PAIN IN THE GLASS.

I went to see comedian Mike Birbiglia at Town Hall last night.

As expected, he was awesome, and even more hilarious in person than on his blog and “This American Life”. He did a solid set, told his sleepwalking story as an encore, and ended with songs about oatmeal and God. He’s an extremely versatile performer, and I was completely impressed. Definitely money well spent.

But the highlight of the night was an encounter with another one of my audio crushes: the one, the only… Ira Glass.

Yes, I have an audio crush on Ira Glass. I know some people think his voice is annoying and nasaly, but I find it to be quite soothing. I decided to tell him so.

The interaction went a little like this:

My frient Trez spots Ira from a distance. He’s holding a bunch of ticket print-outs in his hand, and is waiving them about as if he needs someone to take them.

Trez, who is an infinitely bigger fan than I am, rushes over. She is wearing a bright orange vest, so she is hard to miss.

“I’ll take it, Ira!” she shouts as she runs toward him. He looks a bit startled, not realizing she’s referring to the tickets.

I finally locate them in the crowd. “Ira Glass?!” I shout. I toddle over in my platform heels and greet them with a smile. (I’m not going to lie, I was a little tipsy from my pre-show drinks. But no matter– I probably would have done the same thing had I been stone cold sober.)

Trez is blushing hard, so I decide to alleviate some of the potential awkwardness with… more awkwardness.

“Hi!” I exclaim, a bit too loudly. Ira looks at me, a little confused.

“Um, hi.” His voice is just as dreamy as I dreamed it would be. His glasses are pretty cool in person– almost theatrical. He seems a bit short, but I can’t tell if that’s because he actually is short, or because I’m wearing slutty stripper heels. I have an intense urge to tell him that I listen to him when I’m lonely because I find his voice to be really comforting, but I figure that would creep him out, so instead I say:

“I just wanted to let you know that I love listening to you because your voice is really soothing, you’re just really great, I love your show, and I wouldn’t be here tonight if it wasn’t for you!” Infinitely less creepy. Not.

Ira smiles tensely. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he wants to run away.

“Oh. Okay, thanks.”

I look over at Trez. She is bright red, and her eyes are tearing up. I figure that maybe it’s time to go. I awkwardly flail my hands around in the air, as if to provide some flourish to the end of our time together.

“Okay, so… thank you!” Ira nods his head politely, and wanders (escapes?) off into the crowd, away from potentially crazy stalkers in puff vests and stripper heels.

And this, ladies and gents, is my (American) life.

BITE ME BABY ONE MORE TIME.

Let me start off by saying that it is almost October. We are no longer in the height of summer, when the air is moist and flesh is exposed. I am wearing layers now, and spend most of my days indoors. And yet, I still have bug bites. Lots of them.

It’s no secret that mosquitoes love me: they were sucking on me like horny pubescent boys all summer long. If my bites were hickeys, I would have been the school slut. Turtlenecks couldn’t even cover this brand of affection: I looked like I had the shingles, and I don’t mean high-end roofing.

At one point during the summer, a single mosquito was trapped in my room. Try as I did, he simply would not leave. I shooed him, sprayed him, and clapped in hopes that I’d accidentally slap him to death, but to no avail: he was invincible. He’d sleep during the day, and then rape my supple flesh at night. I woke up feeling violated, but in the end, I could do nothing.

At first, it was just a tentative courtship: a bite here, a bite there. I’d scratch a little and go about my day. But then, one morning, I woke up with half a dozen red welts from that little sucker. He had the most unusual tastes: the inside arch of my left foot, the outside of my knee, the inside of my elbow, the very tip of my ring finger. I probably should have told him that the best juice comes from less bony spots, but I really didn’t want to be scratching my butt all day. There was even a little love nibble on the side of my face, which I’m guessing meant he wanted to take our relationship to the next level. (I obviously declined.) There was no telling how much blood would be shed before the summer was over.

And then, mysteriously, he disappeared. No goodbyes, just out the window into the great wide open. (Either that, or my roommate slammed him while I was out of the apartment.) My bites could finally heal, and I could stop tearing at my skin every five minutes. I felt, for the first time in months, like I was safe.

Wrong. These past few days, I’ve been waking up with welts again, and the handiwork seems vaguely familiar: ring finger, elbows, side of the face. I could be mistaken, but it looks like El Mosquito (or one of his vampiric clan) is back, and he’s got a taste for the likes of moi.

Well, I’ve got news for him: His days at Flesh Gardens are limited. I’ve got a tag on this sucker’s head, and he’s going to go down when he least expects it. I don’t know how, and I don’t know when, but mark my words: if Las Cucarachas can die at my hand, so can he. I busted right through little Miss Cocky Cockroach’s bronze armor with my Clorox disinfectant artillery, and don’t think that because Mr. Mosquito is winged and tiny I won’t do the same. I’m on a mission to save my flesh here: there is no other choice.

Except this:

It’s almost as sexy as my old bunk bed, but not quite. Maybe I’ll pretend I’m on an African safari and give it a try.

Take that, mosquito: no more suckling from this zipple.

GO DOWN.

I have been having trouble sleeping lately- and by lately, I mean, oh, the past year. I don’t know what it is, but I just can’t seem to get in a good shut-eye session these days. Even on nights when I sleep a full eight hours by the clock’s count, I sometimes wake up feeling like I spent the night out boozing instead of snoozing. I can’t figure out if it’s just that the city’s too loud (I don’t live in the quietest neighborhood), or if I actually have some kind of problem. I’ve recently learned that I have an old-man snoring habit (I know- so sexy), which makes me think that perhaps obstructed breathing is the culprit; but I also wake up with a kinky neck (again, so sexy), so I’m wondering if my cheapo Kmart pillows are to blame. I thought of buying one of those nasal ease things, but again- too sexy. Since getting a doctor’s appointment in this city is like getting tickets to MJ’s memorial, and nasal strips likely won’t fit over my Chamorro nose anyway, I decided to do what I should have done a long time ago: I bought some new pillows.

Pillows are curious things, because they seem so simple, but can cost so much. I mean, should a bag filled with goose feathers really cost $200? If you’re going to charge me that much, you’d better throw in the bird, some stuffing, an apple pie, and a couple sides of mashed potatoes. There are obviously cheaper pillows, like the ones I’ve been breaking my neck on (Only $15 for a spinal dis-alignment? No way!), but, as I’ve learned, they quickly fall flat and leave me feeling like the hunchback of Notre Dame. So yesterday I sucked it up, hauled myself to Macy’s, and cozied up to the “natural filling” section of the pillow corner. Goodbye, synthetic pain in my neck; hello, goose down glory.

I was pleasantly surprised to find myself in the midst of a sale. (While the recession certainly blows, the one good thing about it is that there are a lot of sales.) Since the Macy’s bedding department is organized more efficiently than the Dewey decimal system, it took me less than five minutes to find the pillows for me: hypoallergenic, medium support, down surround, 50% off. I took them up to register and got ready to pay my dues.

When I got home, however, I approached my new bedfellows with trepidation. What if they didn’t work? What if they left me in worse shape than I started off in? What if I was in fact allergic to the down surround and ended up with Lisa Rinna lips in the morning? No matter: I had trekked all the way up to 34th Street to get those suckers, I had to give them a try.

It’s amazing how a simple swap of head support can transform your sleeping experience from Best Western to Hotel Bel Air. It didn’t even feel like my own bed. I sunk into my new pillows like a fat kid in some quick sand, and after a few minutes of tossing around, I was out like a light.

Despite a batch of 3:00 am love bites from a horny mosquito, I had a pretty good sleep. So good, in fact, that I turned off my alarm this morning and just lay there for an extra 45. I wouldn’t say that my problem is solved, but going down surround was definitely a step in the right direction. After all, soliciting a slumber isn’t so bad when your head is resting in the lap of luxury.

IT’S A CELEBRATION, B*TCHES.

Well, time sure does fly. It has been one whole year (and a few weeks) since The Fegurgur Factor sprang forth from my literary loins, and what a year it has been. My loins are aching just thinking about it (in a good way).

Many thanks to all of you who have been supporters along the way. I hope I’ve made you laugh, cry, and wet your pants doing both.

Here’s to another year of factoring the Fegurgur. Grab a drink, grab a glass– it’s on me.*

*You’ll have to pay for it, but it’s the thought that counts, right? Right.

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.

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.