Does Debbie

Friday, April 28, 2006

Super Heroes

The conversation started innocently enough:

Debbie: "What are you wearing?"

The Man: "A tutu. What are you wearing."

Debbie: "Not funny. I'm wearing Wonder Woman pajamas."

The Man: "Do you have the invisible plane?"

Debbie: "The invisible what? No, I have invisible handcuffs."

The Man: "What kind of super hero are you?"

Debbie: "I'm an S&M Superhero. I'm Wicked Wonder Woman. And you can be Boner Batman."

The conversation went downhill after that...

Wednesday, April 26, 2006

The Lowest Common Denominator

I have reached a new low in my celebrity-obsession. For some reason, reading Perez Hilton, PopSugar, and People Magazine online DAILY has not fully satisfied me. Hell, event my Us Weekly still leaves something missing. But I found a new site, and I feel good. Gawker Stalker.

Yes, I too, can now become a celebrity stalker. Because with this site, I can see who was where and when. For example, Adrian Brody was near my office this week, and Rob Lowe was downtown. And it doesn't stop there. If for some reason I want to actually go to the location (I promise my obsession will not go this far) there is a Google Map identifying the specific address. Now I can finally learn where Pine Street is!!

But I guess the larger question at hand is why do I even care? Do I feel something missing in my life that leads me to live vicariously through others? Do I really give a shit if Britney is knocked up again and Brangelina are in Africa? Apparently, I do.

I'm not the only one. In a recent New York Magazine, there was a whole article on celebrity obsession. Do we care because it is ubiquitous, or is it ubiquitous because we care? Hmmm, talk amongst yourselves.

Tuesday, April 25, 2006

He Says, She Says

What are you thinking?

Does Debbie said:

When it comes to sex, it is the unspoken words that matter. After all, how many times has one accidentally professed their love when they really meant to thank them for teaching that new position. But what women think about, and what men think they think about are probably two very different things. Same goes for what men think about (although I am convinced that they don't think.)

The Devil said:

Of course we think. We just aren't always thinking about you. I mean, if we were to have sex after an episode of Lost, it is 50/50 Kate is in that bed with us. That is just the truth. And like most things I say, it is just what people don't want to admit. And, you know what? If you are doing the same with Sawyer, god bless. Or better yet, if you are thinking about going down on Kate and her nails digging into your head also..... Now there would be the difference. For those women who have confided in me their desire to be with another woman (or that they have), I believe that experience is completely different for men and women. While you might be picturing Sawyer throwing you around as much as I have fantasized about tossing Evangeline Lilly onto her stomach and... well, um, you get the point...

Shit where was I? Ok. From what I hear, the difference that when women are together, the don't fuck. They make love. The explore each other.. They are so tender...blah, blah, blah. Men fuck. We may do something resembling "making love" on special occasions and if James Blunt is playing. But those are the "unspoken words that matter." Because while we will do it from time to time, it is simply not discussed after. Just go to sleep and act like nothing ever happened. My policy on this can be found here... The Rules.

Does Debbie said:

First of all- women don't make love. The only thing cheesier than making love is Artisinal on 32nd Street. Women do the same thing men do. We f*ck (we just can't type it as easily as you can.) Secondly- women really don't fantasize. Sawyer, Dr. McDreamy, hell, even Jack Bauer have never appeared in bed with The Man and I. You want to know what women think about when they are in bed: ONE THING- having an orgasm.

Yup, the cat's out of the bag. Given that our parts are not on auto drive like a man's, having an orgasm takes work. Concentration. And while a woman's brain runs a mile a minute and we're able to think about that one date in 1998 at the same time as the Oprah Book Club, sex is all about the end result. It is not about figuring out if men love us, or if we are doing a good job. We know that a man (a quality man I should add) is all about pleasing a woman, and we feel the pressure. It's all about the O.

Coming soon: While editing this, Scott asks Debbie what she is wearing and tries to engage her in cyber-sex. Debbie says it is a form of cheating......

Monday, April 24, 2006

Manners are Overrated

They say that after ten years of living in NYC, you are a true New Yorker. I'm not sure who "they" is and I'm not sure what becoming a "true New Yorker" means, but I do know one thing has changed in the 10 1/2 years that I have lived here: I have become ruder. Correction, I have altered my definition of what rude means. Let me share an example:

The other day, I was coming home from work, and about to enter my apartment building (which is secured by two double doors that both require the same key.) My bag was heavy, my keys were at the bottom of my purse, and fortunately, there was a man exiting the building as I was entering. I waited a second or two for Mr. Man to open the door and leave, and then I entered while the door was still open. "You're welcome," escaped Mr. Man's lips as he departed the building. What the fuck did I need to thank him for? A) He was leaving the building. B) He needed to open the door anyway. C) I was on the phone.

I conducted a survey over the weekend to gauge the manners required for such a common situation. The results were mixed. Some felt that a thank you should have been delivered, while others took my side.

The sad thing is, if I lived in Sioux City, I might have said thank you. But I'm a New Yorker, and frankly, manners are overrated.

Thursday, April 20, 2006

Stress Management

At work, we just had this "consultant" come into our office and give us an hour presentation on stress management. He covered all the basics: the physical symptoms of stress, the emotional ones, blah, blah, blah. Nothing new was learned- I just went for the free pizza.

However, in the middle of the presentation, he began discussing exercise, and I made the mistake of asking, before a room full of co-workers, whether it was dangerous to go the gym if you are tired (thinking you might pull a muscle easier.) Mr. Consultant then asked me how often I exercise and how long each time. "3-4 times a week, 45 minutes to an hour each time," came out of my mouth, which was only a half-lie. Half the time I exercise 3-4 times a week, half the time I don't. But I surely didn't want the 94 co-workers in the room with me thinking I was a lazy shit.

At one point, Mr. Consultant referred to our jobs as 9-5 and the room started laughing. He mentioned that one of his clients does his crunches daily. Again, more laughter. And he asked how many of us eat at our desks? I was beginning to feel like we were at a comedy club.

Finally, at 1:29 I began to feel my heart racing and my shoulders ache. After all, I was going to be late for my 1:30 conference call.

On a completely unrelated note, my friend Scott has kindly requested that I plug his upcoming fundraiser for the Get Together Foundation.

Tuesday, April 18, 2006

No Telling

Last week, as you know, the man and I were in Florida for Passover. One night, we drove down to Miami to see one of my good friends from college, Tits, and to spend the night at a hotel. We checked out The Standard, which was pretty cool.

I should note that as we were leaving his parent's house in Boynton Beach, the car keys were handed to me. You see, the man's parents had more confidence in my driving their car, then their own son. Which was fine by me, as I enjoy driving. Driving a '91 Buick...hmmm, not so sure.

Anyway, the drive down was uneventful despite the Friday night traffic. The hotel was great, the hotel bar at the new Setai hotel is the most incredible thing I have ever seen, and the weather rocked. It was unfortunate that our getaway was limited to less than 24 hours.

As we were leaving Miami on Saturday afternoon, I had a strong, sudden craving for Dairy Queen. Driving down Alton, I made a left on 15th street, and pulled into a mini parking lot. We quickly ran across the street to DQ, ordered our Blizzards or whatever they're called, and left. Only to find something missing in the parking lot.... his parents car.

I was dying. I thought the car was stolen. The man flagged down a cop car while I ran into the Dunkin Donuts next to the lot, to see if anyone saw anything. Turns out, the bastards in the city of Miami towed the car, because the lot I parked in was NOT for DQ patrons, but ONLY for the fatsos eating Pizza Hut and D&D.

Oh, I forgot to add that all our luggage was in the car.

The man and I trekked to the tow lot 7 blocks away (in silence as I felt that a joke at the time was somewhat inappropriate and might result in my walking back to Boynton Beach.) The car was there, and for $210, it was ours. That was, until I opened my big mouth and told the f*cker behind the counter that I was NOT paying as we were only gone from the car for 8 minutes, and we were going to go into D&D after DQ. That was not a smart move as the asshole then proceeded to tell me that we could only get the car back with a certified letter mailed from the man's father. Which would take 2 days. And clearly not an option.

The man took over immediately and did that thing that men do... that smooth talking thing (just as it works to get us in bed, it worked to get the car back.) Whew!

Although my DQ ice cream ended up costing me $217, I can laugh about this now. Sort of. But we are not telling his parents, so.... SHHHHH.

Monday, April 17, 2006

Ready for Retirement

I just spent 6 days in South Florida, and I am ready to quit my job, pack my bags, and move to Century Village just like Rodney Rothman did in his autobiography, Early Bird. I could live the life with ease: leisurely breakfast, shuffleboard, swimming, early dinner, and crossword puzzles. The most stressful decision of my day would be whether I wanted my matzah ball soup with or without noodles.

But unfortunately, I have 30 more years of working ahead of me, before I am able to live tax-free off a Roth401K, receive Medicare, and join a summer camp for adults. Damn.

On a separate note, Cheree, my ice skate seller, sent me an IM this morning. It turns out that her mother had googled her, and came across my blog. YIKES. Again, my blog got me in trouble. It seems that mother and daughter did not appreciate the reference to Cheree as a stripper. She told me that she was not, in fact, a stripper. She just posed for Playboy once. Anyway, Cheree is cool, and we IM occasionally (and I love the ice skates) so I adhered to her request to delete the stories about her.

Monday, April 10, 2006

On Vacation

So tomorrow I am heading to the Jewish capital of the world, Southern Florida, with the man, to celebrate Passover with his family. All 17 of them.

Technically, I am on vacation today, and am going to the spa to use my Valentine's Day gift, which includes a manicure, pedicure, massage and facial.

Ahhh, life is good.

More to come Monday, April 17th. Happy Passover!

Thursday, April 06, 2006

Warning Sign

With the number of deaths rising from random acts of life (e.g. tripping on the subway platform and unfortunately getting killed by an approaching train) in the news every day, it is no surprise to see more warnings on things. For example:

There is a big orange HEALTH WARNING on my new keyboard at work. When I first noticed it, I pondered what it could be for. Perhaps they thought I might strangle myself with the cord after a bad call with the client. Or perhaps I might throw the damn thing at my office mate. There is nothing on the keyboard that I could choke on, so that wasn't it. My curiosity got the better of me, and I turned over the keyboard to read the warning sticker on the back. Duh. Carpel tunnel.. blah blah blah... tingling... here's a website for healthy typing... Interesting as my keyboard is one of those raised, ergonomic ones.

The warning makes sense, but I think there are a few other items that deserve a big orange sticker. Like on a cruise boarding ticket. Or on a CD plastic case (that should contain warnings of mental instability from trying to open.) Hmmm, let me think of others and I'll get back to you.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

Madonna Presale

Finally, at age 32, I fully understand the thrill of the chase. Why we want what we can't have. Why we don't want something until it is denied. And I have the Material Girl, aka Madge, to thank.

Yesterday, Madonna's summer tour dates were announced, and a presale was planned for her fan club members. They would receive a secret password to get the tickets this morning. Tickets to the general public don't go on sale until Monday. Now, I have never seen Madonna in concert and really want to, before she decides to just become a Kaballah rabbi, or retire.

Ok, fan club it is! My office mate paid the $38 and away we went.... only to find out that the passwords were given to fan club members who joined BEFORE Monday, the day the concert was announced. So basically we shelled out $38 for a T-shirt and mug.

What I wanted, of course, was the damn password. Craig's List should have it! Or so I, and about 25 others hoped, with no avail. I went a step forward- I starting posting messages on her fan club's website, in the creepy chat room (talk about CRAZY Madonna fans.) I begged, I pleaded, I was shit outta luck.

Until Jason, a random guy from Craig's List came along. It seems that there is another pre-sale happening before Monday, and Jason has the secret passcode. And he is sending it to me! It may be too good to be true. And it may be pointless anyway- it's not like I can afford the $350 tickets.