HOLLA BACK GIRL.

The weather might suck, but one thing’s for sure: summer’s here. How do I know? Because the males of New York are telling me so, in all of their gentlemanly glory.

When I first moved here in 2007, I lived up in Washington Heights. If you’ve ever been up there, you know that it’s a colorful neighborhood, teeming with culture, diversity, and Gristedes. And, like the rest of New York, there are also lots of horny men.

Every day that balmy autumn, I was greeted with a symphony of hisses and whistles that could rival a cicada infestation.

“Tsst-tsst-tsst, girl,” they’d say, faux-drooling over my chest, legs, butt, and thighs. You’d think they were in line at a KFC: all I had to do was flash my chicken wings, and I’d be a combo bucket to go.

Strangely, this chorus of catcalls happened anytime, anywhere, and I could be wearing anything. Short skirt? Catcall. Long pants? Catcall. Full body cargo onesie with a ski mask and gloves? Catcall. (I never tried that last one, but given that this phenomenon continued well into winter, I might as well have.) Sometimes I had eye oogies and sleep drool still pouring from my orifices– they didn’t care. I could have been anyone, it seemed, as long as I had the basic bolt-ons. I’m guessing it had nothing to do with what I actually looked like– it had to do with what I had the potential to look like (most likely with the lights down low). Yes, it was marginally offensive, but one thing was for sure: those guys were going to boost my self-confidence whether I liked it or not.

Well, it’s skin-bearing weather again, and although I don’t live up in the Heights anymore, the feminine affirmations are being slung my way once more. It’s not like I wear particularly revealing clothes, either: an accidental inch of flesh above the knee or some red lipstick usually does the trick.

Though the feminist inside tells me to sneer, vomit, and reprimand these men for their crossing of boundaries, another part of me would probably miss the cats if they ceased to call. I can’t blame them for exercising their knowledge of odds: it doesn’t take a genius to know that the more bait you cast, the more likely you are to snag a fish (no pun intended). The callers not only herald the start of a new season, but also remind me of just how creative a compliment can be. Some of my personal favorites from this season and last include (in no particular order):

“Can I lick your ass?!”
“Bootiful.”
“Yo, if I owned that car, would you hop in for a low-low?”
“Marry me, mami.”
“Get over here, Cinderella! All in your skirt, Cinderella!”
“Quit lookin’ at me with them eyes! Ahhh! Quit it!”

With gems like those, who wouldn’t feel once, twice, three times a lady?

Well, me. But God bless them for trying.

LEGG UP.

Long before Soulja Boy told ‘em, there was a time when the Butterfly, the Tootsee Roll, and Da Dip ruled the dance floor. Back in middle school, I used to break it down in satin palazzo pants and baby tees, bumping and grinding as best as a little (half-)white girl could. There was a freak train pulling into the station, and I was gonna ride it—even if I hadn’t had my first kiss yet.

Well, it looks like I can finally relive those days when my hips were supple and indiscretions high. My friend Mac recently shared this ditty with me, and my booty started poppin’ á la Orville Redenbacher. Just like old times.

And although it may be offensive to gimps, it provides step-by-step instruction and lovely closed captioning for the hearing impaired.

Enjoy. This time, it’s okay to get Stanky.

WEIGHT WATCHER.

Last week, as I was moving through the rush hour bustle at Union Square station, a man said—no, shouted—three words that no woman ever wants to hear. I had my iPod on, so at first I wasn’t entirely sure if they were meant for me. But—judging from the stares that suddenly shot in my direction—they were.

“LOSE SOME WEIGHT!”

It rang out like a Scud missile in the night. Time stopped– and so did about fifty people getting off the 6 train. A kind young man nearby immediately turned to my aid. Like Tupac, I had all eyes on me.

“He doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” the young man offered, a bit too quickly. “You’re not fat at all.”

I smiled at him. Right.

On a normal day, this wouldn’t bother me. I know I’m not “fat”: technically, I’m the average height and weight for an American female. The sonorous subject at hand was probably crazy and spewing whatever popped into his chub-obsessed mind.

But for some reason, that night his words went straight to my marginally jiggly thighs. There I was, T minus twenty-one days till beach season, and I’d used my gym membership less than Joaquin Phoenix combs his chin pubes. Add to that my whitewashed exterior from New York’s interminable winter, and I could (in certain light) pass for either an albino beached whale or Powder on a sodium binge. Needless to say, my corporal confidence wasn’t at an all-time high.

But there was one other reason the weight watcher’s words rocked me like a hurricane. A certain thing recently re-entered my life that has the ability to expand my thighs and disintegrate my will like a man with a good pair of hands. It has been, at some point or other, my long-lost lover, my arch nemesis, and my confidante térrible. It’s big, it’s ecru, and it’s slam-packed with evil. It’s The Candy Drawer.

No, I don’t have a secret sugar stash in my apartment (although I’ve been tempted on occasion to start one).The Candy Drawer resides at my workplace, and it calls to me like catnip to a kitty. I know I shouldn’t feed from its trough, but it gets me like the Swine flu every time. It’s a welcome respite from the bland hours spent typing away; my caloric culprit in crime.

It also makes me fatter.

Every Monday, the drawer is re-filled with miniature nuggets of sugary goodness ripe for the picking. I open The Drawer, and I’m in a fat kid’s paradise: Butterfingers, Baby Ruths, Snickers, Kit Kats, you name it. My little mouth can’t help but water. (Hey, they didn’t nickname me Pork Chop for nothing.)

Most New York relationships are complicated, and mine with The Candy Drawer is no different. Last summer, we had an intimate office affair carried out on the sly. On my way back from the bathroom, I’d sneak my hand into its beckoning abyss and retrieve Butterfingers and Baby Ruths with the dexterity of a jewel thief. Then I’d scurry back to my desk, dress pockets burgeoning, and stow them in a cup in the corner. Lamely, I hoped that their confinement would somehow also contain my urgent desire for them. It did not. By lunchtime, I would have stripped them of their wrappers and devoured them whole. It was caloric bliss.

But then, much to my dismay, The Candy Drawer disappeared. One day, it was a glittering Nestlé metropolis; the next, a barren wasteland for office supplies. I was, to be completely honest, a little heartbroken. Here we had been trysting almost daily, and then bam!: gone. Just up and left. It seemed that, like so many other summer romances, our time had come to an end.

So, being the independent woman I am, I explored other (less tantalizing) prospects: carrots, almonds, gum. It wasn’t the same, but at least it was something. In the fall, I heard rumors of The Drawer’s return on the fourth floor. My heart rose at the mention of it, but I could never find it. After a while, I just came to accept that it had perished into the grips of “Healthful Eating.” It was time to move on.

(Magically, I then lost ten pounds.)

But last month, everything changed. One of my co-workers complained in passing that The Candy Drawer was kitty-cornered to her cubicle, and that it was driving her insane.

“Wait—which drawer? Where?” I asked, heart all a-flutter.

“The candy drawer, behind me. There’s a sign on it.” There was a sign? How could I have missed this?

I tried to contain my excitement, and “brought some documents” over to her side of the office. And there it was. Simply labeled by a hand-written note on white paper:

“Candy—top drawer. Gum—second drawer.”

Slowly, I opened it. Inside, all my old friends—Baby Ruth, Butterfinger, Snickers, and Kit Kat—were there. Milky Way Dark had decided to make an appearance, too. I scooped them up in my hands and carried them back to my desk like Gollum with his Precious. No hiding it this time. This time, we were going public.

We resumed our relationship. Sure, it gave me bloated cankles and a distended belly, but true love isn’t pretty. My belt loosened and my poundage grew. We were making up for lost time, and it was delicious.

And then, out of nowhere, the tides changed once again. Today, I went to visit The Drawer, and it was emaciated beyond recognition. No candy bars, no chocolate-caramel-and-nut-packed orgies. Just Starbursts…silly Starbursts. I shook my head in disbelief. The recession really is taking its toll.

But it’s probably for the best. Even if The Candy Drawer does have another encore, maybe it’s time for me to put our rendezvous to bed. Too much of any good thing eventually goes bad. And let’s face it, being chided for my weight at this point is bad enough; I can’t imagine how badly I’d feel if I really had stepped into unhealthy territory. That crazy subway man reminded me that moderation is key, and that although I might not technically need to lose weight for my health, I should be conscious of how I feel in my body. And lately, I’ve been feeling kind of crappy. In the end, The Candy Drawer made my mouth feel good, but not much else.

So goodbye, Candy Drawer. I’ll catch you on the flipside. Until then, share your sweet abundance with someone who really needs it: like Mary Kate Olsen or a hypoglycemic. Maybe I’ll drop by to say hello every once in a while—but just hello.

And maybe take a Butterfinger. Yes, maybe a Butterfinger… or two…

BUNKY EXPEDITION.

When I first emigrated from California to the city a year and a half ago, I had grand visions of blossoming into a woman. Being an only child who had never left her home state, I thought of New York as that distant Mecca where children became adults, where the soft-willed were somehow hardened by a relentless pounding of the pavement. It was a chance to seize my independence, to pull an Obama and put childish things aside. Oh, the audacity of California youth.

A year and a half later, I’ve definitely grown up a bit (my proliferating collection of Chanel anti-aging serums can attest to that), but there’s still one little thing that prevents me from being one of the big girls. It’s the bane of my New York existence, the scarlet letter I don each night, the antithesis of all things sexy. Yup– it’s my bunk bed.

Okay—to be completely fair, it is not actually a bunk bed. It is what New Yorkers call a “loft bed,” one of those handily crafted (and heavily euphemized) furniture pieces specifically designed for city living. A desk resides below it instead of a human being, and it nearly doubles the square footage of the box I call my room. Since an ill-placed radiator prevents the use of a regular bed, this is pretty much the only option. And it was free, so I guess I really shouldn’t be complaining.

But let’s face it: it’s pretty hard to feel like an adult when you’re sleeping like a kid at summer camp. Sure, it sounds fun at first (“A tree house! A love lair! My very own cushion fort!”), but the excitement wears thin as soon as you realize mid-REM bathroom breaks could easily land you in the emergency room (I dare you to tackle that ladder drunk).

And the logistical woes don’t end there. Nightstand essentials (iPhone, lip balm, reading materials, contraceptives if you’re lucky) must also be packed up before the traipse to the top. Eating and drinking are pretty much kyboshed: bringing up a cup of chamomile is completely out of the question, as one false move could end in wet sheets and/or second-degree burns, and there is no place to put your dirty dishes. Any unnecessary detours from dreamland are avoided at all costs. So in many ways, it’s a lot like camping. Thank God I like camping.

And then there is the issue of man love. Trust me, there’s nothing sexier than whispering, “I want you to mount my bunk bed…” to that special someone. But once you two get up there, it’s another story. The bed sounds like it’s going to break when one person mounts it; imagine what it sounds like when two people are mounting each other– the A train makes less noise. You never know when the thing is going to collapse from under you and take your lovemaking to another level (quite literally).

But alas, all things must come to an end. With my move to a new apartment, there comes not only an expansion in square footage, but also the capacity for—you guessed it—a regular bed.

As my friend JaJa dismantles the bunk this afternoon and I prep its appendages for recycling, I can’t help but wonder if I will miss it. Despite its imperfections, it did its job, and provided a unique living experience for my first year in New York. It was always a conversation starter (albeit a slightly embarrassing one), and was a great drying rack for my delicates when the shower ran out of room. Many secrets were shared in its recesses, and many blogs were written in its womb. I may have been its Hester Prynne, but it did turn out to be a pretty reliable bedfellow: tall, (kind of) strong, and hard like galvanized steel.

What more can a girl ask for? Not much. But it’s high time I became a woman.

RINSE AND REPEAT.

Last night I came home to what every girl hopes for after a long day at the office and a sweatfest at the gym. A tub filled with Mr. Bubbles? A full-body rubdown with aromatic oils? Hot sex on a platter with an extra helping of man love?  No, no, and unfortunately, no (although I do hope for these things on a daily basis). It was better than all of those things combined. It was, for lack of better description, a cold shower.

Once reserved for testosterone-riddled adolescents and wartime atrocities, the cold shower is making a comeback in an ex-tenement apartment complex near you (namely, my own).  For reasons unbeknownst to me, the hot water was off and it showed no signs of resuscitation. I could have called the landlord, but instead I did what any sane New York woman on the verge of smelling like post-workout Richard Simmons would do: I cursed the heavens and climbed on in.

Don’t get me wrong: I’m not one of those girly girls who can’t go a day without showering and/or grooming. I went a full nine days without bathing last summer when I trekked up Mt. Whitney, and if I lived in France or some other pro-body hair region, I’d leave my Mach3 Turbo to the boys.

But taking a cold shower when it’s 30 degrees outside is another story- it feels more Titanic than titillating. Although my friend Il Barbarossa claims that some European cultures believe cold showers can increase one’s immunity to disease when taken after a workout (a worthy explanation for the thermal boot camp I experienced at the Russian baths), it wasn’t something I was raring to try. But alas, necessity drove me to it.

If you too somehow find yourself waiting unwittingly for a shower that never heats, have no fear: I have created this handy field guide to showering al frió. Just (brace yourself,) rinse, and (don’t) repeat. Happy washing.

1.   The name of the game here is Speed and Efficiency. Get your body wet really quickly, then immediately turn the water off. This not only saves water, but it also saves your 2000 parts from impending frostbite. I also found that the initial shock of the cold actually warmed my body up in between water spritzes. Score!

2.   Defer to what my friend’s grandma once lovingly referred to as the “PTA” (P**sy, T*ts, and A**) bath. Having camped my whole life, I am no stranger to the magic of a PTA bath in the wilderness. Last night, I took that knowledge and applied it to my urban conundrum: although expanded to include the hair (which was greasier than a Jack In The Crack value meal), it still just focused on getting the key body parts under control. Again, speed and efficiency are key.

3.  Only use a little bit of shampoo and/or body wash. You know how they say “dime-sized” dollop of liquid? Well, I suggest you take that to heart when attempting a lather in sub-zeroish conditions. The more stuff you rub onto your body, the more time in the cold it’s going to take to get it off. Take if from me: I used about a quarter-size too much of the Dr. Bronner’s Magical Peppermint Soap, and my lady parts were not feeling too magical after the five minutes it took to remove it.

4.   If you have long hair, flip it over (i.e. bend over) and wash it upside down. My mom used to wash her hair this way because she didn’t like getting shampoo suds all over her freshly rinsed body. In my case, it kept my frozen hair water from leaking into every nook and cranny.

5.   Do some imagery work. This is the point where you can no longer avoid the fact that the water is indeed freezing, and that you will inevitably have to douse your head and body in it as a grand finale. Now is the time to imagine jumping into a tranquil pool of water; or, better yet, that you’re on fire and the only thing that will save you and your hard-earned looks is a blast from a fire hose that is being operated by impossibly hot firemen/women. I chose the latter.

6.   Bundle up in a fluffy towel and pretend you’re an Eskimo in an animal hide.  

7.   Just in case my mom was right and going to sleep with wet hair does in fact cause pneumonia, blow dry it before you hit the sack. I did, and guess what? No pneumonia.

8.  Sleep tight, don’t let the beddy bugs bite.

Oh yeah—and call the landlord. 

LISTEN UP.

 

I have been fighting a cold for what seems like the past month, and it has been—as you can imagine—a pretty amazing experience. Being sick has so many perks: the morning phlegm explosions, runny nose/impending nosebleeds, and fledgling addiction to Theraflu are definitely starting to grow on me.

 

But the very best thing about being sick (besides my sexy Joan Rivers voice) is that I wake up every night at 2 am to an emphysematous coughing fit. Needless to say, I haven’t been getting many zzz’s these past few weeks.

 

So the other night, in an attempt to quell the cold and nix the cough, I climbed into bed early, shoved a menthol cough drop in my mouth, and propped my head up on some pillows (to aid the flow of nasal drip). With the soothing words of Deepak Chopra in front of me, I finally relaxed. But then, just as I was about to drift into a Vicks-and-karma-induced slumber, I heard it: the unmistakable sound of sex.

 

It was coming from an apartment across the alley, and the girl’s whimpers were bouncing off the brick walls like bullets off the Terminator. As I turned on the light and struggled to close my window, I thought, Here we go again. 

 

You see, I am no stranger to the sound of other people’s sex. When I lived in L.A. back in ‘07, my neighbor across the alley had a similar problem keeping her mouth shut (in more ways than one). Although another neighbor later told me that the vociferous culprit was actually “a petite blonde in her 20’s,” this lady sounded like Fran Drescher in the middle of a sex change. She would breathe, and I could hear her. It was as if she had a megaphone strapped to her larynx.

 

Without even having to fully open my window, I found out that she and her forty-something Filipino boyfriend Carl had recently moved from Ohio so that she could pursue her “acting” career, that she was resentful about her financial dependence on men, and that she was going to be famous someday. I also learned that she was a stripper by night, and that Carl rode a Ducati.

 

Every day that summer was like a fresh audio installment of Jerry Springer. Some days she’d talk to her mouse-voiced girlfriend about how she was going to leave Carl or, better yet, kick him out. She dished about her struggles finding an agent, her botched auditions, and the coke whores at the club (it was debatable whether or not she was one of them). Sometimes Carl would even make an entrance— often resulting in an emasculation crusade that lasted, I dunno, three hours. One day the police were even called because she wouldn’t shut up about his unsatisfying “member.”

 

But at night, it was a different story.  Whatever differences this couple had during the day apparently fell to the wayside when the sun went down. An argument could have been boiling for four hours straight, but as soon as the crickets started chirping, they got to it like jackrabbits in the hay. Whereas the couple above me “made love” occasionally, Carl and the chick across the alley bumped uglies every night, if not more. It was, in one word, unacceptable.

 

I say this not because I have an aversion to sex– in fact, it is quite the contrary. I am all for some good loving, whether it’s happening to me or to other people. A healthy sex life is the key to a healthy relationship. Even geriatric Dr. Ruth can tell you that.

 

But this couple was different. They did not have a healthy relationship, so the frequency and kind of sex they had were obviously trying to make up for it. Unfortunately, the rest of the apartment complex had to listen to them make up for it, too. The sound of skin-to-skin slapping and the low grumbles that emanated from that woman were hair-raising. She’d always say the same thing– “Yeah, yeah, yeah” (so original). It was like listening to a lawnmower choke on a rodent. Carl always remained silent, probably because he didn’t want to hear her talk any more than he had to. I’d shut my windows tight, but there was just no escaping them: they would have one long round, take a break, then go right back for more. Carl and his loudmouthed lover were going to get jiggy whether I liked it or not.

 

Since all calls to the apartment management and police proved fruitless, I invested in earplugs and tried to stay at friends’ places whenever possible. It wasn’t until a few months later, when Carl finally asserted his masculinity in a 3 am shouting match (his voice was actually quite manly), that the stentorian sexy time stopped. He sped off on his purple Ducati, and was never heard from again. Much to my elation, neither was she.

 

The other night’s lovers weren’t nearly as bad as Carl and the wench, but I was worried for a moment that they would be. This new girl sounded vaguely like a dying cat, and her guy was huffing like Kirstie Alley on a treadmill. Lucky for me, it lasted less than ten minutes. Not lucky for her, it lasted less than ten minutes.

 

But they aren’t the only ones hanging their laundry out to dry. There’s also the guy a couple of floors below them who climaxes with Fox Sports; the “film students” a few apartments over who have had some interesting “film shoots,” and the broad on the third floor who a) thinks that posting 11×14 photos haphazardly on her bathroom window can somehow take the place of a full-blown curtain, b) likes to loiter at her laptop next to said bathroom window naked, and c) plays with her boobs in front of the mirror almost daily (Breast exams? Nipple fetish? Fun with implants? It’s hard to tell).

 

People seem to forget—whether they are in their own apartments or on Facebook—that these days, someone somewhere is likely paying attention. I’m not a voyeur, but if someone flashes their junk in my face, I have no choice but to look. It seems that we have entered into an age of discretion deficit, and I, unfortunately (or fortunately?) am reaping the fruits of the loom. Either way, I’m sure there will be more to come.

 

Literally.

 

OBAMA NATION.

This morning America signed, sealed, and delivered a promise that has been over two hundred years in the making. That promise is called Barack Obama.

Although there were many remarkable moments during today’s festivities (highlights of my friends’ Inauguration Brunch included El Presidente beer, Mac’s American flag sweater, and a “Happy Inauguration To You” sing-a-long ’round an Obama-faced cake) , there were a few televised memories that are sticking with me for life.

In case you were somehow living in a hole (or at work in a cubicle), here’s what you missed, in no particular order:

-Aretha Franklin’s infant-sized cranial sculpture that looked vaguely like a bow. 

-Poet Elizabeth Alexander, who so kindly gave us the option to “[walk] past each other, [catch] each other’ eyes… or not.”  With all the perverts in this city, I’m going with not.

-Reverend Joseph Lowery’s assertion that “brown can stick around” and “yellow will be mellow.” As idealistic as that may be, the actual saying goes, “If it’s yellow, let it mellow; if it’s brown, flush it down.” It’s not prejudiced. It’s just sanitary. 

-Dick Cheney.

-Dick Cheney in a wheelchair. I know I’m going to hell for it, but I definitely laughed. My friends started it though, so it’s really not my fault.  

-Michelle Obama in “lemongrass” yellow and jewels before noon.

-Barack Obama’s schoolboy giggle before taking the oath. CNN cut away right after it happened, but in slow motion DVR playback, it definitely looks like Michelle says something right before he places his hand on the Abe Lincoln Bible. I’m secretly hoping it was something naughty. But I’m guessing it was probably more like, “Seriously, B. Don’t f**k this up.” 

-Jill Biden. Nothing says MILF like a short red coat, “bare” gams, and black high-heeled boots in 20 degree weather. Booyah, grandma.

-Rev. Rick Warren’s super-African pronunciation of “Maaaliaaa” and ”Saassshaaa” during the invocation.  All we needed was for Yo-Yo and the gang to tag team it with The Lion King’s “I Just Can’t Wait To Be King,” and the blessing would have been complete.

-G-Dubaliscious’ face as Obama heralded the official commencement of the war on error. 

-The Obamas’ inclusion of their ethnically diverse family in the inauguration ceremony.  According to the New York Times, they boast black, white, Asian, Christian, Muslim, and Jewish relatives. Add to it the Hawaii island connection, and the melting pot is officially complete. Way to represent, Barack: mixing it up, Fegurgur-style. 

Special highlights aside, today’s inauguration marked the movement into an era that promises to be filled with hope and change. If our new president truly does deliver on the promises he set forth today, perhaps we can rise like a phoenix from what some have deemed an eight-year abomination, and emerge as a greatly improved Obama nation. 

Or not. 

ME, MYSELF, AND iPHONE.

Since the year is coming to a close, I’d like to take a moment to reflect on what I like to call The Holiday Spirit. I’ve been infused with it since the day after Thanksgiving, and, like a freshly christened mega church parishioner, I just can’t seem to shake it.

While most people wrapped a few presents and called it a day, this year I took the holidays to a whole new level. I constructed gingerbread houses and cut down trees. I stuffed stockings with love and penned greetings with joy. I ate my way through a Honeybaked ham and BBQ brisket buffet, and chased it with the fruits of a chocolate fountain au fondue. I even dragged two of my friends to see the “Radio City Christmas Spectacular” despite my roommate’s warning that it was four midgets short. I saw “The Nutcracker” at the San Francisco War Memorial Opera House, I wore a Santa hat with matching fur wrist warmers on Christmas morning, and I (almost) went ice skating in Central Park. Looking back on this holiday season, one might say I’ve made like Jesus to Mary’s bosom and sucked out every last drop. 

But there was one highlight of the holiday season that I would be thoughtless to not include. It was a gift I received before Christmas day; something without which I would now feel lost. I resisted its advances for a long time, but now that I’ve embraced it, it’s as if we were always meant to be together. And unlike any other relationship I’ve ever been in, I am 100% confident that it feels the same. 

I am speaking, of course, of my new iPhone.

Before you start to ho-hum and Blackberry Storm me, let me give you a little backstory. I had a first edition Samsung Blackjack for the past two years, and let me tell you, that was two years too long. But somehow, despite its bluetooth, emailing, and reception (in)capabilities, I refused to chuck it. Once my contract is up, I kept telling myself, I’ll get a new phone. Well, two years came and went, and I was still toting that piece of sh** around like it was fall ‘06.

“Um, what’s that on it?” my friend El Otro Señor asked me one night as he borrowed it to make a call. There was a seemingly gelatinous substance creeping out from under the left side of the screen. Since I had already written the thing off as Satan’s spawn, I had failed to notice this imperfection. 

“That’s, uh, the plastic… eroding. I think.” You know your phone sucks when you can’t even loan it to people without getting a little (okay, a lot) self-conscious. El Otro Señor was not convinced. 

“It’s cool,” he said. “I’ll just text.” 

The ‘06 Blackjack was a complete social embarrassment, but my cheapskate mentality, indecisiveness over service carriers, and fear of falling victim to iPhone cliché prevented me from making the switch. But at some point, you just realize enough is enough. So this Christmas, I sucked up my pride and asked Santa for what I knew I needed almost more than anything else: An iPhone 3G with bluetooth earpiece. Black, if possible. 

I put my list in the (e)mail and waited.

“Don’t get an iPhone!!!” my friend Lady J wailed at me when I told her about my Christmas list. “You’re going to be one of those people!” 

“What do you mean, those people?” I asked. After being held hostage by stupid Blackjack for two years, I was eager to be anything but.

“Those iPhone people are always in their iPhones! My ex-boyfriend would walk down the street with me in one hand and his iPhone in the other! He would text as he talked!”

“I will not be one of those people!” I scoffed. If I only knew then what I know now. 

Flash forward a week, and “Santa” tells me he’s getting me an iPhone. “Thanks, Mom and Dad!” I squealed as we entered the AT&T store. “That Blackjack is a piece of crap!”

After selecting some choice accessories (Jawbone earpiece, rubber/plastic protectors in white and black, charger kit, et al.), I was finally ready to put Mr. Blackjack to bed. We transferred the contacts (Over 600! Who are these people?!) and I was on my way to being a part of the touchscreen revolution. 

“You got an iPhone?” my roommate Mac retorted when I enthusiastically posted my new iPhone ownership on Facebook. She recently got a Blackberry Storm and, given the horrible AT&T reception in Manhattan, was convinced I would do the same. “We are phone enemies,” she posted back. “Do you think they can stand living the same house?” 

Truth be told, in the first days with my iPhone, I wasn’t  sure if I had made the right decision. Flashy accessories and seeming user friendliness aside, I still had the same reception drop-outs I had with the Blackjack, and some of my other friends with iPhones admitted that there were some flaws in its construction. “The screen doesn’t flip horizontally for email, it doesn’t always alert me when I get new mail, and the T9 function sucks,” my BFF Pay$ told me. “I try to write holla, and it turns it into hills.”

But in any relationship, you must find compromise and acceptance, both of which take time. Sure, my iPhone freezes up sometimes and gets confused, but then again, so do I. I like the soft little chiming sounds it makes, and the ease of its touchscreen interface. It likes that I like it so much. I enjoy the AIM-esque texting bubbles, the contact organization, and the unlimited application downloads. I like falling asleep knowing it will wake me softly in the morning. The built-in iPod is pretty nifty, too.

And to be completely honest, my iPhone makes me feel cool. I know it sounds lame, but really, when it comes down to it, isn’t that what this is all about? Forget our actual need for all of these functions (snail mail, computers, and landlines still do exist), having a state-of-the-art anything ups your cool quotient quicker than you can say “caliente.”  The iPhone, I’ve found, is not only a communication device, but also a tool for face-to-face social networking. At brunch the other day, I announced my iPhone’s presence, and two others popped out of pockets and onto the table. Conversations about its “neat applications” and “organizational efficiency” ensued, and it became clear that the iPhone, among other things, is a portal to an alternate social universe where communication is startlingly sleek, efficient, and– for lack of a better word– cool. It’s what Facebook must be like for my parents’ generation. And I’m all about Facebook. 

So, okay– I guess I am dangerously close to transforming into “one of those people.”  But I’ve come up with a solution so that I don’t become a complete iPhone addict: Limited texting and emailing around other people, minimal addition of applications, and excusing myself for calls if absolutely needed. Just basic cell phone etiquette, but this time for real. 

Have I broken the rules? A little bit. But hey, at least I’m trying.

If you had an iPhone, you’d understand.

2 LEGIT 2 QUIT.

I am not one to blog twice on the same subject. But today, I’m feeling a little frisky. Today, I’m breaking all the rules. 

Por quoi? Last night, I consummated a deux decade romance wearing heart-shaped glasses and a tote bag as a t-shirt. That’s quoi.  

I do admit that at the start of the night, I was a little nervous. It’s been a long time since our last rendezvous, and people change. I’ve changed. I’m a woman now, not a snot nosed kindergartner eating boogers off her sleeve.  I have been with other people, I have explored other venues. I have listened to the sounds of the world with ears open wide like a whore’s legs on Sunday. I have refined my tastes.

And still, a little voice in the back of my head kept posing preposterous questions as the reunion approached: What if the chemistry we once shared evaporated with our youth? What if the brush on the street we had last month was really just a meaningless slip of fate? What if I look really dumb wearing this tote bag emblazoned with their name around my neck as a t-shirt? 

Who, you wonder, could ever move me to to such madness? 

You guessed it. Five guys. One heart. New Kids on the Block. 

It could have been a disastrous attempt at a midlife crisis-quelling comeback. It could have been a so-so songfest with a nostalgic side of cheese.  It could have been a waste of two and a half hours of my very important life. It could have been a lot of things. But instead, it was only one word: spectacular.

After a 14 year hiatus, NKOTB actually filled up Madison Square Garden. And they were so good, they deserved to be blogged about. Twice.

Here are the top ten highlights of the show— and the reasons why the Kids are most definitely back on the block:

10. Jordan Knight’s R&B solo, where his shirt “accidentally” blew open, and his (well-defined) abs heaved in the (artificially) gusting wind. It was one part Michael Jackson, one part Titanic, one part “Baby I Believe in You,” and all parts amazing. I was laughing/crying so hard, I may or may not have wet my pants.

9. Joey McIntyre’s highly emotional, highly interpretive pas de deux with an extremely agile back-up dancer. He wore a silver silkscreened t-shirt with the neck cut off á la 1987.  I’m not going to lie: it momentarily made me question my love for him, but he won me back when a full gospel choir joined him on the confidence salvaging “Stay the Same.”

8. The small revolving stage in the middle of the crowd that boasted not only a grand piano for Joey’s crooning of “New York, New York,” but also an American Apparel-clad Flashdancer in reflective pink spandex.

7. Donnie Wahlberg, in rhinestone bedazzled sagging jeans, screaming, “Is NYC ready for this motherf***er tonight?!”, and then dropping his pants a little to ask, “How does my ass look?” From my (highly discriminatory) angle, it looked pretty good.

6. Danny Wood’s impromptu break dancing mélange (who knew?), where he skidded backward across the stage like a crab in heat (and displayed his gorgeously chiseled arms for the world to see— again, who knew?). With moves like that, I almost forgot that he looks like a Ross Gellar-ish monkey.

5. Joey’s declaration that an adoring fan’s bra was “small, but fragrant” when it was tossed up onto the stage.

4. Donnie: “You feel that tingling love, ladies? You’re probably tingling in all sorts of places, ain’t you? Places you ain’t been tingling before. Yeah? You have somebody waiting at home? Well bring that tingling love home and put it on him!”

3. Fireworks. Onstage.

2. An expansive encore that included “Hangin’ Tough,” “Summertime,” and “Step By Step”— complete with matching silver leather bomber jackets.  Be still, my heart.

1. The fact that Jonathan, who recently admitted on “Behind the Music” that he has extreme performance anxiety, was the last one to leave the stage.

They might not be new. They might not be kids. But they definitely rocked the motherf-ing block.

Respect. 

ROCK OUT WITH YOUR BARACK OUT.

The following is a true story.

Last night, I dreamt that I went to an Obama rally. It was dark out, there were lights and cameras everywhere, and I was standing in a long line to meet him. It seemed like hours before I got to the front. But when it was finally my turn to shake his hand, someone turned on some rap music. Unable to control myself, I started to pump-pump-pump-get it-get it. Unable to control himself, Obama joined in.

He took off his tie and his dress shirt, and broke it down in a white T. We were connecting with our people, with our roots. I was doing the Tootsie Roll and the Sprinkler; he was doing the Robot and the Harlem Shake. I think he might have even done some C-walking, but I can’t be sure. It was beautiful.

At the end, we joined hands and waved to the cheering crowd. It was certain we had won.

If only all things could be settled by a dance off.

But wait — they can:

Jon Chu, making dreams come true. Literally.

Pop, Barack, and drop it, ya’ll.