to lick out of the bottom after all the contents had been poured onto the buttered skillet.

To say I have a soft spot for pancakes is a gross understatement: it is one of my favorite treats. I find it says "I love you" in the morning when I've made it for boyfriends in the past, and its says "I love you" in the evenings when I am alone in my kitchen, writing about the woes of being single. I always take my flap-jacks with honey. Occasionally I may douse them in maple syrup, but only if there is no honey around. I don't know where I picked up my honey habit, but I don't remember not eating it. And, frankly, I'm surprised so many people I've run in to don't eat their pancakes with honey: it's delicious! Sticky, sweet, gooey, tangy (almost) it's a fantastic companion to a hot 'cake and goes really well with a cool cup of milk.

This is incredible. Give me a food topic to work on, and I'll go on for days. Get me to sit down and work out my anxiety, excitement and worry over the dumb boys in my life and I'm stuck.

When in doubt, go for the breakfast comfort food, that's my honey :) They'll never get confusing on me.

Directing

I sat listening; my chin in my cupped hands, my fingers curled, my cuticles in my mouth. I watched their movements: their choices, and listened to their voices, watched their body languages. I analyzed what they were saying to each other, the three women in front of me, and I sat in my corner with my legs crossed, the one foot I had on the floor jiggling to relieve the urge to jump up out of my seat.

It was the third time we were going through the play, and it was the second time they had gotten up to put this piece on its feet.

I felt the "wobble" as the actresses worded their lines. Each pause seemed like a step as each word was read off the page and each physical movement was noticed and recorded in my memory for the first time. "There!" I said, suddenly. "Keep that! I love what you're doing!" The play stopped: all 6 eyes on me. I felt like a piece of clay had dropped in front of me and I was trying to delicately mold it into a recognizable figure. "Let's explore that. I challenge you to make that bigger..." I said over and over, each time feeling my chest swell with excitement. The women took my words and folded them into their own batter, mixing their thoughts and feelings with what I was directing them with. I watched in awe as my words changed their behaviors and choices.

In my life, I'm an older sister. I'm an opinionated, frank, judgmental actress. I'm an improviser. And today: I was a director. Holy crap does it feel good to be on the other side of the room telling others what I think and feel and helping them see what I want an audience to see! What are the levels? The contrasts? Where is the climax? The breaking point? Where do the powers shift? Where does the hubris lie? Where is the vulnerability? How do we get to that point? Where does the tension exist? And on and on...

I jumped up several times and gesticulated a couple times feeling my body tingle like it does when I meet someone I find really attractive. More. More!

I thought of the bad shows I've seen and I thought of the good. I thought of the work involved in what I was trying to do which is create a canvas using a 3D world and human bodies that are thinking and doing from entirely different perspectives than my own. This is a collaborative effort, but I am in charge of collecting the ideas, like rainwater, and mixing the concoction to form a work of theatre that an audience must drink (and hopefully like!).

I was a director today, but I have been one my whole life.

I can't wait to see this show finished.

Thinking Like a Girl

6 Ways to Think Like a Girl!
By: Me.
A Comprehensive and TOTALLY TRUE look at the workings of a girl brain. 


6. I look Fat.

Nothing says stereotype like that statement. If you are striving to think like a girl, it is important to look at yourself in a mirror, grab a hold of your belly and flap the fat around a little. Maybe even stick out your middle to enhance the "I'm 5 months pregnant" look. Another great way to get that point of view is, in front of a mirror, hold up your arm and pretend wave to an imaginary friend in the distance and watch your arm fat jiggle. Compare and contrast, too! Do you look fatter than yesterday? All signs most likely point to "Yes?" unless you call up a friend and have them tell you you are not a fat fat fatty.

5. Wait. What?

Staying in the know-how about who is dating who and who slept with whom is very important! It is so important that keeping up to date with breaking news is not something you have time for. What tsunami  hitting the Solomon Islands? Have you ever even heard of the Solomon Islands? No! But, you do know all about the guy you're trying hard not to sleep with and how he's at this bar with his buddies because he posted a couple of grainy photos on instagram, but he slept with a friend of a friend and is therefore so off-limits it's not even funny. And, according to your news feed, photos of dicks being drawn onto the snowy windshields of cars is what's up. Duh.

4. I'm Never Gonna Put-Out for an Ugly Guy.

Gross. Ugly dudes? Gross. Don't put out for them! Even if they bought you dinner! If you want to think like a girl: look at every guy you come across and rate them on a "Hot" to "Gross!" scale. Do they wear glasses? If they do, it can only be cool hipster glasses: otherwise, Gross! Are they totally ripped? Hot! Are they kinda funny in that way where they make fun of your hair in front of their friends, but then try and make out with you after two or three drinks? Hot! Are they talking about what they're passionate in, like, reading? Gross! Be specific, too. Seriously, you can't screw everyone! If you do, then you're a slut.

3. Don't be a slut!

Think like a girl, here. Sluts are not cool. Sluts sleep with your boyfriend. Sluts sleep with that weird nerd no one likes. Don't be a slut. Have some standards. Jesus. Give 'em a blow-job if you really feel bad, but that's it, OK?

2. Be Connected to Your Emotional Self.

Nothing says "feminine" like crying like a baby on your phone in a crowded mall. No one is going to judge you if you're upset and need to express yourself! Men can't express themselves, except with one small tear that can romantically roll down their cheek when, like, their first baby is born, but otherwise they're pent up horn-dogs. Girls can totally let it all loose! Did your boss yell at you for totally no reason at all? Cry about it! Did that bitch of a roommate make you feel stupid? Tearfully yell about it! Is life, like, totally unfair because that dumb cop gave you a parking ticket, and you tried really, really hard to get him to stop, but he wouldn't and now your parents are gonna be super mad? Sob away, sister! We're so lucky because we can cry, so everyone should see us cry!

1. Be Pretty.

This is the most important one. If you are not pretty, no one will fuck you. So, be pretty. If you need references on how to look your best give Cosmo a try, they've got all sorts of tips on how to wear your hair and lose ten pounds! You should always be concerned with your self image. It's what makes you a girl, after all. *

*Note: No one has any real definition of what "pretty" really means, so if you are looking for an actual image, you'll never find one. But, make one up and then keep changing that standard! It's imaginative!

The Parting Point

We walked across 5th avenue, my scarf pulled up around my cheeks as the cold, early February wind made me want to whine while it whistled through the caverns the midtown skyscrapers create. I glanced to my left and noticed we were close to the "parting point" where we say our good-bye's and then go our separate ways. I'm no expert on guys, nor am I an expert on what the etiquette is when you say goodbye to someone you spent the night with, so I was eager to collect more data: starting with what he would do when I sarcastically said, "Well, I'll let you go here. My stop's right over there. Are you sure you're safe enough to walk the twenty feet to work? Or should I escort you to the entrance? It's a dangerous neighborhood, you know." I looked up at his 6'4" face that seemed feet above me. He chuckled. "I think I'll be alright." He answered.

In the past, when I say goodbye the next morning I'll try and keep it light. Hey, uh, good hanging with you... uhm, bye? See you...around? and then there's an awkward hug, or a kiss on the cheek or (my favorite!) the arm squeeze (which is really not my favorite at all!). Then, off they go on their important missions (because men ALWAYS have an important mission!) and they don't look back or do any of that bull-shit romantic movie crap where they linger inches above your face, stroke your hair tenderly and tell you how wonderful last night was. I've given up expecting anything more than an arm squeeze at this point, because that seems to be all I can get from them when I've awkwardly stood by our "parting point" and waited for them to make a move they never make. (Is it because kissing is so scary!? I mean: c'mon! We had sex for chrissake!)

So, it came as a pleasant surprise when I delivered my sarcastic IDidntGetMuchSleepLastNight line and he pulled me in for a kiss. UH, WHAT!? You're kissing me goodbye!? On 44th street!? We could be SEEN! And right after that thought I could only experience and analyze the phycological equivalent of light, fluffy, pink bubbles popping in and around my head and body.

"Do me a favor." He said, when he pulled away. "Don't eat when you get home. Just, go right back to sleep. Do it for me. Hell, do it for the both of us, please? Today's gonna suck and one of us should at least get a good nap." I nodded. I smiled a big goofy I'veOnlyGotBubblesPoppingInMyBrain smile. I turned on my heel and walked toward the subway as he waved goodbye and walked toward work.

He kissed me! He kissed me full on! Like, a real goodbye should be! I want to kiss everybody! *Pop!* *Pop!* *Pop!*

Alright, Mr. Kiss: that's how to make an entrance.

Guilty Thoughts

Why is guilt an emotion humans have to grapple with? It seems to unfair to me when I think about all the energy I must expend in a day trying to talk myself out of the self flagellation that is my inner guilt-track. 

Are women more prone to it than men? Or, are men just better at dismissing the guilt and thinking about other things?

Guilt can be everywhere, too! I feel guilty about eating too much, or forgetting to email someone, or sleeping in to late in the morning, or not going to the gym, or not being completely honest with someone or not writing a blog post everyday! 

I like to imagine what life would be like if, somehow, the process the brain goes through in order to create guilt were disabled. We'd all be super-humans; We'd all be super-villians, too. 

If I had no guilt (and I'd like to clarify, here: guilt is different from remorse. I'm using "guilt" to describe the lesser-evils than, say, the feeling a healthy individual would feel if they decided to kill someone.) I would do all the things I normally do in my day, but I wouldn't spend a second thought on how I could have accomplished the 24 hours "better." I mean, guilt is just comparing what I do with an image of what I think I could have done or should have done and then beating myself up over it. Would I feel lighter, the burden of guilt being lifted from my conscious? 

What if we could all see guilt? What if it was a thing that popped up on our faces, clear as day, and was therefore transparent? Like, if I walked in late to work because I decided to buy an ice cream cone before coming in and I feel guilty that A) I'm late. B) I ate something I think I shouldn't of. C) I then lie and say that the train was shitty, so as to illicit the sympathies of my boss. But, rather than the guilt going unnoticed to the outside world, it would turn my whole body purple. Then, my boss would understand that I am probably not feeling really good about a couple choices I've made in the last 20 minutes. Maybe I'd get a hug because they have turned purple as well over a couple choices they've made.

I hate guilt. I hate the "gremlin" inside my head that tells me that I'm This or That because of a few choices I've made. I think, honestly, it's one of the reasons many people don't reach their full potential. And, hell, if we all turned purple and then gave ourselves hugs with maybe a whispered: "It's all OK, you're not a bad person." in the ear as the embrace happened, we'd all be a lot happier. 

Fuck off, Guilt.