Penis Schmeenis!

After drinks and dinner and dessert (the triple D’s, my favorite combination!), my friend Alex and I spent the entire waiting-for-the-subway period discussing why our respective boy-thing-crush-potential-what?s are either interested or not interested in us. And trust me, the E train took forever–it was quite the discussion. We were interpreting their phone communication, or lack thereof, and what the silence of our Facebook wall-to-walls is code for.

Does he like me? Does he not? Why would he bother to do such a thing if he didn’t? But if he does why hasn’t he called/texted/made more apparent signals? Is he just messing with my head? Does he think the distance will be a problem?

We realized that men probably aren’t fucking with our heads but are merely completely oblivious to our daily over-analysis of their every move while we sit here figuring out what “grab lunch” means. Grab lunch like you and me? Grab lunch are you going to pay? Grab lunch like street vendor kebabs or cute Italian place?

Cosmo, you have taught me nothing. Hilariously, Alex is interviewing the author of The Manual: A True Bad Boy Explains How Men Think, Date, and Mate–and What Women Can Do to Come Out on Top so we’ll find out what wonderful wise words the Man himself has to offer. We all decided we’re going to read The Manual. I mean, I don’t really believe in self-help books but I’m nearing the big 2-0 and boyfriendless so what do I know?

Tonight’s dinnertime conversation:

Mel: Well, you should try borrowing someone’s ID.
Jamal: I don’t think it’d work!
Mel: It works for Teresa!
Alex (emphatically): That’s because she dresses like a WHORE.

I would like to say, in my defense, that I do not dress like a whore. I just have a no pants policy. (I’ve rallied quite fervently for all of the ladies I roll with to adopt this policy, but so far only Jade looks promising. Really though, it would make for better pictures. Kirby and Mel are suspiciously firm believers in pants. But if gay marriage can happen, no pants policy can happen.)

I had my First Feminine Drink Ever today. I am normally a beerwoman through and through. (Why is beerwoman not a word? Because it should be. Like doorman, which clearly defines one’s schtick–a man who does doors. Well I am a woman who does beer.) When the time calls for it, AKA I feel bloaty enough to pass on more carbonation, I’m a gin-and-tonic girl. I know, I’m such a dude. I make it a point to wear fake eyelashes at least once a month to up my femininity a bit. I was surprisingly impressed by my FFDE. But I don’t know, what self-respecting 21st century progressive woman can drink something that ends in a “tini”? I’ll pass.

I can’t believe I just blogged my night away when it’s 2:18 a.m. and I should CLEARLY BE SLEEPING. This takes time, you know. People think I just whip these posts out in five minutes but it takes time to craft bad jokes.

I’m also terrible at titles. Which is why this entry is called “Penis Schmeenis.” I don’t know what I was thinking, trying to enter the mag industry and all. A good editor needs good headlines and I am t3h sux0rz at them.

BTW: The Facebook friend invites are starting to line up. Either I’m going to have to stop making fun of people I meet or I have to whip out some strict privacy measures, pronto.