Does Debbie

Friday, April 29, 2005

Nosy Men

When a woman goes on a date, it is assumed that any and all details of the date can and will be revealed to the woman's girl friends. What did you eat? What kind of shoes was he wearing? Did you have sex with him?

On the other hand, as macho as guys claim to be, we know that the only question one is asked by his friends after aforementioned date is usually "did you get laid?" "cool."

It is this unspoken assumption that now has me in a conundrum. You see, my friend Zucko, who happens to be male and single, oddly possesses the female date-question hormone. Everytime I go on a date, and Zucko happens to know about it, I am placed on the witness stand. Debbie, did you hook up? what did you do? did you have sex with him? Why not? Why?
While I have no problem sharing my slutiness (or quite often, lack of) with my girls, I find something very creepy about Zucko's line of questioning. I have been trying to gain insight into just why he wants to know what I do sexually. He is not attracted to me (at least not that I think,) we have never hooked up (not do I intend to) and by asking what I do leads to him knowing the sexual doings of a total MALE stranger to him. But it's not just me. Zucko asks all his female friends (and male friends) the same questions after a date.

I have decided not to answer Zucko's questions anymore, which initially angered him. But we now have an unspoken agreement between us over which questions are off-limits. I'm sure Zucko's other girl friends have adapted similar procedures.

Of course, Zucko breaks the rules and mildly inquires whether orgasms were exchanged on my date. And I send Zucko male homosexual pamphlets.

Wednesday, April 27, 2005

Kissing Lessons

The evolution of kissing is quite similar to that of mankind. With the latter, man evolved from primal beast to sophisticated human. Granted, that didn't occur over night, or even over the course of 30 years. But there was improvement.

Kissing, or rather, one's style with kissing takes a similar route. I'm sure we can all remember the confused, awkward attempts during 6th grade parties. Then, of course, there were the "keep your tongue in the other person's mouth for minutes" phase in high school. College we were too drunk to kiss. And now in our adult, or post-college life, we have all mastered the kiss. The slow, not too much saliva, not too much tongue, not too long, use your lips kiss. I was proven wrong on that one, unfortunately.

A little while ago I was on a second date with Toad and I knew that the night was going to end with a little smooching. All the signs were there from the hand holding at dinner to the mention of future dates. This man was puddy. I was looking forward to the kiss. Given I was unsure of my feelings, the spark, or lack thereof would be a fantastic sign from the dating Gods.

The moment came. And I wanted to die. Toad broke all the rules. He did that gross "darting tongue" movement. I felt like an alien from "V." Talk about no sparks! There was definitely NOT going to be a third date with him. But Toad was a nice guy, and very cute, so I thought I would help him with this situation. I decided to give him kissing lessons.

Yup, I immediately pointed out his strengths and weaknesses, and we practiced until he got it right (thankfully it was under 20 minutes.) I made sure Toad understood when to use what kiss maneuver and for how long. I made sure that when he left that night no woman would ever have to experience what I went through.

Go get 'em Toad!

Friday, April 22, 2005

One Lump Sum

Unless you live in a peanut shell, you know what Mega Millions is. But what you might not know is that the jackpot is currently over $200 million dollars. As this week marched on, and no winners arose from the $100+ million and $150+ million jackpots, the country's dollars continue to fuel the fire.

I'll admit it- I really don't play lottery games because as I have stated before, "if I didn't have bad luck I'd have no luck." However, there is something alluring about the prospect of $200 million. Which is quite silly because a mere $2 million win would alter my life in numerous ways. But like most, I wait until the jackpot gets ridiculously large to play.

This is where the absurdity of the situation climaxes. Upon the purchase of the ticket(s), the lovely corner deli attendant asks if you would like "26 annual payments or one lump song." Knowing that the $200 million is not worth $200 million in 26 years, the obvious choice is one lump sum, whopping taxes included. For that brief second, you ponder the receipt of millions and millions. Your mind (or at least mine) processes the possibility that because you are selecting how you will receive the money, you might actually win the money.

So when the woman at the Corner Drug Store asked me about my lump sum, flashes of ideas swarmed my brain. Of course I would quit my job the next morning. Yes I would become a professional blogger, or write a book or something like that. You bet that apartment in Gramercy Park would be mine- key to park to boot.

But like the millions who played Mega Millions that night, my numbers were not pulled. I won't get that apartment (unless I marry rich of course) or become a world-reknown author. I did not win.

Am I going to play again tonight? Of course! Only so I can be asked whether I want 26 annual payments or one lump sum.

Thursday, April 21, 2005

For Whom Do I Wear?

I was recently out for dinner with one of my guy friends, and I showed him my latest purchase (a fantastic silver Balenciaga bag that I bought on eBay for under $200. Kudos to me!) While he was able to feign interest, we began to discuss the excitement men get over women's handbags (or shall I say, lack of) and for whom do women hope to impress with them.

This, of course, led to a debate over handbags, shoes, and clothing. Actually, it was more of a light-shedding discussion. Just why do women spend hundreds of dollars on designer handbags? Men surely won't find them sexy. And why do women take pleasure in purchasing the most comfortable pair of Uggs, flats, or even those $2 Chinese slippers. Again, men surely won't find them sexy. And I am not saying that women should buy things for anyone but themselves. But admit it, women do dress to impress. The question is, who?

We came to the following conclusion:

Women buy clothes to impress men, handbags to impress other women, and shoes for their own pleasure. Agree?

Friday, April 15, 2005

Commissioner's Son

I have never dated a guy for who he is or what connections he has. I must admit, however, that there came a time where I almost fell off my seat when I found out exactly who Eric was, my date for a Tuesday, last June.

A few weeks prior, my friend Alicia was having a party (occasion forgotten) which I of course attended. There were fantastic dark chocolate covered pretzels, my friend Shira came with me to the party, and at around 1 in the morning, this cute guy walked in. Eric and I chatted for a little while. But it was getting late and I was getting tired. Eric asked for my card, I gave it to him, and home I went.

Eric wrote me an email a few weeks later, and we got the basics out of the way: age, address, college... Eric then told me what he did for a living (at the time he was moving some baseball team to Mexico) and told me to Google him. Of course I was going to Google him anyway, but now I had more information to help narrow my search.

Eric ___, baseball, Mexico-- hit enter.

It turned out that Eric was the son of the NBA Commissioner. Even though basketball is my least favorite professional sport, I was impressed. Knicks tickets. Lakers tickets. Hey, probably tickets to anything under the sun. But I was going out with Eric based on the impression from meeting him, nothing else (attempt at honesty here.) But all my guy friends were hoping for a marriage out of this one.

Date, blah, blah, blah. We had a great time. He was quite interesting, funny and cute. And he liked me. So much, in fact, that he wanted to see me the next night. That never happened as I had plans, and then he went out of town for a little while, and we all know how those things go. And then he wrote me a pervy email and that was the end.

And I never even made it to a Knicks game.

Saturday, April 09, 2005

Wrong Bra

To the owner of this email (and one of my friends,) I hope you don't mind that I am sharing this with the masses. You will remain anonymous, I swear. I just thought that your email was too damn funny to be enjoyed only by me (and the two other people you sent it to.) How often do your friends tell you that they have been wearing the wrong bra size for 20 years??!!

"Just went to a nice bra store and found out I'm not a 36DD, I'm a 34F bordering on being a 32F. Some of the bras had to be taken in. I guess I kept going up in # when I was supposed to go up in cup size. I was always too embarrassed to wear such a big size but it really made a huge difference in fit and comfort.

I'm recommending for everyone I know to get checked out.

Off to XXXX tomorrow with my new 34F boobs. Hope you have a good week."

May getting your boobs measured be a lesson to all!!

Friday, April 08, 2005

Where Are We Runnin'?

I hope that everyone gets to experience one of those surreal NYC moments. You know, the times when you are clinking glasses at the same party as Donald Trump and Mayor Guiliani. Or seeing a blockbuster movie being filmed in front of your apartment. Or even walking through Gramercy Park at dusk, when the flowers are blooming, the crickets are starting to chirp, and you can actually smell nature at it's best (and I'm not referring to bodily functions.)

I feel lucky to have had many magical New York moments; one in particular occurred last year. I had received a random email alerting me to an upcoming video production of a Lenny Kravitz video, looking for extras. They were shooting the "Where Are We Runnin'?" video on an early Sunday evening at the Hammerstein ballroom. Figuring the worse that could happen was I showed up and it was a fluke or too crowded, I embarked to the ballroom, sister Jessica and friend Robyn in tow.

Being the superstar that she is, Robyn donned her Dior sunglasses and a funky jacket: she needed to stand out in the video. Jessica and I wore bright red tank tops. When we got to the ballroom we saw we were in for a treat: a nice long line. But alas, we were allowed in and were ushered to the sixth floor, where the stage was.

At first, we were not permitted to come within 10 feet of the stage, and had to line up behind the rope, pretending that we were fans at a Lenny Kravitz video. The next thing you know, the ropes were removed and people were charging the stage to be as upfront and personal as possible. We scored. While not in the first row, we were less than 5 feet back. Mind you, people were pushing and screaming, and there was no music, or worse, no Lenny Kravitz.

Then the most incredible thing happened: Lenny walked out on stage. He talked to us. He sang to us. He had that long straight hair at the time and was wearing spurs and a fringy vest. He still looked hot. The video was shot of us cheering him on at a concert while he was onstage "performing" to the music. They even gave out a handful of disposable cameras to take pictures during the concert.

Our whole "video extra" experience lasted about two hours. And when the video came out a few months later, if you play it in slow motion, you can see Robyn's hand in the air, and a glimpse of my sister's hair. And maybe, but we're not sure, you can see me wave.

Monday, April 04, 2005

In Memory

On blog vacation this week eating chicken parmesan, in memory of Frank Purdue and The Pope.