I have a tendency, as I’ve recently realized, to date the Perpetual Closeted Woman-Hater. These guys are like the Eventual Gay, but far less fun.

They have all the good qualities of the Eventual Gay, the boy-ish good looks, the charm with talking to women, the style and arty-ness of a Williamsburg hipster, but with ISSUES.  They can’t decide if they want to be us, be with us, or banish us from their dude caves. Case in point is my first serious boyfriend, art student whom I found curled up in a ball crying about a bad haircut. The huge red flag here that I didn’t want to realize, was that he hated his mother…because they were too much alike.

The latest in a long chain of BF’s is a guy I tried to date, who said to me that as far as sex, he could, “take it or leave it.”  Um, what? Like a trained co-dependent partner, I jumped at the chance to “remedy” this situation, not paying attention to the obvious clues of latent homosexuality.  First, he went to beauty school. Nuf said. Second, he is obsessed with fashion (and has great style), also he is obsessed with his hair, and doesn’t go out of the house if he has zits. Sidenote, he’s 30, not 16. But the real clincher is his over-ethusiasm for hanging out with his posse of ridiculously good-looking male friends.  These guys are HOT and all have live-in girlfriends, something Beauty School Bob cannot manage. Initially, he close-knit group of pals seemed sweet, but a few moths into dating, I was already getting resentful. Outings with me were obligatory and required effort, while outings with the hot dudes were treasured above all else. Ok, this doesn’t sound as weird as it was. I was often invited along, and at first I saw this as a compliment (a girls being inducted into the exclusive boys club!), later I realized it was an attempt to establish his hetero-ness while still getting his kicks.  These nights consisted of booze and dancing, that is, him dancing in a “jokingly” erotic manner with his friends. While I sat on the couch.

Sidenote: I have nothing against homosexuality, but trying to date someone with weird sexual repressions just isn’t fun.

How much of a raging narcissist do you have to be to dig the fact someone is obsessed with you? And who is this woman who would tie the knot with a dude who filed criminal charges against her?

Ugh. We feel this is setting a dangerous precedent: persistence pays off, even when it’s self-destructive and completely nutso.

What am I talking about?

Here’s an example from my life: when a man you enjoy the company of being around says to you, “I’m a ramblin’ man,” as serious as you would say, “I’m a vegetarian,” this is a huge Red Flag. In fact, it’s so gianormous that you should immediately walk away. Not that week or that month, but that moment. If it’s not obvious (as it was not, apparently, to me) he is saying: I am a dopey narcissist with commitment issues who would rather Peter Pan his way through life than be with you.

The psychology behind ignoring RF moments is simple: a) you don’t believe him or b) you believe him but feel that your “connection” is strong enough to stomp that red flag into oblivion…eventually.

No matter. You cannot be too lazy to find another man. If you think it’s too much effort to meet someone, consider this: The truth is you will end up doing a lot of “work” on this dude who will never appreciate it or you and you will be a big bitter loser in the end.

Now that I am committed to Red Flag-ing all applicable moments, I realize how man a regular Lazy Broad can encounter in her lifetime.

We dug some of the classics out of the vault for the purposes of education:

“I got into a bar fight last night. It was no big deal.”

“I kind of dated this girl for the last few years, well, I mean, we weren’t really dating. I don’t know what you’d call it.”

“I’m not working right now, but I have a birthday coming up, so, you know, that should bring in a little scratch.”

“I’m living off my music.” (when he lives on someone’s couch)

Now it’s your turn. Feel free to add to this list with your own RF moment…

Troy Dyer. Our poster boy for Red Flags.

Come To My Yard and Buy My Crap Sale

This Saturday I woke up early to “get a jump on the day” and my unusually chipper mood was ruined by the proliferation of Yard Sale signs I passed.

Let me preface the rest of this post by saying that I am probably 10% hoarder and 90% passionate collector of items that make me happy.  I wouldn’t say I’m “addicted” to the thrift store, but I do love the high I get off of colored tag discounts and half-off dress hour. You’d think I would be the first person to stop at any yard sale. I am! I mean, I was.

Now, it seems everyone has read the Real Simple or Reader’s Digest article about making/saving money in hard times by selling stuff at a garage sale.  Why is this so terrible?

Having a garage/yard sale used to be sort of an act of charity. You = comfortable older person getting rid of good condition home goods because they don’t fit the style of your contemporary modern house.  Me = struggling whatever person trying to NOT have to pay $12 for a new muffin pan at Target.  You get rid of the crap that is slightly used and “out of style” and I get your old stuff for 50 cents or a dollar. It’s a win-win!

Now, everyone seems to think their crap is “valuable.”  They want $35 dollars for that beat-up side table that no person in their right mind would pay $5 for.

Please do not anger me by making me turn down your street, drive ridiculously slowly by your yard and grimace at the piles of junky 90’s clothes you have laid out on a blanket.

Get into the mindset of the fat rich American you used to be and sell me something for a dollar before I drive by and whack you with your tidy sign.

Sorry I have been ignoring you. What excuses can I give? It’s been hectic, man. These are tough times. I had something clever to say about Halloween, I remember that.  I was going to write about how we (meaning me and Jazz) hate Halloween, in true curmudgeon fashion. Let me sum up that would-be post in one sentence: there’s something not-quite-right and creepy about grown ups in smeared makeup and shoved into overly sexualized costumes at the bank and grocery store.

Then there was my “dirty” 30th birthday in November. I was definitely planning a whiny post about my wrinkles,  jaded outlook on the next 10 years, and how my eggs are no damn good to anyone but myself.  And why do they call it “dirty” 30? I imagine you say it the way a rapper would, like “dirrr-tay,” but that doesn’t make it any less gross.

Now, we’re almost to the big X-mas (my mother says it’s sacrilegious to write it like that). Big X-mas 2009er.  I’ll spend this one in OH10, nearly my favorite place on earth, but that doesn’t belong to anyone except people who were born, raised, and/or survived its crippling depression (along with a few chosen honorary members). If you want to know where Tiny Tim is this year, he’s in Columbus Ohio scalping Rose Bowl tickets.

Speaking of the Rose Bowl, I’m going with my Dad and brother. That’s going to be interesting. I’ll try not to ask questions about the “rules” of the game which I don’t think I’ve ever fully understand.

So, here’s to 2010. Every year about this time, Jazz and I come up with a motto for the coming year. 2009 was “Two Thousand Mine!”  For 2010, I’m having trouble coming up with a pun. Insert sad face here!  So, I’ll put out half-baked motto and would love suggestions from (readers? are you there readers?).

2010: Don’t Look Back.

(Not as fun without a pun.Yes, I did just do that).

Over and out.

Rielle Hunter, arriving for a Grand Jury appearance on Aug 6

My mother always told me no man is worth sharing. It’s true. Being the other woman is not nearly as glamorous as it sounds. You have to be all sneaky, you can’t meet each other’s friends, and you don’t have a date when it counts, because on New Years your man probably has to go to some function with his real wife. Not to mention the fact that even though you have a boyfriend you still have to take out your own trash and put together your own Ikea furniture. What’s the point?

Lately a lot of boring, older white dudes have been in the news, surprising us with the fact that there are apparently all kinds of women out there just dying to be loved up by a married, middle-aged narcissist. This is hard for us to wrap our minds around. I mean, one, you know he’s in congress or the governor or whatever, so it’s going to come out. The ending is never happy. Eventually you are going to be on the news, and no matter what you wear everyone will have already made up their minds that you are a bad lady, even if you didn’t resort to extortion. So what’s in it for you?

A recent article in the NYTimes had this enlightening tidbit of information, revealed by the former aide to John Edwards who is spilling his book-deal beans:

“In the proposal…Mr. Young says that he assisted the affair by setting up private meetings between Mr. Edwards and Ms. Hunter. He wrote that Mr. Edwards once calmed an anxious Ms. Hunter by promising her that after his wife died, he would marry her in a rooftop ceremony in New York with an appearance by the Dave Matthews Band.”

There are a number of disturbing things going on here. One, a dude is promising to marry you as soon as his wife dies of aggressive cancer. Gross. Two, he’s placating you with the DMB. Are you a freshman in college circa 1996? Why is this remotely appealing to you?

Broads, don’t be too lazy to find a single man. Do it for the long-suffering wives of these wandering louts, but moreover, do it for yourself. Even if he’s not a high-profile politician. Especially if he’s not a high-profile politician. You deserve the whole man, not some paltry fraction.

1. Tori Spelling’s big face on subway posters.
2. Being hit by a taxi, bike messenger, and/or double-decker site-seeing bus.
3. Running into Tim Gunn on the sidewalk while wearing a really bad outfit.
4. The sound of a stream of pee hitting the subway platform behind us.
5. Losing our mediocre jobs.
6. Keeping our mediocre jobs for the rest of our mediocre lives.
7. Dropping our piece of crap new cell phone down a street grate. Or falling through the sidewalk into a bodega storeroom.
8. Sweaty tired tourists looking for bathrooms.
9. Losing what’s left of our idealism and taking a job with ‘analyst’ in the title just for the money.
10. Those creepy American Girl dolls and their lookalike fans roaming 5th Avenue.

Check out this hilarious blog: http://newyorkisridiculous.blogspot.com/

Lourdes Leon. Madonna's mini-me.

Fashion is so terrible right now. You know it’s bad when you go into a store and there is nothing, literally nothing, you want to buy. I know everyone thinks this shirt-as-dress and tights-as-pants thing is really hot, but it tends to look a little sloppy, and you can’t wear it to the office. Don’t be blinded by the cheap glare of that shiny gold belt. It may give you a waist, but you still look like you are in pajamas.

Come on, designers of the world. Stop messing around and make some clothes for the people.

Kimberly Stewart. Fashion victim

Cookie Monster, will you marry me?

Ladies, I’m fairly certain that Cookie Monster, everyone’s favorite Muppet, is my dream man, my soul mate–what else can I say? He completes me. Why? I’m a simple broad, and Cookie is a simple man, er, muppet.  He’s cuddly and gregarious, and has a singular ambition that I find admirable. Sure, his life’s passion is eating chocolate-chip cookies, but I’m willing to be a close second to this delectable treat. They’re freakin’ delicious, and it beats being second to his band and their fruitless attempts to be the next Pearl Jam, or his surfboard and the endless pursuit of the perfect wave.

Women state that a sense of humor is the most desirable trait in a man, and Cookie’s googly eyes always make me laugh. I’m over guys with complex beauty regimes and shrinking waistlines. Because this Monster knows what he wants out of life, and provided he can fit me into his cookie-eating schedule, I think we’ll work out fine.