The Universe is Trying to Tell Me Something

It's been a banner year, folks, a banner year.   But instead of focusing on the bad or the sad-hilarity that ensued, I'm going to Julie Andrews it and focus on my favorite things.

Now I've never been one to have a favorite color or a favorite song and I don't make resolutions or see the bright side of things. But this year changed all that.

Favorite bright side - After a rough week of hitting a dark spot with my bestie, I found myself sitting with her on the beach on an oddly hot Sunday in October. We ironed out alot of things and in the midst of it some woman decides to go for a swim and finds herself in trouble.  I don't know what came over me maybe it was all the civil servants I hung out with this year but I did a cazy, noble act that combined my favorite bright side, person, and day into one.  See blog post - Brooklyn Baywatch   

Favorite song - This was the year that this city girl got a little bit country.  My life this year played like a country song - lost my savings, my heart, my sanity but got so many riches in return. The song that pulled me through - A Little Bit Stronger by Sara Evans. 

Favorite people - So many to list.  But the Bove Sisters get the golden Phoenix award - all three of them.  Who knew you could find your soulmates in three separate people who happen to be sisters.  They were my surrogate family this holiday season and are proof that great things can rise from ashes.

Rosie Ro reminded me that its a small world after all and like a rose, I'm delicate yet strong, sweet, and a thing of beauty but mess with my petals and you get the thorns!  

My favorite EMT who demonstrates everyday that a kind heart, a smile, and a lesson in smart-assery beats adversity every time. 

Finally, the Squirrel to my Moose. Every woman should know what it feels like to be seen through your eyes and have their soul touched by you.   

Favorite color - Tiffany blue and chocolate.  Nothing says decadence and peace like renovating your sanctuary. Here's to finally getting off my arse and painting my bedroom.  Cheers to calm sleepful nights filled with rich dreams.

Favorite blog/blogger - You'd think it be me but no.  I started this blog after getting inspired or more like challenged by my favorite Brooklynite and (second favorite) transit cop.  If you love this city, like the feel of grit in your teeth, taste of salt on your tongue, and LOL is something you do not text then, My Dumb Observations is a must read. There's a brilliance beneath the arrogance and a book waiting to be born.  Keep 'em coming, Rubba!

Now I don't resolve to do anything ever, and 2012 is no exception.  If that were the case, then this year's favorite things would have never come into my life.  But I am convinced that with all the things that happened this year, the "universe" is trying to tell me something.  I'm chosing to interpret that the universe is trying to tell me that, "you're getting warmer, kiddo!"  So "universe," if you're listening, I surrender myself to the challenges that lie in wait and look forward to allowing life to happen.

In my best Brooklynese, "bring it on!"

  

Twas’ the Christmas I Stole the Baby Jesus

There’s a line in Frank McCourt’s book “Angela’s Ashes” that has always stayed with me:

“When I look back on my childhood I wonder how I survived at all. It was, of course, a miserable childhood: the happy childhood is hardly worth your while. Worse than the ordinary miserable childhood is the miserable Irish childhood, and worse yet is the miserable Irish Catholic childhood.”

Ok so the above equation is not exactly me.  If you subtract the miserable, add a German hyphenated Irish, multiplied by the fact that I was the daughter of a NYPD officer, add water and stir, and that pretty much sums up my sentiments on my youth.

The final answer: I was a deeply spiritual kid who never did anything bad until one Christmas in the late 80s when I decided to damn it all to hell and get righteous! 

Now back then, people actually waited until December to put up their Christmas decorations.  Nothing was too complicated or mechanical.  You had only a few things to choose from, a fat plastic Frosty, fat plastic Santa, or a string of three to eight fat plastic reindeer; the number depended on the width of your house.  If you lived close to the church you might go all out and decorate your front lawn with a Nativity set equipped with the token fast plastic black wise man.

Now I had no problem with the Nativity set but what really got my holy goat was that people would put the Baby Jesus out well before his birth date.  My thought was, if you could get up early on Baby JC’s birthday to sneak presents under the tree for your kids, you could do the same and put Baby JC in his manger. 

So that’s when it happened, I found myself walking up stoop to some unknown person’s home, walking across the lawn and there he was all swaddled in his plastic carved folds with his chubby arms extending out and upwards.  It looked like he could walk a tightrope, or tread water, or maybe even levitate right there in front of me and admonish me for what I was about to do with him which was to tuck him under my coat.  

I did not do this alone.  My partner in crime was Annemarie Fronhopher. She was a year my senior, weird, short cropped black hair with round John Lennon glasses.  She wore a green army coat, walked with a waddle and a permanent scowl on her face.  I of course thought she was the coolest thing.

We spent a lot of time together listening to the Beatles, roaming the streets of Middle Village, sneaking into the city, laying down in the middle of the street waiting for cars to ride over us or drinking wine coolers down at the train tracks. We would talk for hours about stupid stuff that non-average girls would talk about like damning the man, making plans to move out West, and make fun of all the things people loved about our neighborhood that we hated. 

For good measure, we swaddled the fat plastic Baby JC in a plastic Key Food bag and I hd him in my parents garage for a few days.  The plan was that AF and I would sneak out of our houses early Christmas morning, meet in front of my house and put him in his proper place.  I had given AF the goods a few days before we would execute our plan. 

On Christmas morning, I threw on my winter coat and my one black, my one pink Converse sneaker hightops and waited outside in the snow at the end of my parent’s driveway but AF never showed.  This was well before the age of cell phones so I had no way of contacting her via text or face time to see what the holdup was.  I waited for what seemed to be an eternity but AF was a no show.

Disappointed, I went back inside and wondered.  It wasn’t for another week maybe two (a lifetime in tweenage years) before I found out what happened.  AF’s little sister had gotten up before her and woke the whole household wanting to open up her Christmas presents.  AF assured me that she had returned Baby JC on her own a few days after Christmas.  But I’ll never know for sure.  We kind of parted was a bit after that.

It wasn’t until a few years ago when I was visiting my parents in Florida during the holidays when I remembered this story.  We were sitting down eating dinner when I had a giggle fit and my parents were looking at me with questionable faces.  I fessed up to my pre-adolescent crime and the look of horror on their faces put a quick end to the steaming hot turkey dinner.  I had somehow implicated them in my crime that involved according to my father - kidnapping, harboring a holy figure, and keeping stolen merchandise on their property.  My punishment at the age of 31 was to eat dinner alone while I sat in my own shame while my parents admonished me with dirty looks.  It just made me laugh harder.

Later that night, I was sitting on the couch with my dad watching a movie.  Next thing I knew the whole couch started shaking because my dad was trying to hold in his laughter.  He threw his arm around me and laughed so hard he cried. A few weeks later, my mom called me on her cell phone to tell me that she and dad were in a Salvation Army looking at other people’s treasures when she had to wrestle a fat plastic Baby Jesus out of Dad’s hands.  His plan was to buy it and mail it to me as a payback from the Big Guy.  Confirmation that I am indeed my father’s child.   

So let this be a lesson to you Christmas freaks, remember the reason for the season.      

Grateful for the Unknown

Thanksgiving is an anniversary of sorts for me. I know it’s a strange day to celebrate a personal independence especially when it’s a day carved out for family and gratitude but I’ve never been a traditionalist.

When you spend your life with someone who is not originally from the U.S., you pick and choose your battles on what holidays are more important than others. Thanksgiving slowly became one of those holidays that I decided not to make a fuss over.

In 2007, I had just returned from a month long trip in Morocco. My hands and feet were still henna-stained and I had left my Habibi behind so he could take care of some family business. I was on my own for the first time on Thanksgiving. It would mark the first of many on my own.

I’d gotten several invites from friends to spend the holiday around their tables’ and decided to take up my BFF’s offer to come to the Upper East Side to celebrate Thanksgiving with her, her new boyfriend, and bare witness to her boyfriend meeting her Dad for the first time. Why would I subject myself to this? Because I was the one who was responsible for their union.

Four years, a baby, a marriage, and another baby later these two crazy kids are still together. It’s the third couple I’ve done this for and I’m hoping this trifecta of blessings starts to come back my way one of these days.

You never would have known that a blissful life lay ahead based on the chaos that happened that day. I’m not going to get into details. Why drudge up someone else’s bad Thanksgiving or embarrass anyone? Although, you can ask me for details later.

On the sidelines that day was one of their friends – Jay. I knew Jay for like a hot minute before we had to combine forces and bring peace to the Upper East.

As my BFF and I found ourselves in a situation where we needed a safe house, Jay’s southern hospitality and his “bear” of a dog accommodated us for the night. Jay was about 10 months emotionally ahead of where I was about to be. As he shared his story, something became clear to me. I didn’t have to be here. Not in the physical here but the emotional here. Word to the wise, one night of truth and tough love does not end a nine year relationship. But it definitely made what I thought was a complicated situation, simple.

When I look back on that day what I remember most was the feeling of dread that I had in the morning. My feet dragged as I got ready. All dressed up and not wanting to go, I looked at myself in the mirror. For the first time in years I saw me and I didn’t recognize or like what I saw. I took a deep breath and said, “Come on kid, you gotta go. You never know who you’re gonna meet.”

So on this Thanksgiving I’m grateful for the people I haven’t met yet.

Dating Detective

I'm not a serial dater.  I just happen to date idiots on a serialized basis.

I know we all have bad dating stories to swap around the proverbial campfire, bar, and conference table but I have some that make people think twice about the common goodness that is supposed to possess mankind.

A couple of years ago when I was relatively new to the dating scene, I started talking to this guy who owned an amusement park ride rental company.  He was ok, made me laugh and so I thought why not?  We were suppose to go out the night before Election Day. And the reason I remember this is because while we were on the phone confirming our date plans, he decided to casually mention that he's running for a local city office.  A minor detail he failed to mention in our previous conversations. 

Now, I just so happen to work for a large political organization.  So, I say to him, "well it's the night before Election Day, don't you need to do some last minute things?" He replies a firm NO.  Well then, "don't you want to go door-to-door or call your constituents to reaffirm your position and confirm votes?" He replies again, NO.

So I dig a little deeper mainly because I'm concerned  here, fraternization on my part with an elected official or running mate is frowned upon at my job.  He proceeds to tell me this outrageously, delicious, and scandalous story about himself and several well known legislators.  I'm aghast.

I hang up the phone with him and immediately contact my friend who happens to live in the district he's running for office in.  She doesn't recognize the name and says to me, "let's Google his name." And so we do.  Two NY Daily News stories, and one NY Post story pop up immediately.  They tell the sensational story of a  misfit running for office, in a district he does not live in, and with several police charges against him. The two most glaring charges are the ones of physical and sexual assault against his alleged wife.

Ten minutes later I text him that I have a family emergency and can't make our date. 

Because of these experiences, I have become a super sleuth when it comes to the online dating world.  Alot of my single and married friends have been begging me as of late to share my dating detective tips.

So here are some basic things you should look for on their profile that will answer the question, should I email him back?

• In this digital age, it's easy to tell which photos have been uploaded and which ones have been "scanned in" from their spring break trip back in 1992.  Use your best judgment.

• Are all these photos from the neck up or is there a good variety of full body shots? Be wary of the close up ab shots - odds are those are not theirs. Or is the only full body shot he has from his days at the fire academy - cause I can tell you from personal experience, he went from that that to the "King of Queens" in the last 15 years!

• Look at the surrounding area in his pics.  You can tell alot about his home and workplace from these photos too. 

• Is he smiling in any of them to the point where he is showing teeth? You have no idea how many bad teeth/no teeth dates I have been on.  

That doesn't prove much but it does tell you what type of person you're dealing with.  It wasn't until this recent incident that I took a more advanced approach to learning about who I'm dating.

Over the summer, I met a guy who I got along with very well.  Had great banter, cute, charming, good hair and great chemistry.  Things progressed nicely.  But after that first time.... cough, cough, cough - there was something about the way he acted afterwards got me suspicious.

I don't know if it's my curiousity or suspicious nature but I took the search to the next level.  PA as we'll call him, had recently sent me a pic of him in his work uniform,  It had his last name of it. So I did a basic Google search.  Nothing alarming.  Random work related stuff.  So I took it to Facebook and what unfolded was shocking.  A Disney themed love story fully equipped with a gorgeous princess bride.  Three days prior to us seeing each other, he had celebrated his nine year wedding anniversary and wrote a beautiful status update saying how he loved his wife more today than when he first met her.  It was sickening.

Since then I do as much of an online search as is possible without being labeled a stalker.  I'm not breaking any laws.  This is all public information.

On the flip side I could write a playa's guide to keeping your personal life private but too much time and energy is wasted on these guys.   Plus naive as this may sound, I feel I'm being honest about who I am on these dating websites and I expect potential candidates to be honest as well.  Now I search everything from email address, usernames, cell phone numbers, and last names when known. 

It's unfortunate but I guess it's the times we date in.

Broken-Hearted Bookends

Some times I feel like my days are not my own.  Lately they seem to be ruled by work, friends, and my dating life. But that all came to a screeching halt last Sunday evening when I got a phone call from my eX.  He wanted to let me know that he has decided to put an offer of a reconciliation on the table. He had apparently done alot of soul searching recently and decided that I am what he wants.  I'm paraphrasing here but he "won't rest until we're together again."

I found this to be amusing for several reasons: 1) less than 3 weeks ago, he texted me that I was whore. All  because I was out at a street fair with some friends, 2) he recently went to Mexico with his hot female co-worker and 3) there's been no grand gesture on his part that would make me think he's even a little bit serious about getting back together.

In my opinion, if you say something as epic as "I won't rest," or "this is what I want," and the classic "our love is stronger than...." then you need to back that shit up with some actions.  Am I wrong?  In the movies when a guy says those things he's either standing in the rain holding a boom box or he's telling your daddy that no one puts you in a corner.  He's not hiding behind the glow of an iPhone screen 12 miles away.

I preceded to tell him over the phone that I didn't think he was being serious.  There were a number of actions he could have taken to get my attention: hand write me a letter, pick up the phone - ask me out, send flowers, or camp out in a card board box on my front lawn with a sign that says "love or bust!"

What a way to start one of the most important weeks of my work life.  I tried hard not to let it mess me up but it did.  I found myself asking friends close to me if they would consider get back with their recent exes.  Most of the women agreed with me - there had to be some type of gesture.  "Actions are louder than words!" was the mantra I kept saying to myself all week.

It made me think about my own actions. So at the end of a crazy week, after two jack & gingers, and a deep soulful conversation with one of my closest guy friends, I reached out to someone I had met a few months back. I did not get a response until the following day.  And this is what it said: "I've spent some time with my ex and we are gonna try again to make it work..."

Cringe! Kiss of Death! Ultimate Blow Off!

Hopefully not.  He couldn't have known the theme of my week.  But in that moment I knew for myself, that going back wasn't an option.  I took that step forward the evening before by reaching out to a new possibility.  As bummed as I was about the news, I still wanted to keep digging for gold.  And in that action was my answer to my eX.

Brooklyn Baywatch

There are a few moments in your life that feel like a montage from a movie or TV show.  For example, you’re driving along the Moroccan coastline and the perfect song comes on the radio and you think to yourself this moment would be the award winning ending to some cool, indy flick. Or you’re in the middle of some foggy, sweaty club and Mr. Tall-Dark-& Handsome walks towards you, the spotlight shines on only you two, everyone else on the dance floor disappears as he leads you through the bachata of your life.  On several occasions, I’ve felt like my dating life would make excellent fodder for a sitcom. 

Not in a million years, would I think a quiet Sunday, sitting on a Brooklyn beach would be the opening scene to my own personal Baywatch moment.  I had just returned from a debaucherous weekend in Atlantic City. The kind where you’re glad ad men came up with the tag line: What happens there; stays there. 

It was an unseasonably warm October day – 88 degrees.  I was having an in-depth therapy session with my best beach bum Amy when I noticed out of the corner of my eye, a woman struggling in the water.  She had somehow managed to get caught behind the rock wall.  She was oblivious to the fact that she was actually in trouble.  People had climbed on to the rocks shouting at her to get her attention.  She was caught in a cross current.  No matter how hard she swam, the current kept her in the same place, like one of those stationary pools.  My concern was that when she finally realized she was in trouble she would be too tired and panicked to stay afloat. 

I’m not sure what I was thinking but I calmly walked into the water, turned back to Amy and pointed at her and said, “call 911.”  I turned back towards the woman and thought, "I’m going to be the one that needs help."

I swam out to the woman and started a casual conversation with her.  I think it was then that she realized she was in a bit of trouble.  I kept her calm by cracking jokes and told her that we were in this together. Thankfully she was a decent swimmer and I was able to get her to tread water so she could catch her breath.  She was a big woman.  So I asked her to float on her back and hooked my arm around her shoulders and swam in about half way. 

That current was tough.  I stopped swimming.  And thought to myself I can’t do this.  A cold panic covered me and I looked around.  Then it came to me - I grew up spending my summers in Rockaway. No one understands the current more than me.   The current was pulling us left but in, towards the rock wall.  So we rode it.  A few seconds later, we were able to stand and walk over the rock wall back to the beach.

The hilarity that ensued after that was a scene out of the movie of the week.  I got up to the top of the rock wall and two helicopters (NYPD & Coast Guard) were hovering over me.  I looked behind me and there were three rescue boats (NYPD,  FDNY,  & Coast Guard) , 4 ambulances, two cop cars, two FDNY trucks, and a Parks Dept truck racing towards us with lights and sirens blaring. 

I looked down at myself.  I’m wearing nothing but a black string bikini that I had gotten for $10 at Old Navy.  I’m still drunk and dehydrated from the weekend’s activities and all I want is for the ground to open up and swallow me whole.  I turned to the woman who I had helped (African-American, late 50s, recovering from hip replacement surgery) and told her to have EMS check her out. Then I turned to look at Amy for validation that this scene was really happening. She busted out laughing and said, “Look, it’s your dating pool converging on one location.  You really are catnip for the public servant.”

Catnip or Carmen Electra, it really didn’t matter.  I was glad I was able to help someone.  But I still can’t seem to get the theme song from Baywatch out of my head. 

Dat Girl From Sheepshead Bay



Today’s post was going to be about my own foolishness and how it got me a date with Wilfred Brimley’s brother. But since Life doesn’t seem to follow a routine plan I’m going to share with you some life lessons that I learned from a man who everyone thought was a fool.

Hank was no fool. In fact he was a genius. Hank was born normal like you and I but a freak medical procedure when he was a kid left him disabled with the mentality of a child. Hank limped into my life dragging a knapsack on wheels about 6 years ago when he and his older brother George would come to our offices to volunteer. You can’t know Hank without also knowing his older brother George.

George is a Korean war vet with a giant heart. George’s legacy will be his kind soul and his volunteer efforts with war vets, the NYC marathon, and the AARP. He has letters from 5 or 6 different presidents thanking him for his service hanging on the wall of his modest apartment. On their mother’s death bed she begged George to look after his younger brother. At the age of 80 and a half George is now free of this obligation.




Hank and George

 Recently I helped George get some information on how to make arrangements for Hank’s life in preparation for when George leaves this one. No one ever though that Hank would leave us first. Hank is a handful. And even though he needs assistance, he also needs his independence. The last couple of years, George and Hank came to our office less and less. The commute in from Bay Ridge was challenging on George’s aging body. So I went to them. I spent quite a few Saturday afternoons, drinking decaf coffees, eating diabetic cheesecake at every diner in the Ridge. I ran into George this past Sunday at the Third Avenue Street Fair sans Hank. Hank had gone ahead probably looking for his best friend – Curtis Sliwa. If I had known then that this would be the last opportunity I would have to see him, I would have raced ahead to find him.

Hank was a character. Rough around the edges, a little dirty too, scruffy voice, always preceded by the clanging sounds of no less than three bus pass lanyards filled with a few dozen PBA cards. He was always adorned with multiple pins from all the different areas of military services and he was never without his police scanner. The hum of it was the soundtrack of his life. I thought I would share some Hank-isms that oddly enough are pretty hilarious life lessons. Hope they give you an idea of what a good guy he was:

• The best part of a hot dog is the middle, so bite the ends off with relish and spit ‘em out.

• Freebies are meant to be taken, doesn’t matter how many of them you take. They are free so fill up your knapsack and run.

• Life’s a gamble so blow your disability check on as many “scratch me ups” as you can.

• Showing love and surrounding yourself with stray animals is way better than wasting your time on bad people.

• Approach Life the same way you would a crane arcade game filled with stuffed animals. Set your sights on the best one and get it. Even if it means you blow $10 trying to do it.

My favorite memory of Hank is the one he’s notorious for. Hank was not a fan of coming to the office. He didn’t like the way management looked at him. One day he had had enough and threatened to blow the office up. This was preceded by him getting caught raiding the “gift closet.” He expressed to me and anyone else in ear shot that he was going to blow this place up. But he would tell one of my co-workers (who he had a crush on) and “dat girl from Sheepshead Bay” about the bomb first because he didn’t want us to get hurt. I knew then that he cared. That has always made me feel special.

I’ll miss ya, Hank!

Where have all the cowboys gone?

Growing up in my house was like living on a military base without the moving and brattiness. When you got a 98 on a test Dad made you run around the block until you threw up. When I was 14 I wanted to see Whitney Houston in concert. The only way I could get a ticket was to go with some friends and buy them from a scalper. When I told my parents my brilliant idea, Dad pulled out one of the many penal law books in his library, found the appropriate law that I was about to break and made me write it 100 times.

There were some perks to having a dad who was a cop and a military historian. He taught me how to break into a house, I was the only kid on our block with a real bow and arrow set, and there was never a shortage of books for me to read and do reports on. Dad’s love of history was contagious. You couldn’t eat breakfast until you told him what war anniversary took place on that day – the answers were always hanging conveniently around the house because every average family has battle landscapes adorning their walls. He was also a big movie buff anything with John Wayne, The Best Years of Our Life, Zulu, Four Feathers, and Remember the Alamo. We’d watch movies together every weekend and during the commercial breaks he would go down to the basement and bring up the exact gun, knife, or spear that was featured in the movie of the day. Not a normal childhood by anyone’s definition.

As a kid I loved played cowboys and Indians. I know that’s not PC to say anymore but we didn’t think about those things back then. My brother was the perfect victim and always willing to let me tie him up and throw him in the closet or into a fully stocked toy chest for a few hours. My favorite person to play was The Lone Ranger. I had the silver mask and official Lone Ranger badge and hat. I also had a kick ass plastic rocking horse that carried me wherever I wanted to go and the neighbors could hear me shouting “charge” at all hours of the day.

Now that I’m all grown up and dating I get asked a lot what are you looking for? What kind of guy do you want? I hate those questions. Recently someone asked me and I was in such a snarky mood that I replied “I want a cowboy.” No seriously, I want a guy who can start a fire with sticks and stones, who can handle himself when I leave him alone at the table with my girlfriends to go use the restroom, someone who leaves me to handle my own messes and knows when to step in without making me feel foolish, a guy who can wrangle a rouge squirrel that somehow wandered in my city dwelling without harming it and who knows how to say it all with a wink and a smile.

The days of the classic tall, dark, and dusty cowboy are over. They’re replaced with urban cowboys who wouldn’t know how to survive a few hours without their cell phones. Guys who flash fake smiles and whip out plastic cards are a dime a dozen at the local watering hole. Belts and gun holsters are replaced with skinny jeans and modern day utility belts packing the latest gadgets that are meant to help you communicate. But when you look them in the eye, there’s no meaning, no glimpse into their soul, you can barely tell if they’ve had a hard day or not. Rustling up a couple of young sheep is easy at the bar because like sheep, women are clueless and they’ve lowered their expectations. Not me. I’m holding out. Standing tall, tired, and determined at my own personal Alamo.

So gentlemen if you’re reading this, buck up! Rent a John Wayne flick or two. Don a mask or a cowboy hat if you have to. But muster up the courage to ask a girl to dance, grab her hand for no good reason, hold the door open because you want to – not cause you have to, and when you look at her have a message waiting to send with a wink and a smile.

Hmmmm...so, where have all the cowboys gone?

The Three Stooges

Don’t be fooled, I like being single. I like everything that’s associated with it – freedom, fun, 4 a.m. nights out, the walks of shame, no one to check-in with, no compromising, the flirting, adventure, the chance to start something new, the mystery, the hope, the jealous stares from my boring married friends, and all the possibilities that await when someone new enters your life.

So before I went to bed last night, I decided to check my email. Three new ones popped up in a row, like silly Stooges in a doorway. They were from this dating site that I have my profile on. I thought: “Oh, how exciting, three new guys want to meet me! Let’s check them out!”

Now, despite what some people may think, I am actually a very nice person. I’m an amazing friend and have been told but those chosen few that I’m a terrific girlfriend. So what I am about to say next is going to completely contradict all this but I don’t care, I’m tired of the bullshit.

As I clicked on each of the three links what popped up on my screen was worse than the one before. Listen, I’m no raving beauty and by no means am I anywhere close to a size 6. However, men expect women to look and act a certain way.

Let’s be honest with ourselves here, men won’t wink or like me if I’m average or “a few extra pounds.” I’m expected to have my hair done, makeup on, my nails lacquered, unwanted body hair removed, smell “oh, so good, baby” at any time of the day even when you text me at 3 a.m. with a heavily suggested “wassup, baby?”

So gentlemen, why shouldn’t I expect the same from you?

So let me start by saying: I’m tired of the photos of bald men with double chins, the classic couch potato shot complete with potato chip grease stains on your oversized t-shirt, the random shot of you in a cornfield with your Great Pumpkin sized stomach sticking out, the close-up on your abs, the pic of you and your pet skunk, Mets fans, DILF’s, do me a favor - keep the kids out of it, the group shot of you and your hot co-workers – newsflash: your friends are way hotter than you.*

I hate bathroom shots, shots of you on a tropical island where you’re no bigger than a speck of sand, pic of you at the gym – I get it your buff. So what? A photo of you holding up your camera phone is just proof that you have no friends or that you’re hiding something from your wife or mother. If you don’t have a photo that doesn’t include your ex-girlfriend, don’t white her out - go to Sears Portrait Studio instead. And what is up with the photos taken by your car camera? What goes on in the back seat of your car that requires you to have a camera in your visor? No seriously, I want to know.

And my personal favorite is addressed to you, Mr. SingleBlackMan – posting a pic of yourself taking a bubble bath with the bubbles strategically placed makes me think you’re gay and what I really want to know is: who took that photo of you?

I don’t really think I am asking for too much. First impressions are everything in the online dating world.  So bring it.  If this is you, then put your best foot forward, show me you put some thought into it, and that I'm worthy of running a comb through your hair or putting on a clean shirt.  Think about your surroundings and how you want me to perceive you.  I don't mind a round guy, or a short guy, or a short round guy - just own who you are!

Case in point, while I was writing this I got an email from what I am sure is a nice, good, solid, hometown guy. But what made this poor, Chris Farley look-a-like think that sending me photo of him holding up two huge fish would make me want to date him? What 's priceless and telling about this image is the look on his face. He’s holding up these huge prize winning trout or whatever with this expression of pure pride as if to say, “look hunny, I can hunt & gather. I’m a great catch!”

Hmmmmmmm… maybe I should jump on that?

*All  people who have contacted me in the past few weeks.

Sleeping With The Enemy

This past week, I read a lot of blog posts about people’s 9/11 stories. It was sad, numbing, and inspiring all at the same time. I was conflicted about whether or not to write mine. For as much as I talk and work in the wonderful world of communications, I really don’t say much about me or about what’s happened to me to since that day. Why? Because the truth is, no one wants to hear my story.

I had just returned from my first trip to Morocco – a month long trip. I had been dating a Moroccan guy for about two years. And we had decided that if were going to take this relationship further, I had to see where he came from.

I left my job at Sony because they wouldn’t allow me to take an extra two weeks of unpaid leave. This was the chance of a lifetime and I took it. I spent 4 weeks in the August heat and the day before I left Morocco I got engaged. His family threw us a surprise party that looked like a wedding from one of Scherazade’s tales.

I came back on September 1.  I was filled with stories and spices and unemployed. On the morning of September 11, I was getting ready to leave the house to go on a couple of job interviews. I was planning on ending the day visiting my family in Queens when I heard on the TV that a small plane had crashed into one of the Towers. I left a message for my folks about some dummy flying too close to the buildings and how even though this happened in the sky it would somehow affect the subway so I would probably be late in getting to their house.

Then it happened, the second plane crashed into the second tower and my TV went to snow. I picked up the phone and my Dad was already on it. And he said, “Kid, this ain’t no accident.” And then he said something in a half-joking tone of voice, “Well tell Issame he can’t hide out here.” I froze. “Dad, what do you mean by that?” He said, “You’re sleeping with the enemy.”

Even though my relationship pre-dates 9/11 by two years, I always start with that date. Not only was it the day my beloved skyline had changed but it changed my relationships with my friends, family, and the man I loved.

Pretty much immediately, the phone calls came in from near and far. “Did Issame know the terrorists? Could he tell us why this was happening? Did he know if another attack was planned and if so, where?” I could not believe that I was fielding calls like this from people I knew.

But it would only get worse. Three days later a small mob of my neighbors gathered on my doorstep. They knew I was home. No one rang the bell. They just sat there and talked. I could hear everything they said because the kitchen window was open and no one made any efforts to whisper. Their words poured through the screen window as they talked about the people of a “suspicious nature” who lived up on the second floor. They talked about how we probably knew something and how they were going to catch us and beat us with bats.

I got a phone call from my landlord a few hours later. He told me that he was concerned that I was being held against my will in my own apartment. That all I had to do was say the word and he’d come in to rescue me. When I told him I was ok he then said, that it had come to his attention that I had a “person of a suspicious nature” living in the apartment with me. He went on to say that he couldn’t allow that person to continue to stay there but that I was more than welcome to continue living there on my own.

We moved two months later in the middle of the night.

I can go on and tell you more stories that happened to us between 2001 and 2008, the year our relationship ended. Which one would you like to hear?

I can talk about racial profiling. I can tell you how his and my name went on a watch list. I can tell you that Issame lost his job at a huge international bank because he had a photo of his mother wearing a hijab on his desk. I can tell you how to hire a civil rights lawyer. I can tell you that he never worked consistently after that again. I can tell you how I worked two jobs and went to graduate school in order to get the better job because I was tired of struggling.   I finally took a job that October, ironically down on Wall Street. 
I struggled emotionally. I never told my friends that I had gotten engaged.  I never had an engagement party. My parents threatened to disown me if I had children with him. And I have not spoken to my brother in several years because of his nasty words and threats. I also carry two big secrets around that I can never tell them.  It's funny how those things don't matter anymore and how those words and feelings got swept after 2008.    

Listen, I'm not complaining.  This past decade has been awesome.  Even when it was at its worse I knew I was experiencing the best that Life had to offer.  I went back to Morocco several times and had amazing adventures. I traveled to Spain and visited the Al Ahambra.  I met incredible people.  Those times were like a dream.  I learned alot about myself and people.  I discovered myself.  I don't regret, nor forget.

Until April 4, 2008 (another poignant date), when I decided to leave that life behind.  At that point, it had been seven years.  The flip-flopping on his part made for an unstable environment and even though there was alot of love there, it just wasn't enough.  I know now that PTSD played a role in the demise of our relationship. I couldn't carry both of us through this life anymore.  Again, who wants to hear that story?

By no means, am I downplaying what’s happened to us as a nation or a city. Nor would I ever disgrace the great men and woman who were lost to us that day. I’m haunted by the number of wounded and dead that continue to rise as those who bravely went down there afterwards succumb to terrible illnesses - people that I know and care for.  But when I think about that day and how it relates to me, I can't help but think about the ripple effected me.  I feel selfish for saying that.  When I told this tsory recently to my mother (it was the first time she heard it).  She said, "Stace, don't do it.  No one cares and no one wants to hear it."

So when I’m asked about 9/11, I say simply - “I’m just like every New Yorker, I'm heartbroken.”

The Disney Version

Last week, I went to go see the movie "The Help" at the ancient Alpine movie theater in Bay Ridge. I read the book and was excited to see the movie.  It was top on my "Summer to do" list.  After the movie, the age old debate of "reading the book vs. seeing the movie" got heated as I exited the theater with my college bestie (a former English major, now book editor).  She loved it but I was upset about how the movie left out all the important controversial parts about race and human behavior that were the premise of the book.

The director had managed to tie up all the ugly truths with a nice, neat bow.  It bothered me and it wasn't until a few days later with the help of a co-worker, that I was able to put my finger on the word that best described my feelings.  Disney-ified!

That's how I feel about about what happened today when I met up with my ex-boyfriend who I haven't seen since we broke up two months ago.  He finally came by to pick up a box he had left behind.  The meeting went fine.  And after it was over, I felt the same way I did when I left the Alpine last week  - Disney-ified.  The ex had managed to tie up all the ugly truths of our relationship into this amazingly, lavish, big pink bow.  I'm not sure why he did it.  Maybe he had the same reason as "The Help" director.  He knew that the audience couldn't handle seeing the truth on the big screen and he wanted to walk out the movie theater believing that everything was going to be ok.

It was no Oscar performance or low budget love story but I got to hand it to the kid, it was artfully done.   

A City Girl Goes to Syracuse

Six years ago this week I went on my first official business trip for my new job.  Still wet behind the ears, they shipped me off to Syracuse, NY to work the Great New York State Fair to save Social Security.  Six years later I returned to once again protect and preserve one of President Roosevelt's greatest accomplishments and eat some funnel cake. 

For a die-hard New Yorker (born & raised in Queens, currently reeking havoc in Brooklyn) Central NY is nothing short of a little bit country.  Being the only single person in a state office of 23+ people, Syracuse is a dating dead zone unless mullets, rednecks, and toothless bumpkins are your top three turn ons.  But like anything I do, I put on my funny pants and "make it happen."   

Being the only single person in your office means that your co-workers live vicariously through you and beg you to tell dating disaster stories at dinner. Fortunately for them, I'm never at a loss for one.  I'm also the prime suspect for teasing and ackward efforts on their parts to fix me up with guys that they think "would just be perfect" for me.  Characters you meet at the State Fair are no exception. 

I'm not sure who started the game, probably me, but during our down time we started to play "Find Stacey's redneck husband" a variation of my more successful nightclub game of "find Stacey's thug husband."  The top candidates included a mullet wearing biker who was 30 months pregnant and about to pop, a toothless Social Security recipient, and a vagabond security guard.  Hardy har har....

The prize went to the no-neck, thirty-something, car salesman who got a tongue lashing fromme for being your common run-of-the-mill dick. Let me explain: I work for THE largest political nonprofit in the country. I'm required to be a lobbyist and wear our brand like a badge wherever I go.  This causes me to encounter angry old ladies who hit me with their pocketbooks and know-it-all local yokels who spit and curse in my face.  "Senor No Neck" was no exception.   

My female colleague and I entered the Fair Sponsors' lounge with the intent of cooling off from the summer sun and grabbing a cold beverage.  "No Neck" was there talking trash with some of his female friends.  We walk in with our branded, bright red, polos and everyone turned to look at us.  "No Neck" sees me and says, "A-A-R-P, you guys supported Obamacare."  Now normally when someone says this to me I refer to my talking points or introduce the offending idiot to one of my coworkers who is more experienced in handling our salty members than I am.  But not this time.  I was tired, sweaty, and felt gross.  I took a sip of my soda, pulled my sunglasses off, tossed them on the table, and in my best Brooklynese responded, "I'm sorry, what did YOU just say?"  The room went quiet and "No Neck" turned red and gulped.  The chatter level dialed back up to an 11 and my coworker smiled and mouthed a "nice one" to me.  We finished our drinks and I stood up and then it happened.

CNN is talking about the only thing that could overshadow the State Fair - Hurricane Irene.  "No Neck" chimed in with "people from New York City are nothing but a bunch of wimps & babies, they can't handle a little bit of rain?"  I admit it, I lost it.  I placed both my hands loudly down on the table and schooled "No Neck" (who's probably never left the greater Syracuse area for anything more than a rave or beerfest) on the resilience and passion of real New Yorkers. If it's at all possible, I think his head sunk further into his shoulders and his mouth stood wide open waiting for something or someone to shut it for me.

I popped a piece of cheese into my mouth, thanked our State Fair hostess, and walked out of the lounge about three feet taller than when I walked in.  My coworker scurried out after me and ran ahead to tell our colleagues of the awesomeness that had just transpired. 

Two days later, I walked back into the lounge with another colleague who could tell right away from the look on my face that "No Neck" was present.  Maybe it was the stature of my 6ft. 5in. colleague or the nasty look on my face but "No Neck" excused himself from the table and went to sit alone in a corner.

Victorious, I returned to our exhibit table and resumed my own personal game of "count the mullets."  I won the staff bet with 47 counted in a 3 day period.  I didn't find the golden prize - a midget with a mullet but there's always next year....