If what?

Girls, think back to all the guys you dated, and I am sure we can all come up with that one guy who we did not end up with but would of, could of, should of. That is the "what if" guy. The guy that we wonder "what if...?" Then we hope one day we bump into this guy and he is big, bald and broke (dealbreaker, the 3 B's). Instead, we always seem to run into the "what if" guy when he is looking dashing, distinguished, and delicious (Don't you just love the "d" guy or the "d" on the guy) Sorry, back to our regularly scheduled program. So, why can't all the "what if" guys be shipped off to some deserted island? That way, there is never a chance of a run-in's when we are looking our worst. Either in sweaty sweats and a ponytail, or that recently hung over look as we are running out to buy some Pepto. But, I guess it would not be that fun if they all disappeared. Because, then we would have no one to call in case the current BF does not work out. Unfortunately, I screwed up my chances with my "what if" guy. I used up all my get out of jail free cards. Every time, I had a bad break up, boom speed dial baby! He must have figured me out or just got tired of being the back up man who never quite backs up into anything. You see, you can't really make the "what if" guy the "right now" guy. Everyone has their time and place. Kind of like the caste system, and there is no moving up or around (around and up well thats another thing). Ultimately, I might have to find a new back up plan. What if there is no what if?

Sing Fat Lady, Sing!

The phone rang at 1:30 am. This can't be a booty call, because all my men know anytime after midnight is sacred time. If your not in by the strike of dawn, your out. But this phone call was even better. "We settled!" said the screaming Greek. I have been waiting for this day for almost three years. The case we have been working on at the firm, has been the bane of my existence since I got hired. It taught me the meaning of 24 hour shifts, and made me realize that sleep is an unnecessary evil. The last 6 weeks (or even 6 months for that matter) have been even more difficult. I have sacrificed my soul to the devil. My health, my love life, my social life, and my studies have all suffered for this. However, I am a true believer of "no regrets". I will just look back at this as a great experience that has brought me a new appreciation of life, love, and school. I also know now that the corporate world of law is a cult, and if you are not ready to make a pact with Lucifer, then think twice. These next couple of weeks will be interesting, I will have the two BF's back (best and boy), and I will also be loosing them at the same time. Another hiccup in my life that I will just have to hold my breath through. Hopefully, after the last one, I am well prepared for anything thrown my way. Even if it is a two ton brick.

NY State of Mind

While sitting on the runway for about 30 minutes returning from my trip, I was still recuperating. Besides the dancing, drinking, and FAQ by border patrol in Windsor, I was still aching. Is there a muscle between the small of your back and your ass? Don't ask. Nevertheless, I am an avid believer of the saying "no pain, no gain." The funny thing is that this weekend the Detroit Marriott was the home to not only me, but also a "hair" convention. So my run-ins included a lot of tie-dyed bobs, and crew cut billys. But I still think that the worst was the infant on the floor of the hotel bar. You heard right. Apparently, in other parts of the United States, it is okay for you to bring your 6 month old to a loud, smoky bar and put him/her on the floor. I am guessing the parents were aiming for a real world experience, not relizing that by morning DYFS might be knocking on their door. This trip was anything but boring. Aside from the hours of "do not disturb" in the BF's hotel room, I did learn that I can def get used to hotel living. Turn down service, room service, bell boy service, bed boy service. All the luxuries of the rich life. Who can ask for anything more? However, Detroit Michigan is not the place I would want to have my hotel life. Besides, baby carpets and Anita Baker, I can't imagine Detroit offering me much else. Let us not forget the two restaurants within a mile radius (one which includes IHOP - is that a restaurant?), and the fact that the taxi drivers do speak English, but don't use meters. "Give me whatever you want." Great way to earn a living buddy! No wonder this city is dying of poverty. Well, I am back home now, with my non-English speaking taxi drivers that instead jack up the meter, and give me advice on bearing children. "Those hips, good for babies, yah"
I love NY.

Top 10 countdown

At this time on Thursday, I will be sitting on the plane waiting to take off to my exotic island in the west. Okay, I am really flying off to the state of Michigan, but it can't hurt to dream a little. Besides, I probably will not be leaving the confines of the Detroit Marriott for at least 48 hours. So, that will be my private island "room 6969." When I am ready to come up for air (literally), I will probably be hitting the town of Detwa. For all of you who are not familiar with the motor city. A little Detroit trivia. I am told that besides being named the "most dangerous city in the US", it is also known to be the home of William J. Putte. Who? He is one of the top 10 richest and wealthiest Michiganers, according to Forbes magazine. Mr. Putte is not only worth 1.5 billion, but also has 14 children who will be fighting for a piece of that when he kicks the bucket. At the young age of 72, he might not be around much longer to enjoy his riches or enjoy making anymore kids for that matter. But for the past few years, he has done well for himself, moving up in the ranks of the most wealthiest men in the U.S. and in Michigan (#6 in MI, and #437 in U.S. - not bad grandpa!) However, they are not revealing the ages or names of his children, so it will be almost impossible for me to set up a chance meeting with his oldest son. Oh yeah!Almost forgot, money can't buy love. Sorry, just a slight case of withdrawal symptons. The fact of the matter is, I will be too busy enjoying my midwestern in the midwest to even think of anyone else. Not to mention, he is well on his way of making the top 10 in my book.

I will always love youuuuu!

The other night, I spent hours listening to cheezy love songs. No, I am not in love or depressed. However, by the end of my cheese session, I was. Depressed, that is. Depressed, that people listen to this stuff. I want to believe someone has got to like these songs. Such as Bryan Adams "everything I do for you", or Richard Marx "right here waiting. Let's not forget Meatloaf with "I will do anything, but I won't do that." Which has now become a soda commercial. Is that what happens to these bad love songs? They either make their way into a wedding or two over the years, or magically pop up on a car commercial between bad sitcoms on WB. It is sad that the people who write the lyrics are pouring their heart and soul into these songs, and years later they end up on VH1's best worst songs. Well, there is always that 15 year old who will dedicate it to her boyfriend of the moment, or who listens to it over and over again eating a box of bom-boms while crying over a recent break up. Was that me 6 months ago...? Well I am definitely not 15 yrs old, but I also must have a heart of stone. Because the only songs I listened to were Judas Priest's "cheater", and my personal favorite by Three Days Grace "I hate everything about you." I think it was good therapy. The last thing I needed was to end up on America's Most Wanted. It would have been hard to explain that one to the ABA. Even though, we were told at school, that the ABA is usually lenient toward public urination. So maybe they would have overlooked a minor public castration. Hey, you never know! The good news, I moved on. For a couple of months now, it seems the only thing on my playlist is the background music on (S)Cinemax. I think that is much healthier. I am sure so does the new beau ;)

Can't buy me love

"Hello stranger." That's what the man in the black leather jacket said as I was entering my garage. Who would have thought that in the middle of Hell's Kitchen at 10:00 p.m. at night, I would run into an ex-boyfriend. In a city of over 8 million residents, it would be my luck to bump into another ex that bit the dust. It has been about 9 years since I remember sitting in Union Square telling this guy "it's not you, it's me." Here he was, looking exactly the same, and I was wondering if he thought the same about me. This ex was the last of the Mohicans. Not only was he the last unemployed guy I dated. He also happened to be the last Hispanic guy I dated. Hispanic, unemployed, I can see the hate mail piling up on this one! The truth of the matter is, like a drug, I got a taste of the little luxuries in life. And before I knew it, I was addicted. Before I could stop myself, I was making dinner plans at a 5 star restaurant on Park Ave with the director of my company, and breaking the heart of my handy man on 14th street. What had happened to me? I was hooked. It took years of fancy dinners, diamond rings, lavish vacations, and many broken hearts later for me to realize that it was not worth it. This break up 9 years ago took me down a road of endless lies, and countless accounts of infidelity. You see, all these high powered men had no choice but to shower me with gifts, because their conscience was eating them alive. Since handyman, they all had cheated. Not because I was not good enough, but because they could. They could get away with it, because there were so many other women out there like me. Who would overlook the flaw of being unfaithful, so long as it came with an "I'm sorry" and a Cartier bracelet. What I learned is, all I have to show for it is a jewelry box full of things I will never wear, and an expensive pallet for good food and clothes. Things I learned now, I can easily buy for myself. What I could not buy was the look on handyman's face as he told me about the new construction job he got on Liberty street, and how he wanted me to meet his girlfriend of four years. Handyman had it all. So I stand here wondering...Is the new BF exactly what I needed all along? And even if he isn't, at least I will be able to walk away having learned that the most expensive gift in the world can't be bought on Fifth Ave. It can be found right here in Hell's Kitchen.

It's not you, It's me...

The past two weeks, I have been living a double life. I have spent everyday telling one guy I am doing something else, when in reality I am seeing the other guy. I hate this web of lies, and I know one of them is on to me. I can't help it, but the lies are eating me alive. Each one of them has so much to offer. Why should I have to be monogamous? I might have to do the sit down this weekend, and tell Henry it's over. I am a disgrace. I'm broker cheating.
Yep, you heard right. I have two brokers at the same time. I did not know that this business was like a relationship. Once you make a commitment to one broker, you should not be with another one. I find it double standard, because brokers have so many different clients. They are players! They are allowed to have many partners, but we can only have one. Why is that? I never knew looking for an apartment in NYC would stress me out as much as dating in NYC. Is it not bad enough that we have commitment issues with men, now I have to have it with my brokers. What if I can't decide? What if I want to play the real estate field? I wonder who made these rules. Perhaps it is the same women who made the rules on when it is okay to sleep with a guy, and how long it should take to get over an ex (please see second blog entry for further explanation). In the end, I have decided to stay with the one who gives me the most attention, cares about my needs, listens to what I want, believes in honesty and communication. Yes, we are still talking brokers. But I guess it is like choosing a BF, you should never settle for less. That is why this time the nice guy doesn't finish last. Bye Henry!

Will you marry me?

The past two weeks, I have spent most of my free time looking at apts in NYC. As a (sudo) single girl, who wouldn't want to live in the big apple. Especially, with all the ripe ones ready to be picked! In my search for a decent living space, I have been introduced to 12th floor walk ups, pre-war buildings that should have went down with the war, and no pet apartments (who wouldn't love Spikey?) I say, they should have a no child policy in some of these buildings. I much rather have to deal with dogs in the elevator then having to deal with a 2 yr old kicking and screaming because they want to press the button. I have been quite disappointed with the selection of 700 sq foot apts. God forbid, I would like to open my door without it hitting the toilet, or knocking over the dishes in the kitchen sink. Recently, I did find a great two bedroom by Central park, but to my dismay I would probably have to sell my first born to afford the monthly payments. Not that I am opposed to giving up my child, but I would hate having to deal with the talk around the table at Thanksgiving. So, I have decided that the only smart thing to do in order to be able to move into NYC is to get married. No, no, not for love. Come on, let's not be hasty! I just figured, there are so many financial reasons why you should get married. Not only do you get tax benefits if your married, but you also get to split the mortgage and the down payment 50%. Then when you get divorced, you get your 50% back as well as his too. Sounds like a great return on your investment if you ask me! I mean of course you have the dilemma of always having to sleep with the same guy everyday. Imagine someone told you, for the rest of your life you had to eat the same bowl of cheerios everyday. I mean you got to admit, sometimes you just want to go honey nut one day. Nevertheless, I am sure the positives outweigh the negatives, and if they don't. Just remember, life insurance, a good balcony, and your all set.

This is a test of the emergency broadcast system; this is only a test

Do we all have panic buttons? You know that little part in the back of your mind where you store all the things that scare you about the person you are dating. Gotta keep that button handy, just in case. For example "I just wrote a love song that won a VH1 award about my ex-fiance." (sorry dru) Warning! The girl not only had a fiancee, but she also wrote a love song about him. (love song worthy guy is tough competition) And I bet you it wasn't one of those hate songs like Alanis Morissette "You oughta know." For women, our panic buttons can be a range of comments like "I will never get married", or "I slept with my ex's sister (or ex's best friend)". I even remember I dated a Jewish guy once, and he told me "I need a nice Jewish girl". Bling! Bling! Did anyone else not see that panic button? Well I finally got it, and pressed it for a quick evacuation. The ejector seat almost didn't work, but I managed to get out without a scratch. You see, we all have reasons to bail. We may not see it at first, due to the lust, I mean dust, in our eyes. Girls, please do not discuss past lovers, and especially how good the past lovers were in bed (and definitely do not discuss size or girth). Men, should not discuss the fact that they want to be bachelors forever (even if true), and they definitely should not mention the great rack on your cousin (bad move). You see, some things are better left unsaid. Women will never reveal the fact that when they are dating a guy, they go home, and secretly think about which drawer he would get if he ever moved in. Panic! Panic! Men, run as fast as you can and please don't look back. The funny thing is while men probably never admit it, they are actually secretly thinking of which clothes they would bring for that drawer :) So lets all continue this game of charades, and keep our panic buttons handy for the quick exit if necessary.

Gym hours: 9-5 p.m.

So I am planning a trip to go see my best friend and the non-Asian BF in lovely motor city. I have never been so excited. My best friend, the Greek, is loosing her mind and needs a little TLC. (And so does the BF-he just doesn't realize it). In about 3-4 months, the Greek will be taking off to Asia. I know, the past few blogs have had a little too much Asian fetish. Well, her fiancee is from Hong Kong, so she will be moving soon. It is so romantic, moving to the other side of the world for the man she loves. Someone needs a fairytale ending. It might as well be her, she deserves it. As for me, well I am going to miss her terribly. But I figure I can purchase lots of Asian miles (yes, there is a thing called Asian miles. But I don't know if those miles look Asian or come in yellow form. That's for you K(azn) my biased Chinese friend) and fly whenever I want. Not to mention, she told me about this place in China where you can get a $10 massage for 3 hours. I pray that it has a "happy ending." The way I'm going lately. If this dry spell continues any longer, I might need to start a brothel in my apt. At this point, I will take whatever I can get my hands or legs around. I have been trying to stay away from my battery operated friend in order to save myself (and my energy) for that weekend. So, I have decided to start Kegel exercises. I am told not only does it make your BF's parts seem larger, but it allows you to orgasm quicker, and increases pleasure for him too. Who would have known, such a small muscle can do so much! That's what I used to tell myself years ago when I was dating shorty (another blog). I wonder if men can do exercises? I once saw a tv show where a bunch of Asian men (there's the fetish again) tied their private parts to a car and pulled it up a hill. Ouch, that's gotta hurt! I am told it has to be hard to get ripped off. Which means all of these men had to think pure thoughts. But then again, with 20 other hot, smelly, sweaty men, who could get aroused. Anyway, gotta run. I got some workouts to do. And a one, a two, a three....

According to the surgeon general, consumption of alcohol impairs your ability to control your fingers.

All dressed up, and single. What a Bice! This Italian restaurant is another on the preferred list of mine, and described by Zagats as the place to go "when looking for a rich businessman". You can tell they are accurate as the dress code that evening seemed to be navy blue suit, white shirt and tie. Nevertheless, after two bottles of Chianti, instead of focusing on the ineligible rich businessman that I was sharing dinner with, I was drunk dialing (or drunk texting) the Midwestern. After I specifically swore not to let my guard down again. This was after Monday's talk of "rhythms" and "space". The games we play! But as you can see, the brick laying job is not doing so well after a few drinks. No wonder they say not to operate heavy machinery while intoxicated. They know how dangerous a cell phone can be on a Friday night. After dinner, I played it safe took a car home, alone, and called it a night. The next day, the Asian boyfriend was the one drunk dialing me. Isn't he great? I keep him around, because if I ever think I am going to get any of that from the Midwestern. You'd have a better chance of catching me on St. Mark's place, Sat night, drinking a beer, without a glass. Regardless, I have gotten accustomed to splitting the boyfriends. (Oops, sorry I dropped the BF. Was that dust I just saw?). The Asian is good for BF things like apt hunting, and watching chick flicks together. While the other one, let's just say it would be a crime to turn your back on such amazing....Conversations of course ;) Unfortunately, we all know the truth. As much as I like to act like I don't care. I do have more than just a g-spot for the non-Asian BF. Shhh, don't tell him, it would ruin my reputation.

K's rolf por detrás

My temp Asian boyfriend (because I don't have a perm American boyfriend-any volunteers?) was rolfed last week. I know that sounds like some dirty homoerotic episode, but it really is a massage. This therapy is said to restructure both physical and psychological problems. They awaken past trauma by massage. I can't imagine wanting to pay someone to stir up past emotional trauma for me. How is that a pleasant experience? When I think of a massage, I think of some hot young muscular man with his strong large hands massaging my breasts. Oops! Wrong massage. What I really meant is I usually think of laying down in a spa bed, relaxed, getting all the stress out of of my body, not back into it! The last thing I want is for a massage to alter my mood back to a worse mood then when I walked in the door. Not to mention, that now I also have to pay $100 to have done that. If I wanted to get some psychological stress awoken in my body, I could just drink myself into a frenzy or have a session at my shrink and call it a day. I already have enough problems with the idea of paying someone to listen to me whine and complain about my life just for them to tell me I have issues. No kidding! I knew that before I laid down on that sofa. For me, my best form of therapy is dropping $300 at Stuart Weitzman not $300 at Dr. Weitzman. So I guess I wont be getting rolfed anytime soon. But I will be getting wolfed soon, but that's another blog for another day.

Wanted Skilled Stonemasons for Long Term Project

All my life, I have always thought of myself as in control. In control of my job, my school, friends, boyfriends.. Which is probably why most people in my life don't have control over anything in theirs (except you Jet Lee). Hear me out, before all my friends start bailing on me. What I am trying to say is, I have always liked being the one who tries to "help" people, when in the end the only person that really needed help is me. Okay, are you all back now? Whew! Yep, so you heard me right folks. This whole time I was in faux control. Because if I really did have things under control, then why do people keep telling me what I really need is someone else "just" like me? Obviously, I'm not very good at controlling my subliminal messages. Who the hell wants two of "me?" It's kind of like putting the batteries into the remote with the two plus signs facing together. It ain't going to work! Maybe if people weren't so busy offering up the spot to someone else, they would notice there is no 'pass on go'. It is more like loose your turn, and you give your die to the person on your right. Nobody realizes this, because like Mary Poppins I always seem to be sugar coating everything. When in reality I just wanted to be all I can be (no army jokes please) so that no one would have a reason not to be with me. Makes sense? Well, I'm sure most of you psych majors are nodding your heads. However, based on the high turnover rate in my life, I have decided to change career paths. Ladies, and gentlemen, I have chosen to take up brick laying in my older years, and I seem to be damn well good at it. Who would have known? Well, I guess after all these years of hanging out on the construction site, I seemed to pick up the skill pretty darn well. So there is a happy ending, because I am back to being in control of the most important item in my life. For those of you still up for the challenge, you better start learning how to work a jack hammer.