But what happens when one has a task for which one feels obligated and even enthusiastic, to make the trek, to infiltrate foreign and sometimes hostile territory?  What is the only topic on which the most jaded New Yorkers wax ever optimistic, for which they are willing to disrupt their stony routines and subject themselves to the hazards and inconveniences of travel? That’s right. Love.

Picture this: A well-mannered young Radcliffe-type has struck out on her own (with a little trust-fund help from her old-money ‘rents), won a job at a chic gallery in Chelsea, or as a handbag designer or couturier to small dogs (or whatever occupation is the current favorite career-of the month with upper set youth), and taken a modest studio somewhere in the lkzxdnvkljxbSlkCFNn b 80’s.  She wears twin sets and pearls and kitten heels and fancies herself an edgier, modern Audrey Hepburn. She definitely “fits in” with the general ethos of her neighborhood—clean, upwardly-mobile, classically elegant,…posh.

He is an artist, or a playwright, or an activist, and of course he waits tables to pay his bills and buy his supplies. He wears second-hand duds in black and urban camouflage and allows his hair, which is greasy enough to make him look sexy in that gallic-philosopher way but not so greasy as to be gross, grow a little too long for him to ever get a job at Brooks Brothers or the Bear Stern building. He attends readings at the Bowery Poetry Club and has never seen the inside of the Plaza.

This unlikely pair meets at relatively neutral ground, say, Shakespeare in the Park or the steps of the Public Library. They seem the poster children for opposite attraction: he loves her class, she loves his bohemianism. Sparks fly, yada, yada.. When they are alone together, all is bliss.

It’s negotiating how to get together, and alone, which presents the problem. They start to bicker over at whose apartment they will spend nights. Her studio can be named, “that than which nothing smaller may be conceived;” he rents the living room of a two-bedroom inhabited by two or even three other dubiously clean guys. Neither place conduces the sweetly private atmosphere necessary to romance. Furthermore, it takes at least two subway trains for one to visit the other, requiring struggling through the morass at the dreaded Times Square station. To resume one’s daily routine after a night spent at the other’s pad requires at least an extra hour head start.

Furthermore, it’s difficult for them to adjust to each other’s friends. Hers are sleek, coiffed, sorority-ish; they go to club openings and mourn the demise of Sex and the City. His carry placards in war protests and compare tatts. In other words, the friends are much like the stars of our story, only without the acute mutual attraction, and thus misunderstand and despise each other. Our hero and heroine spend a lot of time justifying their relationship to their respective buddies, who insist such a union is unwise and gauche. This isolates and irritates them both; they resent their friends’ astuteness and snap at each other when they make it home and can finally be alone together. Each secretly wonders if all the differences and incompatibilities are signs from Fate that they should cleave their bond in twain (well, he wonders if they’re signs from Fate, she wonders if she’s unconsciously sought out the opposite of what she needs out of a fear of intimacy and a revulsion at the prospect of actually pleasing her parents with a more appropriate match—she was a psychology minor)
.
But, ahhhhh…..how trivial these concerns seem when the noise of the city and the nay-sayers clears and each realizes that something rare and perfect has been found. What are long subway rides, sceptical friends, and horrified parents compared to finding someone whose inner aspects harmonize so perfectly with one’s own? And shouldn’t one blanche to admit that one had almost thrown that harmony away over such petty differences? Considering the vastness of the world, and the tinyness of this island, does the term “long-distance relationship” really apply to Manhattan?
Let romance fail for greater things; if you find love outside your neighborhood (or even, ohmigod—borough!!), embrace those little obstacles as Fate’s way of making you appreciate that perfect love you found all the more. Let your friends scratch their heads, and leave your parents to their apoplexy, and read a damn book in your extra time on the train! Vive la Difference!
Brad, Writer, Hell’s Kitchen

“Wedding Bell Blooo…hoos”
Ok. You know that super aggressive chick at every wedding who bodychecks people to catch the bouquet? Yea. That’s me. I’m that girl. Call me superstitious, but I consider the throwing of the bouquet to be a serious business. Which is why mothers need to stop letting their little girls compete in this event. Tradition states that the woman who catches the bouquet will be the next to get married. I can’t compete with a 4 year old! If your little brat catches it, I won’t get married for another 14 years AT LEAST. I’m 32! By that time I’ll be 46, and I’m telling you, I’m not going to have the money to cosmetically keep everything as perky and youthful as it is right now. Because right now it’s great, but it takes a lot of work. So get your spawn out of the way, and let me catch those damn flowers, I only have a few more years left in me before I give up and start raising cats.
Maxine, Editor, Midtown

“All By Myself .. I wanna be…”

During my undergraduate years I made the salutary discovery that traveling alone has so many advantages over the much safer yet infinitely more boring alternative of group activity. My brother bought me a ticket to Brazil as a birthday present; my brother the adventuring wanderer wanted me to face my fear. Having been backpacking before in groups, I packed my things, received my shots, bought my malaria pills, and, of course, got a new colorful bikini. Finally the day before I was scheduled to leave I was all ready (and to be honest) a little scared.

I loved it. Traveling alone gave me a sense of freedom I had never experienced before. I could do whatever I wanted whenever. More than that being alone allowed me to truly enjoy the place I was. If I had been with my friends, I would have met Brazilians but spent most of my time with people I already knew. It was in being alone that I met, and really spent time with, natives. I had to speak some Portugese everyday, I had to be truly in Brazil. Unlike the foreigners who go to Club Med for vacations (which allows you to be at home somewhere else, a place where the new country becomes simply the backdrop for a photo), being alone lets you step straight into the frame. And, then, a month into the trip, I learnt what traveling alone can really be like.

Sick to the bone with influenza, I stepped off the bus in Salvador feeling like death. Right next to me, in the most colorful bikini tops and shorter-than-short shorts, was a group of Brazilian students on vacation, girls with huge sunglasses and tiny bags, giggling at each other’s pointless (or so it seemed to me) jokes. Noticing me crouching by the side of the bus leafing through my Lonely Planet guide to Brazil, one of them leaned down, awash with fruity fragrance, and asked, “Are you ok? Would you like some help?”
Thirty minutes later I sat on a ferry, doped up on some Brazilian headache medicine one of them was carrying, heading out to an island I had never heard of before. Sitting listening to them chatter in the background, I kept thinking back to all the things I had planned for Salvador, all the seemingly wonderful things I had left back on the mainland. But the moment we pulled up to island Morro de Sao Paulo, I realized I had inadvertently entered paradise. Following them to a little Bed and Breakfast near Beach One (surprisingly, the actual name of the beach), I felt my illness miraculously melting away.

Situated off the coast of Salvador, the island is a tiny utopia tucked away from wandering eyes. With no cars but the noisy garbage truck which appeared out of nowhere and disappeared full of trash back into nothingness, and most people bikinied and barefoot, I barely noticed as the days wound into each other at a dangerously beautiful pace. Waking up at ten o’clock, I would dine with my new-found friends (medical students, as it turned out) on varieties of fruit hard to find back in my college city of Montreal. Melons, mangos, and coconut water swam in limitless quantities of fresh cream. Bellies full of juicy fruit and sunshine, we would head to a beach where gorgeous men and women (with me in the background) would lie working on tans and Frisbee games. Vendors walked by selling us new bikinis (which these doctors-to-be would buy almost daily to wear the next) and cheese grilled to gooey perfection.

As the sun went down we would head home and nap, tired from the beach and the eating. Come twilight the island awoke, filling the main street’s bars and restaurants like a carnival of party-goers. Under a moon-filled sky we would all head back to Beach One to dance and drink, where vendors would sell everyone drinks made from fresh fruit and alcohol. By the time you were drunk, your body was too sugared up to care. At this point my new friends would find cute boys to dance with, pushing me towards them with glee. “It’s ok if you have a boyfriend back home. We are on vacation, yes? Let’s party!” In those moments of morality I would feel boring and immediately have another drink. Finally, I would head home to sleep it all off, anticipating my big breakfast of the morning.

After a few days had turned into a week, and a week into almost two, I ended up in a conversation with another tourist one day. “I got here and loved it so much, I thought I would stay for a few weeks to really enjoy it,” he said.

“I like it too… it’s easy to get lost here. How long have you been here now?” I asked him.

Six months.”

That afternoon I went back to my room and packed my things. As much as I loved utopia, I had the real Brazil to see and much more to do. As much as making friends and going with the flow was fun, I wanted to be able to say that I had done more than lose myself on this wonderful island. On the ferry to the mainland, after the goodbyes and the pleas of my new-found friends to stay were all over, I looked back at the island and took a long deep breath. Fantasy is good, but leaving can be even better.
John, Exec assistant, Gramercy

“Out of the Mouths of Babes and Sucklings…”
Why has the world gone completely mad. Why does every country seem to be self immolating at exactly the same time in history. There must be a common denominator in the mix that is affecting the human race regardless of race, color, creed, nationality, political hue etc., etc. All populations seem to be divided right down the middle: 50% left leaning and 50% for the right. And if one side says shit, the others say sugar. Have we reached a stage in our development from animals into humans (and yes I believe our brain capacity for reason and debate and our ability to think about thinking really does separate us from other animals) where we can no longer contain the dichotomy within our selves. We have always had a conflict in our individual psyche between good and bad; a choice between self indulgence and doing the right thing. In today’s world however we seem to have given ourselves over to abandoning that ongoing and constant choosing for a full blown “fuck it”  And it shows. Even the most concientious and concerned citizen from either side who loves their mom and the family dog dig their toes in in the most stubborn and unreasonable fashion when faced with the same from the other side. Understandable? Yes. Sustainable? Er no. Somethings gotta give and the worry is it won’t be civil or civilized. My own mother used to intervene in intransigent family arguments with the threat, “I’ll knock all your silly heads together in a minute.” The threat usually did the trick. She’s been dead for 25 years now and there might well be a hint for us  in that loss of common sense. We can only hope (in light of recent activities; climate strikes, gun control marches etc.) that we will come full circle when today’s kids are in charge and we again move forward in our humanity.
Harry, Accountant, UES

“a little ole wine drinker, me”
If you’re having a BYOB wedding I’m not coming. Period. This isn’t a frat party, bro, you’re getting married. Look, I’m not stupid, I know the economy sucks. But aren’t there other things you could get rid of in place of an open bar. Lighting? Flowers? FOOD? Anything?! Please, God, I’m traveling to the middle of nowhere Ohio, I bought you some stupid Norwegian cutlery from Bloomingdales, and I’m stuck sitting with your fiance’s old sorority sisters. Please do me the common courtesy of getting me properly tanked. Thanks.
Max, (Maxine’s other half), Editor, Midtown

  Minority Report
The way Latin women are portrayed in the media has always raised questions about how knowledgeable Americans are about the various  culture groups within the Hispanic community. Hispanics are just one minority group who are depicted in the media, but these portrayals can lead to stereotyping and raise the question of identity among Latinos in the United States.

The term “minorities” is defined as a small group of people who are non-white, and live within the majority of the population of the United States.  The term minority not only leads a person to think the group is small, but also makes the group seem insignificant.

To first understand these stereotypes is to first know the impact the group has in the United States. The “group” known as Latin Americans is not small and in fact is increasing over time. Twelve million, foreign-born Latinos live here and the numbers are increasing three times faster than the U.S. population as a whole. Hispanic “is any person who either speaks Spanish as a first language or had some ancestor who did, even if this person speaks only English.”  This group has descended from Latin America, a region stretching 7,000 miles southward from the Mexican/U.S. border to the tip of Tierra del Fuego on Cape Horn. The shared language, culture, and traditions among this large population are in a sense creating an independent nation in the United States.

Although there is a large, increasing population, media portrayal of Hispanics has likely caused Americans to form certain stereotypes and clichés. These appear on television and in film, but exclude Spanish literature, which is mostly recognized in theatre. Because this type of media portrayal has become part of our American culture, many people have accepted these stereotypes, clichés, and characters that are represented as common as American pie.

Hispanic women often share these misconceptions, creating identity confusion, i.e., what it means to be Latino/a in the United States. These stereotypes, especially how they are represented in television and film, leads to a silent almost passive racism.

Passive racism refers to the ongoing acceptance of stereotypes and clichés of Hispanics in the media. This type of racism arrives due to the lack of effort towards changing what the media have already created.
To better understand the reason why Hispanic women are portrayed in a certain way, we must grasp how the media has contributed to the lives of women.  Certain stereotypes and gender norms have always defined women in these media.

Several types of images create both traditional and contemporary standards for women. For example, both positive and negative images appeared among the population based upon how women were represented on television. The traditional stereotypical portrayal of women as caretakers and sex objects created mostly negative images of dumb blondes and silly housewives.  On the flip side, positive traits of women show independence, strength and determination, and grew out of the contemporary representation of women on television as professionals.

Still, women have found themselves in a struggle. The number of women presented on television is not nearly equal to that of men. While trying to reach a higher level in television and film, women are being underrepresented.  For example, it is more likely for a man to be a spokesperson for a car advertisement than a woman. Women are represented as feminine in ads for hygiene products, as sex symbols on music videos, and are more often featured on children’s television programs.

The term “spitfire” is often used to describe Hispanic women in many Latin roles.  A “spitfire” is described as the damned woman with a wild temper, often left by her white hero and awaiting his return.  Although Hispanic women do not always fit this image, the idea of the brunette Latina has always been a dominant physical quality of actresses playing Hispanic roles.  Natalie Wood, an American actress, played “Maria,” a Puerto Rican girl, in West Side Story.

Some Hispanic women have had breakthroughs in television, but not nearly as many Hispanic men.  Daisy Fuentes, Rosie Perez, Jennifer Lopez are just some of the major Latin actresses that have made the transition from television to movie mainstream. Although many dramas or sitcoms do not portray Hispanic women or even Hispanic men, network executives are anticipating developing shows highlighting Hispanic characters and their culture.

The need to link one’s ancestral past to present and future as a Hispanic American is very important. Any type institution (theatre, volunteer groups, or non-profit organizations) in your community may tie that missing link or piece of the puzzle that most Latin women try to seek or make sense of when living a non-traditional lifestyle.
Veronica, Architect, Queens

Say What You Mean…Eh !
How much does the way we express ourselves really matter? Grammatical precision and sentence structure in verbal and written communication is often used to gauge a person’s intelligence or at least command of English and although I am for preserving the endless nuance of meaning good use of punctuation produces, I am also aware that English a live language, the main purpose of which is to interact accurately.  So as long as we both agree that  this is called a cup (even though it looks like a mountain to others) we are on the right track to understanding each other. Silly snobbery has no home anyplace close to reasonableness.
Joanna, Teacher, Upstate ( far Upstate, not just Westchester)

“…I AM INVINCIBLE, I AM STRONG, I AM WOMAN … HEAR ME ROAR…”

  Fuck the glass ceiling. In my mind, fighting for career power isn’t poor-little-woman- struggles- against- man’s-world, but    more, watch-woman-take-man’s-world-by-the-balls.

Climbing the ladder in the work place doesn’t have anything to do with whining about how disadvantaged women are, or about how society has pushed the working girl into a place of screwy double-standards and double-edged swords, and it certainly isn’t about spending longer than a mere second wishing things just weren’t so tough [insert Marilyn Monroe’s pouty lips circa Gentleman Prefer Blondes]. Because getting what you want at work- and in every other respect- is about savvy not setbacks, motivation not disadvantage, and, in this case: sex appeal. Well, sex appeal and winning a game in which men have just happened to get a head start. [But who needs a head start when you have lipstick and stockings?]

Flirtation is key when it comes to building relationships. Be it with man, woman, friend, lover, or boss, a ready smile, quick wit, and confident demeanor go a long way when promoting yourself; but fuck if I don’t sound like a self-help book waiting to be thrown up on, so let me move forward and get to the point: sexual undertones are everywhere. Why don’t we utilize them?

Women may finally be getting some serious recognition, respect, and high paying positions in the career world [and it’s no big surprise because we’re smarter than men, aren’t we?] but now, can we please stop pussy-footing around what men have already been doing for centuries? Schmoozing! Come on! Schmooze thy neighbor! Sexy it up! Stop letting the men do it and then tell you that you can’t. In fact stop letting the men do it, tell you that you can’t, and then have every other woman look down your nose at you if you do! Feminism and post-feminism days are over [thank god] so we don’t have to listen to hippie women in birkenstocks and no bras reproaching our flirting as being detrimental and self-deprecating- but that doesn’t mean women don’t still see using sex appeal to our advantage as lewd and lascivious. And in that sense we as women become our own worst enemy. For if we comply and act demure and cold and don’t let the sexy, not to be cheesy here but… shine, we are letting society box us in and shape us into boring- pod-creatures treading own the path already cut for us. Barf.

If we ourselves don’t destroy the notion that sexiness and flirtation is reserved only for sluts and prostitutes, who will? And let me remind you, in case you effing forgot: this is 2019. The glass ceiling days are behind us, and so is calling a girl a slut. Free love already happened [maybe you didn’t hear?] and the ceiling’s already been broken, it’s just a terrible pity it took so long because women on top often just do it better [and no, I’m not talking about that kind of on top, but I could comment on that as well.]

So what are women so scared of? Is it fear that swinging those hips and batting those eyelashes and landing a lunch meeting with the CEO before big-pec-Arnold down the hall does will make you look bad? Look bad to who? You’re grandmother? You’re friends? Yourself? Jesus, just look at Arnold. If he could swing hips and say witty things while looking glamorous and beautiful he would, but, alas for him and lucky for us, he can’t, so instead he’s asking to play golf, grab a beer, watch the game and talk about tits and work and golf all at the same time because he wants to impress the Boss man. So really, it’s all about sex in the end no matter what side of the fence you’re coming from. Time to cut the bullshit and end the perpetuation of double-standards in our respective fields of work. If we think flirtation is wrong, so will everyone else. So let’s stop trying to be exactly who everyone thinks we should be and just be who we actually are: sexy, flirtatious, smart, working women. Just try not to burn any bridges, but hey, bridges might be better than bras in this case.
Louise, Singer, Tribeca

What’s in store, Glor
   Getting dressed is like going into battle. And when you live in this City, you better be dressed to kill.  Women are catty wenches, so the minute you walk into a room, you’re going to be sized up. Sad but true. But a few wardrobe staples will protect you from the heinous glare this fall.

It’s important that you always look put together and not like you spent two hours getting ready. You won’t have to break the bank either. Well, maybe a little. Let’s start from the bottom shall we. Get ballet flats. Guess and Marc Jacobs make great pairs and they go great with everything, especially New York City streets. nobody wants to wear heels every single day to work. But the only other alternative is sneakers. Remember in the eighties when you would see businesswomen wearing sneakers with their suits? Ugh. And then they topped it off with those disgusting Channel 13 tote bags.  If it is heels everyday, make sure you get a decent pair. Christian Louboutin or Gucci. They’ll take you from work to cocktails.

Jeans? That’s a no brainer.  I prefer a little stretch. Get them to measure you at Saks. It doesn’t always mean you get a perfect fit but at least your thighs won’t look sausages. Same with nice pair of pants. If you don’t want black, go for charcoal gray instead. Always a classic look. They’ll look so great with a silk camisole.

A little black dress. As necessary as the air that we breathe. Any style,  silk, strapless, sleeveless, knee length, mini; it all comes to the same thing, simple elegance.

The right trench coat will always be in fashion. Just make sure you pick a basic color, like black, beige, or blue.

As long as you have the basics right, it doesn’t matter if you shop at Barney’s or the Gap. They are timeless. A big leather satchel is great to own because it will hold everything. but it’s an investment piece. Speaking of pieces you should have a signature one. I have my grandmother’s diamond ring. Even if it’s just a pair of aviators, its still part of your personal style. Big sunglasses are important though. that was just some of the basics to get you through the daily grind of living in the fashion capital of the world. Besides a barrel and suspenders is not exactly functional.
Domenica, Fashion Expert, Midtown

Such A Sensitive Soul

Why is there an unending stream of movies that cater to the lowest common denominator?

I get that all the deeply stupid movies out there–I’m looking at you Movie Movies franchise–are profitable, but this mass proliferation of crap on the big screen has to be detrimental to the general publics’ mental facilities.

This problem goes beyond the mindless summer blockbuster; I’m not entirely opposed to shutting off my brain for an hour and forty-five minutes to watch a few robots blow each other up, but there is a line between mindless and mentally damaging.

I really shouldn’t walk out of a movie feeling like the lower half of my body has lost all function because my brain had started to ooze out of my nose.

I am even more disturbed to know that the lowest common denominator appears to be an alarming majority who enjoy watching S****** P***** complain about first world problems or T***** B**** dressed as a woman in a fat-suit.

I’ve lost track of how many times I tried, in vain, to turn off all the fucking smurf ads every time I took a cab this summer.

Are we supposed to find this shit entertaining?
Or is there a larger endemic that is at play here?

It’s depressing to think that such a large majority of people eschew movies that might make them think.

Are we so in hock to Big Business that we take ANYTHING they throw at us and gobble it up?

(I even have the tv set to fast forward whenever a movie involves more than two contiguous shootings. Yes I’m looking at you J*** W*** 3 and the S**** franchise. Please I’d rather sit through ten girlie movies than be numbed by another shoot ‘em up. And I’m a fire fighter for fuck’s sake.
Thomas, Fireman, Red Hook

They seek him here…they seek him there..

There is nothing more empowering than to look like a million dollars, smell like Number Five and carry the month’s last ten dollars in a Dior bag. It makes me feel accomplished. Like any other human being of this century, I buy on media’s unattainable dreams: from Hollywood’s happy-ending chick-flicks to the shiny Oscar de la Renta fashion shows. And we wonder why the fashion industry makes billions of dollars per year? We project our fantasies in the fib realities it carefully performs for us. By now, we all should know this… Or not.       

Dottie, real estate, UES

Dangers of Elderly Drivers

Why do we have a minimum age for driving and not a maximum? After all, at 16 we have maximum speed in our reflexes, but minimum experience in road conditions and over 65 we have (hopefully) maximum driving hours under our belts but our physical condition—eyesight, muscle control, speed of reaction, etc.—leaves an awful lot to be desired. Now this might be considered age-ism by those who coin such terms, but even they cannot deny the sense of a further (and annual) driving test after a sixty fifth birthday to minimize the dangers of over-age drivers causing accidents. After all if these drivers are as experienced in life as we think they are, they must see the sense of this as well. No one is suggesting you lose your license, but if you are up to it you have nothing to fear from a senior driving test. Just as the new drivers have nothing to fear from the first test. The people who should be afraid are the rest of us at risk from drivers who are not up to the task!

Geoff, talk radio, Durham

Selfie Shaming Debate

It started with tourists taking photos of themselves with NYC landmarks in the background to show where they had been when they returned home. (Who can deny the satisfaction of offering a couple the opportunity to relax and pose while you took the shot!) However that was then and now we have the unedifying site of selfie phenomenon that is egotistical in the majority of cases, causing hugely inflated egos or uncontrollable low self-esteem. Of all the problems for young people brought about by unlimited social media (and let’s face is, there are a lot), this one has the most potential for a powerful and lasting destructive effect in later life. (Just think of your high school year book pages.) As a snapshot in a time in a young person’s life when they can be at their most vulnerable to criticism, selfies (and more importantly the ability to reach millions of people with them) should be regarded with suspicion and hostility.

MaryAnn, teacher, Brooklyn

Like Lambs to the Slaughter

In the wake of the Facebook controversy, how can it be even more obvious that business, especially big business worth billions of dollars, is not in it for the benefit of its “customers”. What did you think they were getting out of it when the owners of all those free apps you downloaded made you agree to giving them access to all your information, often by giving them access to roam through your computers hard drive at will. We are not the ‘customer WE are the product. Just as much as factory farming  producers plentiful food, we provide them with ‘product’ -Big Data – for their real customers; those who would use our information against our best interests. Even if those best interests are just our privacy and peace of mind.  Of all the reactions our society produces, fomo must be one of the stromgest. Especially amongst my generation, the millennials.

John, engineer, Washington Heights

A Pauper’s Guide to Gold Digging

I’m broke. I was born broke, I’ve been broke, and since I majored in what is effectively a hobby, I’m most likely always going to be broke. I’m also incredibly, incredibly single. And look, I understand the old phrase that “money can’t buy you love” but I figured I might as well try to kill two birds with one stone, right? Look, the fact of the matter is, money can’t buy you love, but it can by you a lot of lovely things. Clothes. Real estate. The funds to commission artists to create Soviet-era portraits of your likeness. You know, things that make you happy. And isn’t that what America’s about? The pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness? No one ever specified that happiness can’t include getting Botox injections with your elderly boyfriend’s 401K and then blowing the rest on a spree at Saks. I don’t need your judgment. My generation is screwed. By the time we’re ready to retire, all of our Social Security money will be dried up and sent away to China. We’re going to have to work until we’re dead. All of our money has been given to old, rich, white guys anyway, so why shouldn’t they have to pay us back? That being said, I’ve compiled a guide to getting yourself a sugar daddy or mommy; a step-by-step list to propel yourself to Anna Nicole greatness. Here goes nothing.

Step 1) Go to gay millionaire speed dating events.

Step 2) Start a new career as an end of life caretaker. Do it in the nude. And so on and so on and so on….

Max, writer, NYC

Back of My Neck is Gettin’ Dirty & Pretty

Nothing beats New York City summers: Levis’ cut offs. Tank tops. Hot asphalt. Baseball caps. Dirty feet in flip-flops. BBQs. Rooftop sunsets. Sweaty sex. Kickball in Prospect Park. Vodka lemonades sipped coolly on the terrace. Margaritas to-go. Watching Do The Right Thing and Kids 987 times just to get in the spirit of things. Pool parties. Block parties. Free concerts. Old movies in Bryant Park. The Hamptons. Mister Softee. Weekend camping trips upstate. Coney Island: funnel cake, the Cyclone, and Nathan’s hot dogs. So please. For the love of our city, for the love of our summer, and for the enjoyment of all: if you can’t stand the heat, get out the effing kitchen! I don’t want to hear you gripe about “oppressive heat,” “outrageous A/C bills,” or “disgusting humidity.” Just leave. No one’s gonna miss you.

Peter, poet, Midtown

Men are from Vars, women from Meenus

This is what I truly hate about relationships. It’s not about the relationship itself; it’s the gender role expectations people have about relationships. It’s the idea that men are always one way while women are the other, that men are lazy and women are controlling, that women want to go dancing while men want to play golf. In every relationship every gender stereotype is challenged. Men often want a traditional wedding, while women would prefer to quietly get hitched at Town Hall. When looking at an apartment recently a realtor mockingly said about an enormous walk-in closet, “But where will your boyfriend keep his stuff?” I promptly corrected him that my boyfriend is the shopper among us and proceeded to roll my eyes. With the constant divides pop culture encourages between men and women, why do people continue to perpetuate such stereotypes? In a relationship especially, people presuppose a boyfriend is one way while the girlfriend is the exact other, and that they resent each other because of it. In LGBT couples there’s an assumption that there is always both a “masculine” and a “feminine” presence that makes up the couple.  But why haven’t people figured out we’re all some of each?

Moira, horseback rider, Edinburgh

All You Need Is Love

Since the 1960s and the introduction of the popular western culture to meditation (by way of The Beatles and Maharishi Maresh Yogi), there has been a growing interest in meditation and its benefits. Empirical studies have shown countless benefits to adopting a mindfulness practice. My interest, however, lies in the power of meditation to allow individuals to engage in a calmer, rational and more peacful exchanges of ideas. As a practitioner myself, I can testify to the wealth of benefits a steady practice bestows upon its practioner. Through a mindfulness practice, in which an individual learns to patiently (and nonjudgementally) observe their own thought process, he or she will develop the mental fortitude necessary to challenge his or her own thoughts, and the perspective and distance needed to stop automatically identifying with each of them. Such a person becomes more open-minded and patient as well as less reactive and fearful (as they are no longer operating under the false notion—or imposition—that all of their thoughts are a reflection of their own beliefs). This is the sort of individual with whom I would like to discuss my ideas, one who is in control of their own mind and not fearful, on any level, of hearing an opposing perspective. Only such a person as this can fully partake in an open dialogue and respond with simultaneous confidence and respect for the opposition.

Jacob, faculty member, UWS

Green Green Grass

What is our obsession with the unattainable? This notion that someone or something is out of reach, for perfectly practical, financial, or moral reasons. Not theoretically, mind you, but logically. Is it a purely American mentality or is it a global epidemic to go after something that we should flat out know that  we will never get? Careers, material objects, I understand. There are even some exceptions when it comes to relationships, but they are even rarer than Native Americans. I know this girl. Sweet, beautiful, funny, girl. She’s a bit of a floozy. More people dislike her than value her friendship, moral character, or just her as an individual. But I don’t judge. If you can get it, more power to you, right? But this past weekend, I bared witness to the extent of her floozitude. This girl is a serial monogamist. Always the dumped, never the dumper. Insecurities so far up the wazoo that she often jumps right into another relationship within days of her previous one’s demise. A few months ago, her boyfriend of two years broke up with her. True to form, less than a week later, she’s with someone new. But along her endless cycle of “Find a guy. Make him boyfriend. Get dumped by said boyfriend,” that seems to be on repeat more than “What does the frog say” song, she has another pattern. There is another guy in her life that is by her side throughout her perpetual unrest. He is her back up plan, her plan B if you will. She’s slept with him, multiple times, when she’s single, more often when she’s not, but she will never ever EVER date him. She knows it. He knows it. But he’s still infatuated with her, and she doesn’t notice him unless she wants the attention that her current boyfriend should be giving her but cannot seem satisfy. A big group of us go out, including the triage of clusterfucks: my friend, her boyfriend, and her plan B. We’re dancing and having a blast. The girl’s boyfriend suddenly gets too drunk to realize that she exists. And in response, the girl matches his alcohol intake and retaliates by sexually dancing with her Plan B. Dangling the dry hump right in front of him. Plan B is excited, in more ways than one I imagine, but thinks that maybe he can steal her away for the night. But when the song ends, and the night’s over, she goes home with her boyfriend. And I look at Plan B. He’s looking after her, with that glazed stare of stolen satisfaction, and regretful rejection. It was sad, really. Painful to watch. It reminded me of horse breeders. Stay with me here. Horse breeders breed racing horses. Powerful stallions. But in order to get the mare, the prized possession, all riled up, they first bring in a teasing pony. A male that does not have the genetic composition worthy for sperm distribution, but has the chemistry to provoke her sexual appetite. Then after a good few minutes, he’s yanked out of the room and replaced by the Money Maker. Plan B is a teasing stallion, used only for their sexual stimulation and possible alcoholic lubrication; never to be taken seriously, never to be fully seen. To all of you out there, set an alarm because this is your wake-up call. Get some fucking self-respect. If the grass is greener on the other side, let the unattainables graze by their damn selves! You’re more than a teasing stallion, but no one’s going to believe it until you do. So man-up, and move on.

Suzanne, pollster, Red Hook

when with just a little less subjectivity it would all become a lot less confusing…”

Pro-Choice By Choice

As a liberal feminist, I believe being pregnant shouldn’t put a halt to anyone’s career. I’m also trying to be more sympathetic because I watched two former colleagues experience meltdowns trying to bear offspring. One miscarried during a client dinner. Another went through the ritual of daily injections and used a $10,000 grant from the company for in vitro. She shared every detail with our staff and I began dreaming of her fertility woes at night. Her unborn child was swimming through my slumber. On doctor-ordered bedrest for a month after the implantation took, she wouldn’t let anyone else take the reins while she was out. She checked her phone from the hospital, but felt she couldn’t harp on her team when she wasn’t at the office. I tried relentlessly to motivate her sales team, but grew frustrated when I realized she was the only one working past 5pm. When our only male sales rep took a two-week paternity leave, I found myself in an office resembling The Shining. Ironically, I had my own pregnancy scare during the initial baby boom. Maybe my body was subconsciously trying to get in on the action. I was eight days late when I began imagining how I would break it to everyone that the unwed Marketing Director—who hadn’t been trying—was with child. After plunking down $20 for an E.P.T., it turns out I wasn’t.

My lover called as I dealt with my mixed feelings of relief and disappointment. I never told him. His aunt, like a mother to him, had passed the week before and the “circle of life” metaphor of it all freaked me out. I did want to have his child someday, but under different circumstances. Gone were the fantasies of being the single, knocked-up girl at the office. I wouldn’t be a test case to see how far our society had come. In an ideal world, there would be no scrutiny for being husband-less, no pressure for a quickie wedding by my Christian mother, and no whispers as I walked down the hallway. Besides, I wasn’t 16 like Juno—wasn’t it an accomplishment to get pregnant in your 30s just a generation ago? I do understand the enthusiasm of these women to boast of fertility victory after chasing it for years. But what about the staffers who can’t have children? Or don’t know if they ever will, like me? It seems insensitive to discuss nothing but procreation. Some of the expectant mothers rush to get it all done, not even considering what will happen during their leave. It can be a lot for the staff to shoulder if a temp isn’t brought in, which is harder to justify in this down economy. When the new moms return to work, many take advantage of a flextime, a progressive perk some companies offer. But shouldn’t it be available to all employees? I may not be taking care of an infant, but I do help my disabled father, which some days can feel just as taxing. I believe quality of work life should exist for all, whether you have a mini-me or not.
Jen, marketing, Manhattan