My Lesbian Costume

Due to a string of unprecedented events, I was reduced to wearing the following on my flight back from Miami: skinny jeans, running shoes, and my black work blazer. Running the risk of sounding politically incorrect (I love being politically incorrect), I felt like I looked like a lesbian. Which isn't fair, I know. Blame it on culture and stereotypes and me being an asshole and whatever, but the brief heel-and-skirt hiatus made me look and feel like a totally different person.

"I feel like a lesbian right now," I told my mom on the phone as I waited for my flight, in a much deeper, louder voice than normal, slouched in my chair with my legs kicked up on my suitcase. Also, I had not combed my hair all day. Ever since I had started wearing my new costume, my attitude had changed. I was more aggressive in line getting my lunch, I wasted less time primping and making sure my skirt wasn't tucked into my thong (this is a huge time-suck for me, under normal circumstances.) I spent less time bullshitting around and did what I wanted to do all day.

As I started explaining this to my mom, I realized I wasn't really acting like a lesbian at all (whatever that means,) I was acting like a total dick. Or maybe just like a guy. I quickly became ashamed that it even crossed my mind that blazer/uncombed hair/running shoes = lesbian. Just as quickly, I realized that none of the gay women I know would necessarily wear a blazer and running shoes with skinny jeans. It was then I had my Full House, "kids-we're-learning-something-about-each-other" moment, complete with sappy background music, and I thought about how all stereotypes seem offensively wrong when you actually know the people being pigeon-holed. So, per usual, my inner dialogue ended up concluding: we are all the same, praise Jesus, etc., etc.

But I also started thinking that there are (for better or worse) fewer stereotypes for gay women than gay men.

I've wasted hours of my life listening to people debating "is he gay? His voice is too high! But he has a horrible sense of fashion!" There are so many gay man stereotypes that practically any guy could be considered gay for a moment or two, and there it takes more than one or two qualities to seal the deal. I don't hear as many people debating whether people are lesbians or not. I think most people are more comfortable putting lesbians into neat categories: Is she butch? Sporty? Adrogynous? Pick one!

If we're going to have fun with stereotypes, though, and if I were to switch teams, I'm sure I'd be a lipstick lesbian, which Urban Dictionary defines as a "feminine lesbian who is attracted to other feminine lesbians." The article then goes on to report that "they generally enjoy fashion, flowers, perfume, sex and the city, lingerie, lipstick of course, and (gasp!) passionate sex with other women."

But you can't assume lipstick lesbians are only attracted to other lipstick lesbians. I'm pretty sure my type is like Ashley Merriman from Top Chef:

I like her because she is the total opposite of me -- very chill, badass, secretively smart, and understated. I have watched Ashley pan fry soft shell crabs and thought, "maybe I am a lesbian." I think a lot of girls think about this, but then when it actually comes to the thought of sex, straight girls realize, "wow, no. I am definitely into guys."

Ever since that trip back from Miami, I've daydreamed of wearing my lesbian costume again. I picture myself as a more confident, funny, relaxed person, in absolute comfort and making serious headway at work. But here I sit, wearing my high heels and a pretty uncomfortable dress. And that's just me, and who I am and I don't think that's going to change and that's okay. Because maybe, just maybe Ashley Merriman is into lipstick lesbians. And if she is, I'll be waiting. (In heels.)

Pack Your Bags, Kids. We're Going Morman.

As a little girl, I never daydreamed of my wedding day and now my attitude toward marriage has wavered but always remained in the skeptical area on the spectrum. I constantly worry about what people give up to be in a marriage, and whether it's worth it in the long run. I realize that's because I'm not married, and people who stay married (and probably even if they don't,) think it was worth it. Right now I guess I just think marriage is a pretty fucking big ass deal, and you'd better be absolutely sure about it.

I mentioned this to my friend Dave, following up with my Anti Gay Marriage credo. Dave, who happens to be gay, thought I was kidding. "Because you hate gay people?" He asked.

"No," I said seriously. "Because I love gay people. Nobody should be allowed to get married."

"But you'll marry me, right?" He asked.

Obviously. We have one of those "if we don't get married in 60 years, we will marry each other" contracts. I have made that offer to several of my gay friends to cover my bases, and to assure my mother that I will not die alone and that she may even one day have grandchildren to cart around Disney World -- two things I know she looses sleep over.

But really -- if women married their best-gay-guy friends, how many of them do you think would get divorced? I suspect the number would be much lower. The straight woman/gay male relationships that I know are strong, the people involved are understanding and non-competitive toward each other. I am, of course, basing this primarily on the television show Will and Grace, and interactions with my friends, whose lives are eerily reminiscent of Will and Grace.

Whatever -- many straight women are already marrying gay men, anyway. There are support groups for this sort of thing. (They exist the other way around, but I don't think as prevalently. I also didn't look that hard.) And the reason these women need support isn't usually because they were unhappy in their marriage, but because they are so totally shocked to find out their husband wants to bone another guy.

But if that element of surprise was taken away? If I married Dave fully aware that he wanted to bone other guys? Maybe things would work out. If more people did this, the divorce rate would go down. If Dave and I had kids, (I'm thinking adoption -- I've always wanted to snag one of those cute kids from Columbia or something,) the kids wouldn't have to deal with divorce. They'd have a mom and a dad and a loving family to grow up in. (The dad might not be able to give him football tips or how-to-get-to-third-base-with-a-girl tips, but there are websites for that sort of thing, and I am convinced that dads are giving their sons pretty poor advice in these areas, anyway.)

Just as we were explaining our idea to our friend Hannah, she decided she agreed and wanted in, as well. Okay, sure. I can see this totally working out. And unlike the polygamist women in Big Love, I won't get jealous if Dave spends the night with Hannah more than he spends the night with me because... I just don't see that becoming an issue.

I guess this post is just a long-winded way of announcing that Hannah, Dave and I are going Mormon and will enter into matrimonial bliss. We really don't mind being the guinea pigs to what I think will be an innovative approach to marriage. Hannah and I have our gift registry at Babeland, by the way, and guests are encouraged to bring bottles of booze to the wedding in lieu of donating to a charity.

Ephiphany of the Century: I Love Pump Up The Jam

In 1992, I was 8 years old and listening to mostly The Mary Poppins Sound Track and my parents' Todd Rundgren tapes. But the moment I heard Pump Up The Jam on a TV commercial for the Ultimate Jack Jams Mix CD orwhatever, I knew it was the most retarded song of all time. I was incredulous, actually, as to how such an idiotic song could have slipped through the cracks. "Are those really the words? Over and over?" I asked my mom.

I entertained my parents' house guests by jumping up and down, to and fro, wildly pumping my arms, singing, "Puhhhhhmp up the jeyyyyymmmm up the jeyyyyymmmn, puhhhmp it up."

"Pump Up The Jam" made its way into my tender, sarcastic third grade wordage. When my mother asked me to clean my room, I'd reply with a snooty, "Why don't you go Pump Up The Jam?" When I got a good grade passed back to me in school, I'd loudly announce, "Well Pump Up The Jam!" I used it to express everything, because to me, it meant nothing.

Then I was listening to one of Bev's mix CDs when I heard that familiar Pump Up The Jam beat. She had chosen it as song number three on her September 2009 Hip Hop Dance Mix. But after months of dancing and listening to meaningless, raunchy rap lyrics, I realized Pump Up The Jam, relatively speaking, was no that ridiculous. In fact, I realized I loved Pump Up The Jam. It made me happy. I couldn't sit still. And as the song continued, While your feet are stompin' and the jam is pumpin' look at where the crowd is jumpin' pump it up a little more, it dawned on me: hip hop has officially changed my life, and I am a much happier person than I was without it.

2009 Year in Review: Shit that Sucked

I'm already sick of seeing, via Facebook status updates, how awesome everyone's 2009 was. It's much easier to bitch. So here are the shitty things that happened to me this year.

• I started the year off with a bang by having an allergic reaction to hummus on New Year's Eve. I spent the night curled up in a little ball in my friend's bed, wishing to die. Limped home in really shitty snow/sleet early on Jan 1 (kind of peed my pants a little) hoping the year would not be a reflection of it's shitty beginning.
• After roughing it apple picking in New Paltz, a spider crawled into my Steve Madden cowboy boots and my foot turned deep purple and swelled so large I couldn't wear footwear or put weight on it, OR GO TO HIP HOP CLASS : ( and was positive they would have to amputate. POSITIVE.
• This year saw a record number of vag issues, and I became way too palsy with my Lady Doctor.
• My landlord broke into my apartment while I was at work, peed, did not flush, left the seat up, turned on all the lights, and did not lock my door.
• Buddy died, which led to my lamest Facebook status update ever.
• Worst hangover/drinking injury ever: after taking the waiver-required "Punisher" tequila shot, my mouth was painfully swollen and I pulled a muscle in my side so hard (still unclear how this happened) that the next day I could only get one drink when I went out drinking again, which was also a poor decision.
• The Balloon Boy.
• After jumping out of a cab full of puke, I found myself stranded lost and alone somewhere in Harlem at midnight wearing a really slutty skirt. I was just trying to get to Mojave.
• I fell and scraped my knees while sprinting across the street wearing my Minnie Mouse shoes, which caused a line of people waiting to get into the Regis & Kelly Show to burst into laughter. When I stood up I got hit in the head by a pigeon.
• On Halloween I had to pull a walk of shame in a Tinkerbell costume. Across Central Park. On the morning of the New York City Marathon.
• I leaned how hard it is to break up with a psychiatrist.
Me: I don't want to talk to you anymore. You're boring.
Him: No, I know you better than you do. I'm good for you.
He also said bullshit like, "you have unresolved issues with your father" and "I'm boring because I have cancer". Both untrue.

In all seriousness, I had a wonderful year and I'm incredibly lucky and grateful for everything. Like some PR company sent me a massage chair for my work chair and I am sitting here right now, my buttcheeks warm and all massaged, and somehow, I feel that compensates for the spider bite, drinking injuries, and near-rape incidents in Harlem. God bless you and yours, kiddies, and smoochies from me!

-lp

Douchebag Calculator

The New York City Marathon finished on Sunday, and per usual, there are a bunch of nerds still walking around with their medals on their necks, to show off to everyone that they finished the race. (I saw two today. Today is Tuesday, FYI.) This always bothers me, and I make sure to avoid eye contact with these people. I don't want to encourage this kind of douchey behavior.

This made me realize that we need a Douchebag Calculator, so I calculated a simple formula that will help you determine how douchey you are. Follow these easy steps:

1) Run the New York City Marathon
2) Calculate your place number in the race
3) Calculate the number of days you wore your metal around your neck. (The day of the marathon is 1, the day after is 2, etc.)
4) Multiply those two numbers. You have your D-Bag Number.

Example: I ran the New York City Marathon two years ago. And guess what? The medal never even touched my neck. I don't even know what happened to it. I'm so goddam humble that I didn't even want to wear the foil cape they offer runners when they pass the finish line, to protect them from the cold, because I didn't want to stand out. So my D-bag level is:

3,364 (my place) x 0 (the days I wore my medal) = 0.

I am not a douche bag.

This system is totally fair, because even Meb Keflezighi, who came in first in 2009, isn't free from douchebagedness. Say he was to wear the medal for 43,235 days. His douchebag level would be 43,235, because he got first place. In the same vein, Ann Gaus, who placed 43,235th , would receive the same score if she wore her medal for one day.

Now consult the list below to see where you fall on the Tapestry of D-bags.

1-100 A little douchey
101-500 A sack of douche
501-1,000 Minor in Douchbaggery
1,001-10,000 Senor Douche, M.D.
10,001-100,000 Douche-O-Ramma
100,001-500,000 Douche Tsunami
500,001 + President of Planet Douche

So go ahead, calculate the levels of yourself, your friends, and your Grandma. If you haven't run the marathon yet, you're not a douchebag, you're just fucking lazy. Get a move on, and run the race, even if it's only to determine this very important calculation. I heard that companies are going to start asking for it on job applications.

City Passes New "Dunk Tank Smoking Stations"

With Mayor Bloomberg and his cohorts buzzing about expanding the New York smoking ban moving outside of restaurants and bars, all "hip" and "with it" New Yorkers will tell you that not a day goes by when they don't discuss options to get cigarettes off our streets and into our homes (?). Some make flow charts of how best to kick these alleged cancer-inducers from parks and beaches, while others simply pen poems and short stories to express their solutions.

With help from my dear friend and colleague in life, Lauren, I have composed a short list of my own solutions, which I have submitted to Mikey B. for consideration. Please note that not all of the below ideas actually ban smoking from the streets, some merely isolate it. Feel free to add your own.

1. Make smokers smoke into long mail tubes that channel their smoke into the sky
2. Replace all cigarettes with candy necklaces - still suppresses appetite without that harmful second hand smoke
3. Allow smoking in Starbucks only. Lets face it, the store could take a hit.
4. Enforce a you-can-smoke-only-if-you-wear-these-oversized-glasses law
5. Make cigarettes more eco-friendly. Maybe the smoke could simultaneously hurt your lungs and plant trees?
6. Just download the iPhone app - the smoking surrogate
7. If smoking outside is the problem, lets just put a giant roof over the city so that everywhere is inside.

So... to recap, channel their smoke, candy necklaces, Starbucks, oversized-glasses law, eco-friendly, iPhone app, and a giant roof. Got it Bloomberg?

But back to the point. Lauren and I (while formulating this list) came up with the BEST PLAN OF ALL TIME. A mandatory Dunk Tank Smoking Station, located at every corner of every block.
It's foolproof.
Foolproof AND fun.

Why I Give Money To Homeless People (And Why I Don't)

Disclaimer: This is a really insensitive post and you are probably going to think I'm a huge, snobby asshole after reading it. I'd like to remind you, please never take anything I say seriously. Except that last thing I said.

On my way to work, I always pass one of those tables with a red tablecloth and upturned water jug, and a person collecting change from the homeless. I don't usually give money to these people. (Do you guys? I'd really like to know.) I get wary when I don't know exactly where the money is going when giving to an organization, and although I don't really know exactly what the homeless people do with my money, I usually give my cash directly to them.

The man at the table that I pass each day has a low, scratchy voice, and is always harassing me to give money. At first, I would pass him and avoid eye contact. But then I started thinking, he's just a guy, and I say hi to people I see every day. So I started saying hello. Like, "Yes, you have a good day, you. But I'm not giving you any money." He started saying hi back. But eventually, he stopped asking for money all together. That's when I started thinking, "maybe I should give this guy some money." Was it a power thing? Did I want the attention? Was I just being a difficult, contrary asshole?

The thought that came to mind next, that I am a horrible person, was only reinforced when other incidents came to mind -- other times I gave to homeless people and the insincere reasons why. In my head I compiled a list of ways to get money from me if you're homeless. So print this list out and distribute it around the city, if you want me to go totally broke. I'm a sucker for all of these things:

You Kiss My Ass. One day, I was in an angry mood and I guess you could see it on my face, because when I passed a guy sitting on the sidewalk on Columbus Avenue, I heard him say in a kind, clear, Ernie-from-Sesame-Street-esque voice, "Hey miss. You dropped your smile." I stopped and gave him all the one dollar bills in my wallet.

You Kind of Sexually Harass Me, But In A Really Positive Way. Once I was walking by a guy and he said, "Damn, girl, you look good in those tights." And I gave him money. I mean, he was right, I had a really awesome outfit on that day.

You Have a Sexy Voice. Elijah, the man who always sits on my street, has a low, Barry-White sounding voice, and when he asks you for money it's like he's telling you a secret or something. Very intriguing.

You Have Really Creative Style. Props to the man in my neighborhood who wears an umbrella as a dress. He always gets some change from me.

You Display Innovative Box Architecture. I love it when a homeless person has really used their creative skills to fashion a functional, aesthetically pleasing box to sleep in. If I ever see one with a veranda or parlor, I'm going to give up, like, $100 at least. (Depending on how elaborate the design is.)

You Make It Fun. Once, outside of Food Emporium, there was a man who had a sign that said, "I just want some food." This seemed like some sort of fun scavenger hunt to me. I raced up the aisles thinking, "What would I want to eat if I was homeless?" I chose a protein packed egg salad sandwich, because I didn't want to purchase meat, a ginormous bag of unshelled pistachios (shelling pistachios is a fun way to pass time!) and a package of DOUBLE STUFFED Oreos. Mmmmm. Bon appetite!

I Offend You. Once, while in an awkward conversation with a homeless guy (LONG STORY), I didn't know what to say, and the first two things that came to mind were:

1) "It's so cold outside! I couldn't even turn the key to get up to my apartment this morning! My hands were frozen!"

Yes. My BEAUTIFUL, WARM apartment. Boo hoo for me. The man then went on to tell me that he was especially cold because someone had stolen his bag of hats and gloves. And get what I said:

2) "Maybe that person needed those gloves more than you."

Yeah, maybe someone MORE HOMELESS THAN YOU. Would you like me to kick you in the balls now?

In my defense, I was saying what I would say to my friend if they were to tell me they had something stolen. But most of my friends are not homeless and this was incredibly sensitive. This man got some money from me, but it didn't make me any less of an asshole.

You Write a Rap Song About Me And Sing It In The Subway.

You're Playing "A Whole New World" (Or Anything, Actually) On Your Accordion.

I'm Drunk.

You Have Two Little Chipmunks And You Have Trained Them To Sing And Dance Show Tunes. (Hasn't happened yet.)

You Look Like You Really Need It.

And here are the things that I won't give money for:

You Are Dressed Better Than I Am This has only happened in Italy. The Bums Wear Prada.

You Have Turrets And Tell Me To Suck Your Dick.

You Are Paying Dave Matthews On Your Acoustic.

I Just Paid My Rent. After I pay my rent, I not only feel extra poor, but I start thinking, "Hey, maybe these homeless people are on to something. Having a home is totally overrated..."