Life Lesson #4: Hard Candy Coating, Sweet Tootsie-Roll Center: Girls are Suckers

I feel that DVR has got to be one of the top five greatest inventions to come out in the past few years. That Segway thing is so overrated - it’s all about taping countless hours of 90210 reruns and The Biggest Loser. Watch it whenever you want, fast forward through bad commercials, pause to make yourself another cocktail, rewind when you realize you haven’t been paying attention for the last three minutes. Awesome.

I had gone out for dinner with some friends on Thursday night and had missed the slew of great shows the evening had to offer: My Name is Earl, The Office and The OC (I admit to watching it - although I have to say, this season is not so hot, unlike dreamy Atwood). And the new one that has been growing on me since its premiere: Four Kings.

The show is about four guys, four years out of college, living together in Manhattan. There are the usual sitcom standards that are completely unrealistic: only one of the characters can actually pull off being twenty six; their apartment is sick (which the show tries to justify by having one of the characters inherit it from his grandmother); said apartment is never messy; they run into people they haven’t seen since high school. If you grew up in New York, you know that never happens because you haven’t stopped seeing these people in the first place. I firmly believe that the East Side has been secretly annexed as a new town in Westchester. The characters have yet to be in a crowded bar. The worker at the coffee shop actually brings the orders to their tables.

And so, then, why do I like this show?

Because the characters are a lot like the guys I know (minus the large amounts of alcohol my friends still put back every weekend), who at the end of the day, are the same boys I met seven years ago. They still beat the crap out of each other. They still fight over who saw her first, who liked her first, and who’s going to get her in bed first. They abide by strict locker room etiquette. Gay jokes are the norm. And there’s always the one dude who wears flip flops way past the summer expiration date.

Now this week’s episode revolved around a vhs tape (yea, you remember those things, right?) one of the characters had made for a girl he loved back in high school. He asked her to the prom, she said no, and the result is this horrible confessional that had chest pounding, tears and all. The friends have a grand old time tearing him to shreds over it. The now grown (ha ha) woman’s reaction?

That might be the sweetest thing anyone has ever done for me!

Which got me thinking. I’ve never had one of those grand gestures thrown my way. And boy am I glad. I’ve managed to cultivate a pretty tough exterior over the years, and I would hate to have my cover blown in a heartbeat.

A quick tally of gestures that, although nothing like the blubbering sitcom video, definitely freaked me out enough to not forget them:

Seventh grade. The first boy to admit liking me. He bought me one of those clay circle charms on a black rope and asked me to be his girlfriend. I took the necklace, told him I’d tell him by Friday, and I don’t think I spoke to him again until our eight grade graduation ceremony. I was not the most mature of middle schoolers. Even today I would probably not be considered very mature, even for a middle schooler.

First ‘serious’ boyfriend in high school. Wound up being a bit of a nutcase and slightly obsessive. But when we spent our first Valentine’s together (also my first time as part of a couple on this most hellish of holidays), he took me to Rockwell’s for dinner and gave me a gift, which I don’t actually remember, and a card, which I will never forget. The front was a picture of a cat and read ‘I like you so much that if I were a cat…’. The inside read ‘…I’d be ramming my head into your leg all day long. Happy Valentine’s Day’. To this day, I have no idea what the hell that card means.

Summer between freshman and sophomore years of college. I was the lone bartender at a shifty watering hole that would be closed as a tax write-off by the fall. I fell for the biggest asshole ever. Everyone knew him, most guys hated him, usually because their girlfriends wanted him, and he couldn’t care less about anyone. We both lied about our ages and he became my summer romance/private bouncer. When I was working at night, I’d ask him if he could go next door and get me gum. ‘Fuck you,’ was the response. Twenty minutes later, he’d come in, throw a pack of Winterfresh on the bar, and go back outside. It made me feel like the hottest girl in the world.

Post-college, post-four year relationship. Started hanging out with a guy who I sort of knew from high school but was never close with. First time I leave him in my apartment in the morning to go to work, I mumble how to lock the door when he leaves and run to catch the subway. When I get home later that night, I walk into my room to find my bed is made. I almost wet myself.

The deli where I get my lunch during the week. Some guy who just started working there has taken to drawing a rose with a red grease pencil on the top of my plastic salad container. He probably does this to every woman who walks in the place, which on a given weekday, I assume is a couple of hundred ladies. Makes no difference to this girl - I walk back to work with a smile on my face every time.

Life Lesson # 4: I don’t know if it’s because most of us are not used to romantic gestures, but I think many of us women are total suckers when it comes to men. Now, I pretend I’m not all the time and get uncontrollably embarrassed if you try to hold my hand in public. But secretly, I love it.

Life Lesson #3: Never Do It in Public, the Dance Skaters will Show you up Every Time

I love the Angel of Waters sculpture at the Bethesda Fountain in Central Park. I know its so cliché and most New Yorkers would rather declare they hang out in Hoboken than admit any sort of fondness towards tourist attractions, but get over it people. The entire park is pretty amazing, and yes, even the touristy parts have their draw.

For instance, I get psyched the first day of spring when the temperature rises a smudge above 55 degrees. People, myself included, strip down to practically nothing (and at times, simply nothing) to sprawl out on the itchy grass of the Great Lawn. Screw the beach – who doesn’t enjoy lying in a pool of their own sweat, the thud of missed Frisbees only inches from the head and the faint odor of a homeless person wafting nearby?

Or how about when you’re walking the path around the Boathouse just in time to catch that ‘Native American’ down under the walk bridge start his crazy tribal dance? I know I’m having a great day when the old guy who conducts the turtle races only a few feet away tells me to ‘move closer, I ain’t seen nothing like these turtles run.’

And my absolute favorite is the Central Park Dance Skaters who congregate around the makeshift DJ booth by the band shell area on Dead Road. Liberace and I discovered this slice of heaven on wheels last fall, and visit it almost religiously every Sunday. I swear there is nothing like it.

The Dance Skaters pride themselves on wearing roller skates, not those inline blades. Note the emphasis is on dancing, not skating. The cast of characters is amazing – any age, race and gender you can imagine – all going round and round in a circle the size of an above-ground pool, the words of Martin Luther King Jr. being sampled over some 70s disco tune. But I digress - to go any further into it would take away from the real lesson here, so another time.

My point is the park will always have a special place in my heart, and whenever I can, I like to take advantage of it. This past weekend, with global warming giving us almost spring weather in the middle of winter, I had such an opportunity.

I gave Liberace a call after the gym Saturday morning to see if he was out and about, as I assumed he would be.

“Going to the park. Call me when you’re close. And can you pick up some coffees on the way?”

At the deli I texted him: how do you want ur coffee?

Liberace responded: just half and half you slut. at the fountain.

The Bethesda Fountain runs a close second to the Dance Skaters. You get prime people-watching space, hot dog vendors only a few steps away when you get the urge for heartburn, and German tourists, who seem to love to congregate around the fountain (no offense people, I just think they’ve got the best accents and most amazing clothes – I hope stonewashed jeans never fail to be wunderbar for these guys).

I found Liberace sitting inside the fountain circle – it’s shut off during the winter months, otherwise we’d steer clear and pick a bench off to the side. Witnessing one too many baths in the fountain will do this. I swung my legs over the wall and plop down next to him, hand over his coffee and get myself comfortable.

The usual banter ensued. Liberace filled me in on his dinner date the other night that resulted in lots of drinks but never any dinner. We tried to figure out if this really hot guy I’m ‘dating’ is gay or a just prick (brought on by the fact he always notices what I’m wearing and is bitchy when drunk). I learned how Liberace almost walked out of work on Friday. We listed at least a dozen reasons why couples who work out together, particularly in public, should be airlifted to some private island that isn’t Manhattan (Staten Island, perhaps?). Like I said, the usual.

A sudden commotion across the fountain stopped our conversation. Initially, I was unsure what was going on. But then the telltale signs came into view, and we’re torn between bursting out into laughter or lunging our plastic cups.

A green vase filled with roses leaning against the fountain wall. A saxophone player playing some sappy tune conveniently close-by. A bumbling young woman throwing her arms around some guy. Two other women popping out of nowhere, furiously taking pictures and running over to the couple. A sudden yelp from one of the women, although we’re still unsure which one.

Yep, right smack in the middle of what was shaping up to be a great Saturday, Liberace and I had to bear witness to some guy asking his girlfriend to marry him.

There is more than one thing about public proposals that drives me insane.

One: Do you really need a whole bunch of people you’ve never met in your life to bear witness to the consummation of your relationship? Especially New Yorkers? I mean, we’re not very nice people. A group of young kids sitting nearby snickered the entire time. Some guy’s giant mutt kept running over and barking at them. Liberace and I ultimately burst into uncontrollable laughter – which I’m pretty sure one of their friends caught in the background of the seven thousand pictures they took.

Two: Until the morning after your actual wedding day, you two are going to be watched, scrutinized, planned over, poked, photographed and celebrated by a butt-load of friends and family. Wouldn’t you want to at least start off on an intimate, private level with the person you’re about to go through the joy/hell of the next phase of your life with?

Three: Proposals in Central Park are, on the whole, highly unoriginal. And if you’re the type of person who wants others to bear witness, wouldn’t you want to be creative? I can’t even remember how many times I’ve seen guys get down on their knee in the park– three times in one day alone last spring! Come on – step it up.

Four: On a more personal note, PDAs totally make me uncomfortable. I know that’s such a guy thing to say, but I can’t help it. It takes a certain level of alcohol and/or total comfort for me to be okay with them. So observing someone else’s ultimate PDA, the Proposal, is just way too much for me to handle.

And so,

Life Lesson # 3: Asking someone to marry you in the most public of places is wrong. It’s uninspired, gratuitous and unnecessary. Take it to the bedroom, take it to a private island getaway (maybe not Staten Island for this one), take it to a booth in the back of your favorite restaurant – I don’t care.

But I beg of you. Please don’t do it in the park. I love that place. Don’t ruin it for me.

Life Lesson #2: Stealth Bangers: Taquito Stealers Make Bad Partners

So I had a date the other night with The Brit.

I met him last week at a new bar in the midtown area. I actually had been doing some guest bartending earlier that evening, so it’s safe to say I was not exactly sober by the time I finally met up with my friends. And I was definitely not by the time The Brit had made his way over to chat.

We talked for a little while – I remember laughing quite a bit and impressing him with my ‘Oh, I lived overseas for a few years myself,’ shtick. He bought me a drink and introduced me to a few of his friends he was there with.

Clearly, I was going to give this guy my number.

Flash forward to date night and I was nervous. I vaguely remembered tall, blond, British accent. Maybe something about being a soccer coach, but I’ve got crappy, vodka-soda-soaked memory and a penchant for generalizing. But when I tried to focus on what his face looked like, his features stubbornly refused to stay still. And while I could quickly confirm the accent during our brief phone conversation, requesting he remind me of his appearance seemed shallow at the very least.

He came to pick me up at my apartment. I opened the door and let out a quick sigh of relief. The Picasso image stuck in my head was not at all like The Brit standing in front of me. He’s cute in an overseas - but definitely not Eurotrash - kind of way.

The Brit passed the first test: greeting my Official Wingwoman, Madonna, in a polite and appropriate manner. I could tell she was pleased that he’s not like some of the disasters I wind up inviting over.

I got the vague ‘I’ll eat anything’ answer to the ‘where would you like to go eat’ question. This kind of annoyed me because really, would you eat gorilla balls if I suggested it? But then he came up with Mexican, which I appreciated. I could narrow down our choices and find a nice place in walking distance. So off we went.

Walking to the restaurant, he breezed through the second test: holding up a normal conversation during the initial moments of a first date. No awkwardness, casual talk, poking fun at the level of intoxication on both our parts when we first met. All in all, I’m impressed.

At the restaurant (which by the way is so freakin’ hot I feared pit stains at any moment) The Brit ordered us Stellas and asked if I’d like to split an appetizer with our entrees. I liked his thinking and suggested a few things based on past experience. He went with the chicken taquitos.

This is when things started going wrong.

Enter taquitos – two of them.

"Well, I thought we might get a few more here,” remarked The Brit.

“So did I. Oh well. I’m sure we’ll get the main dishes soon though,” I answered.

“So, tell me again, what do you do?” asked The Brit, taking taquito # 1.

“I assume you mean job wise? Well…,” and I began explaining my line of work.

I suddenly paused. I noticed taquito #1 has vanished and The Brit had now started on taquito #2 (which in case you forgot, is also the only other taquito). I’m shocked. Should I mention that he was the one who suggested sharing an appetizer and thus taquito #2 was rightfully mine? But I figure he’s really hungry and I’m trying to not be such a fat ass in 2006, so really, I could do without said taquitos, and thus let it go.

The rest of dinner was fine and went without incident, although I can’t help thinking how I really would have liked that taquito. After a few more beers, the check comes and I offer to pay half. He accepts. Sure, sharing the bill evenly is, unlike the taquitos, quite easy for him.

Although a rare moment of clarity warns me I really don’t need another, we go to a nearby bar for one last drink. My stomach began the ‘even though you just ate, I want pizza’ growl so I decide to call it a night.

The Brit kindly walked me the few blocks back to my apartment. He has to use the bathroom, I kind of want to make out, and so the invite upstairs was granted. One more drink and this girl’s ready for bed – partner or not.

Partner it is.

And here is where everything comes to a crashing halt. In six minutes. Yep, in just six minutes The Brit managed to completely satisfy himself (while protected I might add – making me wonder if he had that thing wrapped the whole night?) and promptly PASSED OUT.

I’m left there in a state of shock – not really sure whether anything even happened or if I had hallucinated. But the pain in my hips from being violently assaulted like Carrie Bradshaw in the jack rabbit episode reminded me that indeed, something did happen.

Sweet Jesus, sleep couldn’t come fast enough. Luckily, it did. When The Brit’s phone alarm goes off a few hours later, I barely mumbled goodbye when I realized I’m not the only one who thought six minutes was pathetically short. He’s at it again.

It sucked just as much as the first time. Only plus is that I’m pretty sure that it was even shorter than round one. Exit self satisfied Brit at 6: 30 am. Enter sore, dazed me with an epiphany at 6:31:

Life Lesson # 2: People who eat your share of food without a moment’s hesitation will be just as selfish (and quick) in bed. They’re only in it for themselves; the name of their game, Instant Gratification. And while at times I appreciate a quick romp, I think you’ll agree that no one wants a sex partner like that.

And maybe there’s a part two to this lesson. Maybe it’s a good idea to have sex on the first date. Because you really only have yourself to blame if you’ve invested any more time, only to wind up with a selfish European with stealth like distraction tactics and a sex drive rivaled only by seventeen year olds. I say find out sooner, not later.

Life Lesson #1: The Cheeseman Cometh: Alcohol is No Excuse for Sticky Fingers

I woke up Friday morning with Patron floating in my esophagus. It was horrible. I blame it all on my bosses.

Thursday night was the office’s annual holiday extravaganza. The evening began with an anonymous gift exchange paired with office-made sangria, a sit down dinner complete with full open bar, and if you’re real troopers, such as my office buddy Pickles and myself, a pit stop for a few more cocktails before heading on home.

Highlights from the evening included our sixty-five-year-old shipping manger unwrapping his gift: a lovely set of anal beads. A crunk juice goblet, the word PIMP encrusted in rhinestones, was bestowed upon one of the salesmen. One of our designers got a blow job kit, complete with several different flavored lubricants, to which she sighed, “Oh, I always get these.”

I was quite satisfied when Pickles unwrapped my beautiful package: two six packs of Miller High Life and ten dollars worth of scratch-off tickets. I think she was more excited about the lotto stuff, until she didn’t win any money. I picked a box of Godiva chocolates – the prefect re-gift item.

Overall, the night was fun. I’m lucky in that most of the twenty or so employees that I work with enjoy going out and drinking inappropriately in front of each other. Particularly two out of my three bosses. These guys have at least a decade on me and have turned drinking into an art. They can put back two dozen beers without a second thought. And one in particular has a heart of gold.

“I know you two are going somewhere,” El Jefe remarked as Pickles and I put on our coats, trying to make a quiet exit after dessert.

“Of course! Come with us,” I answered.

“I can’t, I got my wife here. But have fun for me,” El Jefe said.

Well, if your boss gave you direct orders, you’d oblige as well, right? And so Pickles and I went merrily on our way, spreading good will and holiday cheer through a fuzzy haze of alcohol.

Ultimately, I know I wound up home, although at what time and cost, I wasn’t too sure. Yet.

Which leads me to Friday morning. I crawled to my desk at 9 am, a giant water bottle pressed to my lips and what felt like Death squeezing my temples.

Much like the entire country’s workforce, my friends and I email each other throughout the day, regardless of how busy we are. On Friday, I was incapable of being busy. But I was capable of emailing out in desperation:

I can’t see straight.
I almost threw up on the subway.
This is not very good.

To which Madonna promptly replies to all:

Oh dear…

I was awakened by the door opening at 3:30am. Yes- Penny decided to stroll in at 3:30. I didn’t see her initially in the morning, but after I got into a cab, realized I didn’t have my wallet, and came back home, I found Princess Drunkyface looking aloof and quite hung-over wearing gray sweatpants and snow boots. A fine Friday outfit if I may say so myself. She was sucking down Gatorade and was in quite the state of confusion. The look on her face screamed “How the hell am I supposed to get to the subway, take the train, and then work all day?!”

I looked down and realize that I was still wearing said gray sweatpants and snow boots. Thank God for relaxed company policy.

At that moment, my first recollection of the night hit me. I quickly dial Pickle’s extension – she managed to make it in only moments before me – and ask a few questions.

Then I replied back to my friends:

I went home with a boy but changed my mind last minute.
Then had him walk me home because it was raining and I didn’t have an umbrella.
Pickles just confirmed he looks kind of like the host from Fear Factor.

I got a reply back from Westchester:

Hahahahahaha. And the TRUTH SHALL SET YOU FREE!!!!!

Rapid-fire emails were coming from all directions. And I remember that when I was trying to find my keys earlier that morning, I instead found a wrapped gift in my bag. Not sure what it was but without any time to find out, I had tossed it on my bed and left for work. I called Pickles back – did someone give me a present when we were out? Nope, not that she can remember.

Another flashback on my part prompted me to write:

I think I stole a gift from this boy’s apartment.
Yea, I think I took it off his kitchen table….shit.

Westchester replies:

Wait just a second- you stole a gift from the boy you made out with last night? HAHAHAHAHAHHAHA.
That has absolutely 100% made my day.

Madonna, did you do anything last night that might compete with Penny being the Grinch and stealing the gifts from all the kids in Whoville, aka, some dude’s apt?

Madonna:

What I would have done to be a fly on the wall last night.....

And then another gem crystallizes in my head:

Wait.
I think he sells cheese for a living.
I gotta go check w/ Pickles….hold the phones.

I’m back.
Yep, cheese.
Pickles just confirmed…she went on to note that she has a friend that makes cheese, and Cheeseman asked for his number to get in contact w him…apparently I just stood there laughing.

Westchester replies:

Hahahahaha. This story just gets better by the hour.
So was the gift you stole tons of gourmet cheeses? Hahaha. Oh man I will have a field day with this one.

We went back and forth as the morning went on. As a flashback would come to me, I’d let the girls know:

He was normal I think…

Pickles thinks he was good looking.
But we both just realized that we were doing shots of Patron at 2 am because we thought it would be better than trying to drink a full vodka soda, so let’s be honest: I have no clue if Cheeseman is good looking or not.

Oh my god.

He walked me home because he lives only 2 blocks from our apartment! CRAP. Madonna and I can’t even look out our windows without seeing someone we know – the chances of me not running into this guy are slim to none! This is just the worst thing ever. WHAT IF HE KNOWS I STOLE FROM HIM?!?

Life Lesson # 1: No matter how drunk I get, stealing is wrong. I’m pretty sure it’s a commandment that remains in effect regardless of circumstance, particularly intoxication.

When I finally went home on Friday and opened the package, it wasn’t even good. More gourmet chocolate! I mean, not that a good gift would make it okay to have turned klepto or anything, but seriously? I already got chocolates from work.

I guess I kind of hoped it was cheese.

Who's Who in Penny's World

I wanted to seem clever and whimsical in the ‘About Me’ section, which I thought would be best achieved if I sat down one night after being out for a few hours. But I got too drunk and went to bed instead. I guess that says a lot about me.

Anyway, I’m writing this blog for relatively selfish reasons. Sometime after college graduation, I lost the ability to write. Maybe because my job consists of very little written communication beyond e-mail, and my typical e-mail is sent to Asians who don’t speak English and rarely contain more than a few words void of punctuation and proper grammar. I’m not sure. But I do know that not too long ago, I realized that I missed it. So I started writing every once in a while – on the subway, before bed at night, when I should be writing emails for work. And it was fun.

In particular, I started writing the hilarious, painful, ridiculous and more often than not, trivial stuff that happens to me and my friends. I thought, why not try and take this a step further? Why not try to learn something, to try and make some sense of it all? I’ve discovered that is nearly impossible. Instead, I’ve decided to try and look back at each week and come up with some sort of lesson that I should take with me on to the next one. And so my version of Life Lessons was born.

While I have no problem throwing myself out there, I often think how embarrassed my friends must be to be associated with me. Anyone that has become part of this has been asked to come up with an alias for themselves. As more people are put into the blog, I’ll make sure to add them here.

I go by Penny – my nickname from childhood. Not many people know this – if you do, keep your mouth shut.

Madonna is my roommate. We’ve been close friends since high school. When I asked her what she wanted her name to be in this blog, she answered without hesitation: ‘Madonna. When I was in kindergarten I was at a birthday party that had a magician. He called me up and asked me my name. I answered Madonna.’ So there you have it – one of my best friends, #1 Wingwoman and overall amazing person – Madonna she shall be.

Liberace is my close friend from college. We lived in the same dorm and I met him the first week of school. I heard he was talking smack about me going out one of the first nights of orientation and hitting on a thirty-two year old. While this was true, I felt that should be no one’s business but my own. So I tracked him down one day and yelled at him in the hallway of our dorm. He insisted it wasn’t him but his loud-mouthed, pathologically lying roommate. I still yelled. He started crying. I got uncomfortable. And our friendship was born. When I asked him what he wanted his name to be, he started crying, and I got uncomfortable, then he responded: ‘Let’s go with Liberace: big white-guy afro, years of piano training, jazzy clothes, and though he thinks nobody can tell, everyone knows he’s as flaming as the candelabra on the mantle.’

Pickles and I have known each other for about a year now. She works with me and is one of the best people I know. I think we bonded over our shared disbelief that our office can run in any sort of efficient and productive manner. We have long discussions about feeling trapped in a game of make-believe, where a bunch of people run around playing business instead of dress-up. Often these discussions are held during happy hour, which more often than not, turns into happy late night adventures. She chose Pickles, a nickname she had in the past.

Westchester is another friend I’ve known since high school. I remember being slightly terrified by her when we first met – she seemed to know everyone and could kick my ass in any sport. I have never played an organized sport in my life, so while it wouldn’t be too hard for anyone to crush me, I still couldn’t help thinking this when I met her. Anyway, she didn’t want to pick a name for herself, so I’ve dubbed her Westchester, partly because she knows everyone within a five year range of our age that grew up in this county and partly because she still lives there.

Clueless is my work buddy. She started here before I did and took me under her wing. We quickly found out we had mutual friends, love of happy hour, and talking smack about people. When I told her about Life Lesson #5 and how she would now officially be brought into the public eye, she decided Clueless was a fitting nickname given the context of her debut. I think it's perfect.

H.F.T. stands for Hot for Teacher, aka, my friend from high school who now lives in the Upper East as well. I'm sure you can guess her occupation. Personally, I think she’s one of the hottest teachers. If I was one of her students, I would definitely have a crush on her. H.F.T. is also a good friend of Madonna’s. The three of us are kind of like the Axis of Evil. Depends on the circumstance I guess. If Westchester is in the mix, than we’d probably be more like En Vogue. Cuz we’re four funky divas.

Goose is a good friend from high school. While we didn’t really know each other then, we’ve grown close over the past few years since we finished college. I think one of the initial reasons we got along so well is the mutual first impressions we often project. People tend to think we’re pretty bitchy when they first meet us, but once they get to know us, they realize it’s totally a front. Goose picked her name long before her debut. It was a nickname an ex gave her. She used to go over to his apartment hammered and he dubbed her Goose for the massive amounts of Grey Goose sloshing around inside of her.

Mico and Flower, who recently moved into Manhattan, are two more gems from my younger days. They’re also friends with Madonna, Westchester and H.F.T. Mico has embraced her nickname from work. Flower has been derived from Delicate Flower, a name H.F.T. use to call her in high school. On the other hand, Madonna used to call her Ghetto Super Star. This is kind of funny, since I would have dubbed Mico as Ghetto Fabulous. Goes to show, people can perceive you in many, many ways.

The One (as in the only guy amongst the bunch of us girls, but I could be interpreting that incorrectly) is a good friend from back in the high school days. He went to our "brother school" up the block. While I think we bring out the best in each other, many others would disagree. Probably because we're making fun of them. To those people, The One would laugh and tell them to shut up. He once told me that I'm a good person who has made some bad decisions with my selection of men and that I should try not to get FUPA. I agree 100%.

Hansel (he’s so hot right now) came up with his name in about thirty seconds. Which makes me think he’s been waiting since Zoolander came out to be referred to as a male supermodel. Then I think a little more and I remember the line in which he says “Holy shit, Hansel, haven't you been smoking Peyote for six straight days, and couldn't some of this maybe be in your head?" and I realize; Hansel is kind of fitting. Regardless, Hansel is like my lobster. This is sort of ironic because sometimes, he wears a giant felt crab hat. Or another hat in the shape of a parrot. Or a giant American flag top hat. Anyway, he’s insane. Just like me. Maybe even a little more so. And thus, it works out perfectly.