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Gay Men Are A Girl’s Best Friend

05 Friday Sep 2014

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I’m not knocking on my lady friends here, nor am I looking to generalize all gay men into one category or push them into certain stereotypes, but there is a lot to be said about having a gay man as your BFF.

My best friend and I have been super close since we were 12 years old and living on Maui. We both moved to New York for college and have lived together ever since.

He’s my main source of support, my rock in this concrete jungle.

I know I can depend on him for anything and he knows the same about me. We’re like brother and sister, Batman and Robin, Seth Rogen and James Franco. In short, we’re unbreakable, unshakable and remarkable.

I have to say that I think a lot of what makes us such a power couple (he’s clearly my gay husband) is the fact that he, as a gay man, shares so many fantastic qualities with myself, but from a male perspective.

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: Gay men are the best. They have all the emotional wherewithal of a female, while having the same kind of power that we feminists are trying to achieve in the workplace and in relationships.

They’re like women 4.0, and I adore them all. I know that it isn’t fair to lump all gay men into one (although absolutely perfect) category, I just think that gay men make the best friends for any female. Here are the eight reasons why I love having a gay best friend:

1. They always support you

My gay best friend wants me to be the very best that I can be. He isn’t afraid to push me, to challenge me and to make me fight for my goals. He’s been the greatest safety net when I’ve felt my most afraid and my shoulder to cry on when I’ve felt my most vulnerable.

Gay men aren’t afraid to show their emotions; that’s what makes them a lot like girlfriends. There’s no hard exterior or “Mr. Cool Guy” act going on; they just generally want to be there to support you unconditionally.

2. They want to gab about boys, etc.

I love that I can talk to my best friend for hours on end about boys and about my relationships. Likewise, he wants to talk to me about his relationships. I never have to worry about being tuned out, judged or embarrassed about anything I divulge.

Not to mention, you know we have fun playing with his Grindr app while we pregame.

Your gay best friend is the easiest person to talk to because he doesn’t care you were making out with that rando at the bar last night because he was right there with you. This is a time when having a gay best friend is like having a best girlfriend; he’s always up for anything and is always right there by your side.

3. They are (relatively) drama free

I tread lightly when I say this, but gay men just have less drama than women. They are no-nonsense, get-to-the-point kind of people.

I love this about my gay husband. If I do something to set him off, he tells me how it is. He’s not into sitting around, being passive aggressive and talking a bunch of sh*t behind my back. He just tells me what’s going on and how he’s feeling, and we mutually find a way to remedy the situation so we can hightail it to happy hour.

4. They tell it like it is

If I look like a beached whale in my horizontally striped, mid-length, body-hugging dress (yeah, not my best fashion choice), my gay best friend is going to tell me straight up that I look like Shamu.

I love that he doesn’t lie to me because what service does it do me to spend an entire Friday evening out on the town looking like Rosie O’Donnell?

I appreciate the honesty I can always count on, even if it does sting a little.

5. They’re clean

Hygiene in the gay community is non-negotiable. My gay husband is borderline (okay, completely, sorry!) anal. It can be a little annoying since I tend to be a bit of a slob, but I appreciate that he wants a clean home and is always clean-shaven with a trendy haircut and smelling like Burberry Homme.

6. They dress to impress

My gay husband is impeccably dressed. I can’t even deal with all of these straight men in their high-tops and jerseys. Give me J. Crew, tailored jeans and V-neck sweater kind of guy any day.

7. You always have a shopping partner

Okay, not true of every gay guy, I know. They don’t all love shopping, but my gay husband LOVES shopping. It’s so nice to be able to spend a carefree day with a male who I know is going to love hitting up H&M and won’t mind holding on to my purse while I’m trying things on.

He also won’t hesitate to tell me my ass looks fat in those jeans.

8. You always have a handsome +1

I love being single. When I get invited to fancy par-tays, I can always rely on my fantastic, gorgeous BFF to be my arm candy for the night. Sometimes it can be a little tricky finding nice boys since they tend to think he’s my boyfriend, but it’s so worth it for all of the awesome photos we’ll take throughout the evening.

Hopefully we’ll both get lucky.

An Aside–

My only lament about having a fabulous, amazing gay husband is that all of these things aforementioned are the qualities of nearly every hot guy in New York. Sigh, I feel like all the good ones are gay. It’s actually quite depressing sometimes, but at least I have the best friend I could possibly ask for.

I love you, PW!

Originally Posted on Elite Daily

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The Best And Worst Moments Of Living With My Brother

25 Monday Aug 2014

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You’re cut from the same cloth, but you’re two different people. You may be undeniably close, and you may even consider your beloved brother or sister to be your best friend.

I know I certainly do; my siblings and I are like a covert crime network, always in constant contact and always up to cheeky no good. That’s how we’ve always been: incredibly close and 100 percent there for each other.

We know each other’s darkest secrets, our greatest desires and our far-reaching dreams. We’ve laughed together, cried together and we’ve seen each other change dramatically over the years.

We aren’t the little children we once were. My little sister isn’t the same tiny tomboy who insisted on wearing boys’ bathing suit bottoms with no top, and I’m certainly not the 8-year-old demon who pushed a classmate into paint for no reason.

We’re adults now; we’ve been molded by the experiences of life, and changed and shaped like rocks close to shore. We went to different colleges: two to Boston, another in Ireland. I chased my intense itch to be a writer all the way to the Big Apple.

I’ve been separated from the people who have been an intrinsic part of my life for the last 18 years. When you’re far away from the familiar, you’re forced to be on your own, make your own life, meet new friends and develop your sense of independence. As a result, we’ve all unquestionably changed in our respective ways.

It’s not like I’m a completely different person now; only so much alteration can occur from across a coastline. I still laugh every time my brother does his impression of Stephen Colbert; I still like to drink Diet Coke at 9 am and read old Russian novels. But still, things are different.

I’ve been on my own for over five years. I’ve developed a new life for myself, and I’m following my dreams and discovering new ones.

Having my brother move in with me seemed like the only logical thing to do. I mean, what could possibly go wrong? Frankly, we did have a great summer; though, I rarely saw him, save for weekends due to his intense internship.

But there were also challenges: the kinds of challenges that can only arise when you’re living with someone who knows you so well inside of your newly constructed world.

It’s not the same as when you’re home with your family; that setting has already been established. It’s the comfortable world the child-version of you understands.

Living with your brother or sister as an adult is an entirely different experience. Though I wouldn’t trade having these past few months with my brother for the whole world, we definitely had our ugly moments.

With that being said, here are the ups and downs of living with a sibling:

You have a constant companion

The Upside:

You always have someone to hang out with. My brother and I have been taking these really amazing creative walks where we brainstorm different artistic projects that we’re working on. This article, for instance, was a product of a long, invigorating conversation.

Having your sibling live with you means you’re never alone. You always have someone to binge-watch “Breaking Bad,” to tag along with you to CVS and you always have someone to talk to.

The Downside:

You always feel like you’re obligated to invite him or her to everything and to make sure he or she is having the most fun possible. It can be a lot of fun having someone around all the time, but sometimes you just want to chill with your own friends.

Living on your own means being independent and doing things on your own. Having a sibling living with you means you never get to just do your own thing.

You have someone there who provides unconditional love

The Upside:

Your brother or sister is always going to love you, so you can basically be as ridiculous as you want and he or she is going to be forced to stay by your side. It’s great to have someone around who’s always going to have your back in everything you do. Blood is thicker than water, after all.

The Downside:

Things can get out of control when you’re with someone who will love you no matter what you do. This can result in constant fighting about the most petty of things. You also might even be comfortable enough to get harmlessly physical with a sibling, which can result in slapping, smacking, kicking, etc.

We also like to make unintentional comparisons to other family members to piss each other off: “I’m smarter than you!” “You’re exactly like Mom!” “F*ck you!”

You can share everything

The Upside:

With siblings, “what’s mine is yours” definitely applies. When my brother got pudding cups, I could have a pudding cup. When I got shampoo, my brother used the shampoo. With a sibling, you share everything. You have the same mentality as when you were kids: Sharing is caring.

The Downside:

Sometimes when you’re sharing everything, it can be really annoying. I mean, I’m fine with my sibling eating some of my cereal, but using my towel? That is not something I want happening. I mean, you wipe your butt with that.

Not to mention how many times my socks got wet in the morning because SOMEONE doesn’t know how to use a shower mat. I love that I can share everything with my siblings, but sometimes sharing goes a little overboard.

With roommates, you know that what you buy belongs to you (unless you have really terrible roommates), so when you cross that sibling/roommate binary, it’s difficult to tell where the line is.

You can talk to each other about anything

The Upside:

When you’re sharing your apartment with your sibling, you know that you always have someone there who isn’t going to beat around the bush and tell you like it is. You can count on complete honesty because your siblings have known you for your whole life.

The Downside:

Sometimes things get a little too real. Since your siblings love you and care about you, they think they have free reign to constantly comment on your behavior.

Anyone who has ever read anything I’ve written knows that Mama loves her wine. I do drink a lot — I’ll admit that. Once the day is over and I’m exhausted, I just want to take some wine to the face and unwind.

My brother thinks I have a drinking problem, and that’s totally okay. He’s entitled to his opinion and obviously it’s coming out of a place of love. What I do have a problem with, however, is being constantly harassed over it.

Every time I have a drink in front of my brother, he feels the need to tell me what an alcoholic I am. It’s exhausting; I’m an adult, and I can make my own decisions. When you’re used to being independent and doing anything you feel like doing, having someone constantly bring up your supposed flaws can be extremely frustrating.

Originally Post on Elite Daily

Looking Back on Those Island Days: 27 Things Only Maui Kids Will Understand

25 Wednesday Jun 2014

Posted by in The New Chapter

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Getting to live on Maui for 11 years of my life was truly a blessing. I had a wonderful childhood filled with adventures like jumping off waterfalls, climbing volcanoes and surfing in the delightful Pacific.There is also some serious insanity that happens among the community of locals, however.

Like most destinations, actually living in Hawaii is a vastly different experience than coming for the sights.

Whenever I tell someone I’m from Hawaii, the response is always along the lines of, “Wow, that is amazing!” Yeah, a lot of sh*t was amazing, but this one is for the real Maui people.

Here are 27 things only Maui kids will understand:

1. For the ladies, your bikini bottoms were micro-mini

Being a Maui girl means embracing the Brazilian bikini. Saggy bikini bottoms were the best way to pick out a tourist on the beach (well, that and a sunburn). You also had more bikini options than underwear options.

A Maui girl has an ass-out, no-shame bikini collection. Disclaimer: I’m 23 and I still wear them — even in the Hamptons. F*ck saggy bikini bottoms; they look like wet diapers and it’s NOT cute.

2. Even the white kids could speak pidgin when wasted

Pidgin is a hybrid of several different languages, brought to Maui by the multiplicity of cultures that live on its sandy shores. It’s a mix of Japanese, Tongan, Hawaiian and English (and few others, I’m sure). People who live on the island, who are exposed to all of these different cultures, speak pidgin.

I’m a white kid who was born in Chicago, so I thought I could speak pidgin when I really couldn’t. Pidgin is sort of English, and yet, it’s sort of not.

It includes phrases like, “da kine,” which means… well, it means many things… and “ono grindz,” which means “good food.” Anyway, only when heavily intoxicated would a white, non-native person like me decide to speak pidgin and make a damn fool out of herself.

3. Party locations were in very “natural environments”

Only a Maui kid can understand the beauty of a party in Poli Poli Park or a random cane field. Natives are used to doing keg stands using and tree for support or wandering through forests, looking for the light of the antics that are taking place.

4. You use the word “trog” and now all your mainlander friends know what a trog is and probably use it sometimes, too

The common myth on Maui is that a “trog” comes from the combination of the words “troll” and “frog,” but despite this folklore, it is simply not the case. Trog comes from the world “troglodyte,” which is a cave dweller.

It can be used either as a noun like, “You are such a trog” or, “That girl is such a trog.” Or, it can be used as an adjective like, “That is so trog” or, “Why are you being so trog?” It’s a word of complicated meaning, with many different implications, but you used it and still use it, nonetheless.

That’s not trog at all.

5. You always knew to take your shoes off before going into a private residence and even school

On Maui, people follow the Japanese custom to remove shoes before going into someone’s house. You aren’t supposed to track outside dirt inside — it’s dirty. It’s a sign of respect and part of the culture.

6. You know that a Banyan tree provides for the best fort

With their cavernous, loping trunks, deeply grooved bark and insanely long, hair-like tresses, these trees were perfect for childhood hideaways. We used to hunt for Jackson chameleons inside of them when we were little.

7. Flip flops are not a thing

Flip flops? WTF are flip flops? No. You were regular wearer of “slipahs,” which is what Maui natives call them. You wore them everywhere, every day.

8. You didn’t understand the concept of “outerwear”

You wore sweatshirts on rainy, 60-degree days, shivering and complaining of the frigid cold. Needing a winter coat was a foreign concept, reserved for mainland travels in which you experience a real winter.

Lucky for me, I spent Christmas breaks in Chicago, so I had a very different experiences than most Maui folk. But, my first full-length winter was snowy, wet and sad.

9. OH. MY. GOD. Lifted Trucks

They were everywhere you looked, on every street and in every parking lot. Maybe you even had one, who knows? Lifted trucks were super “hip” to have and the island was crawling with them. The tints were always way too dark to possibly be legal and many had gold rims or other chic details.

10. You did NOT pass your driving test the first time

I took my driving test THREE times before I passed. Why is it SO hard to pass a driving test in a place that has about four roads, one highway and is 70 percent forest? I’ll never know.

11. Lahaina was a town to troll for boys and hotel parties

What were we doing partying in hotel rooms at age 15? I’m still not sure, but it was awesome. Since the other side of the island was tourist central, you obviously celebrated birthdays down there and raged the place up, probably making a huge mess and not caring at all.

It was always like going on little vacations.

12. Halloween was like Mardi Gras of the Pacific

You’d see 14-year-old girls dressed in nothing but thongs and body paint. If you were a girl, you were one of them. Oh, and bonus: You also saw your teachers and they not-so-shockingly judged you for dressing like a baby prostitute, just as you judged them for being in a place where it was expected to wear a thong and body paint.

13. Speaking of teachers, yours were very “unusual” and seemed to be everywhere

Ahhh, my history teacher saw me flash the lead singer of 311 while on the shoulders of a nice Tongan man I did not know. Those were the good old days.

14. You learned very quickly what the “Aloha Spirit” meant: really slow

Are you an early riser? Do you like to get your errands over with and then move on with your day? Well then, that sucks for you. Shops are open whenever the shop owner feels like it, which will probably never be early in the morning, so plan accordingly.

15. You had a liver of steel by the time you were 15

As a Maui kid, if there was one thing you were really good at, it was drinking. It wasn’t at all unusual for you to pick up a handle just to have for yourself.

Speaking of which, you could just walk into Foodland, pick up a handle of liquor and walk out without being stopped. Getting alcohol was as easy as getting Gatorade.

16. Instead of The Boogie Man or monsters under your bed, you had menehune and night marchers

I still have nightmares to this day.

17. If you lived upcountry:

Seeing a traffic light was like seeing a unicorn. You were used to waiting behind a line of 15 cars to get to school at four-way intersections. You also had to allow for time in your morning commute for the hoards of inexperienced bikers taking tours of the crater.

18. If you lived in Kihei — or anywhere near sea level:

You always had sunshine, but you lived near nothing.

19. The cops were nice to you…

… If you were a girl and if you cried. One night, two of my friends and I snuck out to meet up with some boys and proceeded to lose one of our friends — or maybe, she went off with some guy? So trog.

Anyway, rather than looking for said friend, we waited in the car for her. Along came the cops. We were way passed curfew at this point and they wanted to take us in… so, in our blacked-out state, we cried and they let us go. If you are a boy living on Maui, this would never happen. Your ass would be in jail in a hot second.

20. Three words: Paia, Flatbread, Life

21. If you needed new clothes:

Your option was Pac Sun.

22. You used to regularly swim with sea turtles that were bigger than you

In fact, they were your most reliable meet-up, considering everyone had the “Aloha Spirit” — meaning, they were really slow and no one was anywhere on time, ever.

23. Maui (nearly) destroys your ability to enjoy weed anywhere else

Heard of the Maui Wowie? Yeah well that sh*t is strong and potent. Also, you could pretty much smoke anywhere you want and you know no one will stop you. Smoking on your porch as a cop drives by? Sure. On a beach with families sitting all around you? Go ahead.

24. Transportation without a care just meant hitchhiking around

Where would a kidnapper take you? Maui is really small; there’s simply nowhere to go. Now, in retrospect, this was probably not the safest choice, but you had places to be.

25. SPAM was part of a balanced diet

Who doesn’t love meat from a can? It was even served with eggs at McDonalds. Da kine, Brah.

26. Speed limits were so bad you probably should have just walked

Do you like driving faster than 50 mph on the (basically only) highway? In Maui, we sure wish we could!

27. When someone finds out you’re from Hawaii, it’s always the same, annoying questions, like you’re a space alien

Do you surf? Do you get lava days? Do you live in huts? ARE YOU STUPID?! No, we don’t live in huts. Maui is in America, people! Oh, and I’ve always loved, “Do you take American money?” That one was a hoot.

Originally Posted on Elite Daily

I’m Gonna Be There

05 Monday May 2014

Posted by in The New Chapter

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According to many of my friends, they either don’t have a close relationship with their Godparents, or they don’t even have them all. My extremely close relationship with my God Mother seems to be rare, and I can understand why: because (and I say this with complete conviction) no one on earth can rival my God Mother.

When my mother, father, and Zaza (that’s what we call her)—found out that my mother was pregnant with a girl, they all screamed for joy. My mother had been desperate to have a daughter. But so was my God Mother, and unfortunately for her she’d never get to have one—a bad marriages and two teenage boys put that dream to rest. My mother made a solemn vow that day. She promised to share me with Zaza, she told her that while I was her daughter first, I would be the daughter my dear aunt never had the chance to have.

Zaza has been my second mother for my entire life. I’ve been lucky enough to be blessed with a wonderful mother, father, and Zaza. I’m a girl who grew up with two parents. Zaza always lived with us. When I was very little we would have “magic baths,” where Zaza turned on the inexplicable red light in her bathroom, have a bath and sing torch songs. Those are some of my favorite memories. We’d sing “Someone to Watch Over Me” and “When I Fall in Love.” Zaza had, and still has, the most beautiful voice in the entire world.

When we moved to Maui, Zaza of course came along. She fell in love with Michael—my surrogate God Father—and he came along too. As I grew older, we only grew closer. Zaza is a real no non-sense; get your shit together, kind of woman. She’s a blonde now but that natural red head spirit was what made our home fill with life. She was my greatest confidant. In high school, I was always up to no good. I could tell her anything and I knew she wouldn’t tell my mom. When I lost my virginity, when my best friend Bumble and I stole her parents vodka, when I tried to steal the car—she knew and she gave me guidance but she never betrayed my trust.

We had a special relationship that existed outside the realm of Aunt and Niece. She was a mother, a friend, a protector, a savior, and a secret lockbox.

She and my mother ran the house in tandem. Everyone got everything they needed for school, got all of their homework finished. We always had dinner late because that’s the way the Europeans did it, Zaza would say. My mother’s health has always been poor. She’s had lupus and arthritis since she was a teenager. That’s why she and Zaza were so close. Zaza took care of my mom and took care of us like we were her own children. She never asked for thanks or praise, simply did everything she could to make sure everyone was happy and healthy with quiet grace.

When I was getting ready to leave for college in New York, my family moved back to Chicago. That was when things really changed. Zaza didn’t come with us this time. She stayed behind with her husband, Michael. His health had weakened over the years and though Zaza rarely showed it, hers’ had as well. They decided to stay in Maui, where they had excellent health benefits, the warm sun, and the endless stretches of white sand beaches that I still miss to this day. But I miss something more, I miss my Zaza.

I think the power a God Mother can have on a young girl’s life is grossly underestimated. Sure, we say, “Will you be the God Mother” when we have kids and they come to the Christening, but nothing rarely comes of it. I think this shouldn’t be the case. If you’re going to be someone’s God Mother, and agree to what it entails—you better step up. If involved enough, a God Mother can be an essential guiding force in a woman’s life. She has the power to shape a child like a second mother—to imbibe them with her spirit, her beliefs, and her life lessons. The responsibility that a God Mother truly has, by definition, is undervalued. Consider the responsibility you are actually agreeing to: you’re agreeing to guide a child’s soul and nurture their spiritual well being. That’s some serious shit. And so many people take it for granted. I’m so lucky to have had Zaza, who spent every waking moment considering my happiness and my needs—completely putting her own behind mine. Her selflessness is like no person I have ever met. She has made me the person I am today. Not to knock my parents, they are truly wonderful, but there is something special in the fabric of my relationship with Zaza.

Even though we live far apart we still speak to each other often. Every time we talk it’s for hours and hours. She wants to know everything—who I’m dating, how all my friends are—she remembers their names and details about them even though she’s never met them. I definitely get busy sometimes and neglect her sometimes. She understands, I have school and work but I feel guilty about it.

Zaza’s husband, Michael died unexpectedly a few days ago. I woke up to a series of frantic texts and voicemails from my mother. Zaza was married three times, but when she met Michael—well, I’d never seen her light up in quite that special way. They looked at each other like my parents looked at each other—amazed and almost a little shyly—a little like they were still in disbelief that they could ever be so lucky. Michael had also been very important to me as well. He was the God Father I never had and he loved me to the moon and back. I adored him because he was good to my Zaza and he was good to me.

And now, suddenly, he was gone. It’s astonishing to me how a person can be there one day and then be gone the next moment without any warning. I wish I had gotten to say goodbye, gotten one more bear hug in, but most of all I am heart broken for Zaza.

After I cried my heart out and Zaza cried her heart out, on the phone, a million miles away, long into the night, I fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. When I woke up something truly revolutionary dawned on me.

As adults, we’re getting to a place where we don’t need to be comforted anymore and, more importantly, we’re in a place where we can comfort others—where we can provide emotional support.

I am a grown woman now. I don’t need to be taken care of anymore. Zaza made me strong enough that I have what it takes to really be there for her now, when she is not able to be strong for herself. To carry her through her grief and safely to shore. She’s always been there for me, loving me, nurturing me, grooming me to become a fiercely independent, emotionally well-rounded woman. She needs me now. And, even though I’m far away, I’m there.

Originally posted on Elite Daily

The Greatest of These is Love

06 Thursday Mar 2014

Posted by in This Thing Called Love

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It’s true. No matter what: The greatest thing of all is love.

Stop holding your breath, honey, my mom said, squeezing my hand. I was stunned watching the swarm of doctors and nurses and then nurses and then doctors come in and out of the Emergency Room. One took blood pressure, the other started a drip. Another asked how he was feeling for the 100th time.

I wanted to scream at them to just pass along the information so my sick father didn’t have to repeat himself over and over again. I wanted to scream that I didn’t know that my surprise visit to North Carolina would end up in the hospital, trying my best to stomach my panic so my dad wouldn’t see it. I wanted to scream that four surgeries in one year was way too many. I wanted to scream that now, the pressure had broken not only my mother and I’s heart, but my dad’s too. I wanted…

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I’m Going to Love Me

26 Wednesday Feb 2014

Posted by in This Thing Called Love

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Love Sex and the City, hate Sex and the City. It doesn’t matter. When those writers invented Carrie they gave her a voice and an insight on love that women everywhere should try and listen to (and believe!)

My brother posted a Carrie quote on my Facebook wall today so that I would be reminded just how important it is to love myself, even when I don’t know if I do. I think we could all use a little self-love. I’m trying, a little more every day, to learn to love the person I am now and the person I’m becoming. It’s only then that I can really have room in my heart to love someone else.

These words may be easier to read (and say you’ll follow) than to actually follow. It’s easy to give good advice and a lot harder to take it. But you know what, I’m gonna try.

I feel like I’m constantly putting down everything I do and convincing myself that I’m headed for disaster. And I guess I only do that to prepare for the worst, but it doesn’t serve me to act like my life is going to fall apart. It does make me work harder, but it puts me in a strange state of mind. Carrie is right: the most important relationship you have is with yourself. So, cheers to a move in the direction towards a strong(er) self!

“Later that day, I got to thinking about relationships.
There are those that open you up to something new and exotic.
Those that are old and familiar.
Those that bring up lots of questions.
Those that bring you somewhere unexpected.
Those that bring you far from where you started.
And those that bring you back.
But the most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all
is the one you have with yourself.
And if you find someone to love the you, you love…
Well, that’s just fabulous.”

Why I Don’t Want Any Straight, Male Friends

18 Tuesday Feb 2014

Posted by in Single in New York, The New Chapter

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I’ve been trying to actively achieve something for the last few months. I decided one night, while snuggling with one of my favorite gay boyfriends, that perhaps, if my entire friend group is made up of nearly all gay men that maybe this could prevent me from meeting straight men—and eventually find love. I made the conscious decision that I was going to go out and find me some straight, platonic male friends.

This advice wasn’t revolutionary. It had originally been given by my mother, who for all of her loving intensions, I believed had zero f*cking idea what she was talking about. The thing is, I don’t really like straight men. No, actually, I just flat out don’t like straight guys. They’re smelly, they like sports and they aren’t willing to go to a gay club with me and dance the night away. Why would I want to be friends with stupid straight people? –I actually do have two straight male friends (Holla, MO and Frenchie!) but they are a blessed enigma and they hook up with all of my other friends so actually who knows how normal they are to begin with. Anyway, after some deep personal contemplation (aka: a bottle of wine), I began to seriously consider her advice.

And so I went on a hunt. I trolled my usual bars on the Upper West Side, the ones where the straight guys hang out—only this time instead of looking for guys I had sexual interest in, I was looking for guys I could be buddies with. And it really didn’t take long for me to find a friend. Turned out: coolest dude ever. For the last month we’ve been chilling all the time. And then, a few weeks ago—like the drunken idiot I tend to be regularly—I made out with him. And you know what? F*ck being friends with straight guys. My original feelings were completely correct. This guy informs me that he can’t be friends with me if he’s “friend zoned” and storms out of my life.

I’ve come to the astonishing conclusion that if a guy wants to be “friends” with you. he’s nearly always looking to get in your pants. When I brought up this sad discovery to a friend of mine he looked at me, with a puzzled expression and said, “Um, well, yeah.” Apparently everyone knew about this and decided not to tell me.

Then, more personal contemplation (more wine). Why did I think I needed more friends anyway? Why did I think my friend group was lacking something? I thought about all of the amazing people in my life, my cousins in the West Village, my brothers and sisters, my friends and I realized, I’m extremely lucky. I have a fantastic support group of loving, kind and incredibly talented individuals who care deeply about me and want to me to succeed every day. My personal revelation gave me more comfort than I had had in a very long time. I realized that, honestly, if my brothers, sisters and cousins (Holla, Macks and Lawrence!) stayed single for the rest of their lives and we just lived together, that I would be perfectly happy with that. Sure, I’d love to get married and have a family, but do I need that? It may sound astonishing to some, but I really don’t. I don’t need anyone else. If they come along, fantastic, but if not, that’s okay too. You always have to love yourself first, most and last, and I’m happy that I’ve finally come to terms with that. I don’t need anyone else and I certainly don’t need any straight male friends. Straight guys? Who needs them? I’ve got my gays – shopping, vino, high heels, snuggling, and watching Sex and the City. I’m the luckiest girl in the world!

Farewell, Little F*ckers!

10 Monday Feb 2014

Posted by in This Thing Called Love

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What good is a manufactured man? Like dolls they are a dime a dozen. They come down, one by one on a conveyer belt in a Chinese factory and are then are packaged and shipped, with minimal care, to be placed on a toy shelf to please a bright-eyed girl for a little while, until the novelty wears off. Made of plastic, each one is shiny and new and hallow just like the doll. A plastic man can teach a girl as much about love as a plastic baby doll can teach you how to be a big sister.

And that’s why I asked my cousin Maksymilian (“Maks”) to tell us the story about the day my little sister, CNE was born.

—–

Cashmere and opium perfume pulsated in lieu of her retort. Her blood sugar—normal at last check—okay, and no one was running late to a funeral. Mostly because there wasn’t a single funeral to attend that morning anywhere in Lake Forest, not even a Protestant one. She sipped her Diet Coke through a straw, letting her thick blonde hair tilt to a private thought. 

The whole damn breakfast room was paneled wood, and quite frankly, it reminded her of a coffin. We looked at each other from across the table, the reflection of my suspenders’  framing an untouched plate of breakfast. Something about me sitting there made her smile.

I liked making Zaza smile because the screaming from upstairs was not going to stop. I knew it, Zaza knew it. Gigi could hear the screaming, but she only wanted to know how fabulous her 747 bow looked that morning.  

Gigi, Zaza and myself were enjoying breakfast. Everyone else skipped breakfast and went to the hospital. JCE, my cousin and Gigi’s older brother, found attending breakfast an outrageous request. So he refused food and pitched a fit. Monitoring the birth your new baby sister has never been a civil right. I just think he panics when life abandon’s a pleasantly predictable pace. I haven’t seen him in years so I’m sure that’s changed.

Janina stepped away from the coffin walls and asked, “Please ma’am, about crying boy? Does he stay or should he go to hospital? You torture him.”

My mother brought Janina over to help when we arrived at the house that morning. That morning — the screaming, the chaos, my God mother’s kind smile as every domestic in their house partook in carrying her down the stairs. Giving birth can be the event of a lifetime, if you allow it, and we allow a lot of things.

That’s most of what I remember the day my youngest cousin was born. Well that part, and the part in the breakfast room.

My grandmother used to tell Janina that becoming one with the furniture was a virtue she lacked. A shays can’t repeat itself, but Janina could: “Does he stay or should he go to hospital? You torture him.”

Diet Coke makes a hissing sound when it lands too fast. When Zaza’s copper cup played gavel with the breakfast table, all that glass made a hiss. 

“You torture him. Torture. Screaming.” Janina would have made a terrible shays. 

Zaza studied German and spy novels in Paris. So when people give birth in our family, she has to watch the kids. Her blond hair straightened back up and then Zaza said, “Let the little f*cker go.”

“Pardon me ma’am?” Janina asked.

“Let, the little f*cker, go” repeated Zaza.

“Who is Little-F*cker” asked Janina.

Little F*cker–there are about 10 children and half a dozen husbands that may, or may not, earn (at any given moment) the right and honorable title of The Little F*cker.

That morning, I wanted to behave and Gigi was too involved with her 747 bow. And if Janina is the shays, that only left one person. That morning Little F*cker was JCE.

—–

That was what Maks remembered but that wasn’t the point of the story and that wasn’t why I asked him to tell it. This is why this story is actually important.

Zaza was a woman of the moment. In this moment her charge was as follows: take care of the kids, everyone else will be at the hospital. My eldest brother, JCE, threw an enormous fit because he didn’t want her to go. After thirty or forty minutes of insane five year old screaming Zaza, flustered and angry said, “Just let the little fu*cker go!”

So, Zaza took Maks and I to the toy store. The idea being I would get a baby doll in order to make me understand that I was going to have a new sister. Part of me wonders if they feared me handling the real baby.

At the store I picked out my “baby”—and of course Maks wanted one too.

When we arrived home Maks and I found our grandmothers (my father’s mother and his father’s mother) conversing quietly in the living room. My grandmother was the quintessential, all-American Christian woman and Maks’ was a relic from the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. We showed them our dolls and my grandmother asked, “What did you name your doll, Maksymilian?” and he told her, “Roberta.” Then she asked me and I responded, “Little F*cker.”

See, I wasn’t involved in my 747 bow over breakfast. I just thought that whenever we get a new baby we get to call each other little f*ckers.

——–

Whenever I want a boyfriend, a boyfriend tends to appear. Now I don’t mean that I’m conceited, or full of myself, and that I can make boyfriends manifest at my heart’s desire. If I want a boyfriend, I turn my light on and settle down for however long that relationship suits me. When I say “I turn my light on” I mean Miranda-Sex-and-the-City “I turn my light on.”

A man is ready to settle down when he puts on his light, just like a cab. If my light is on, I’m available, I’m on the hunt. I usually have an idea of what I’m looking for in my next romance.  The moment a man has those certain characteristics I approach the situation strategically. My careful tactics nearly always lead me right into a relationship with my target.

I met Grey while boyfriend hunting. I wanted someone in finance who was substantially older than me. Boom. Cue Grey. I met him in a bar, gave him my number and dated him properly for four weeks before ever letting him have my milkshake. Boyfriend. Done.

The birth of a relationship is like getting a shiny new baby doll. It’s someone new, untainted, and exciting. But if you force a relationship without letting it grow organically, eventually your baby doll, once dripping in novelty and flawlessness, looks like an ugly and worn out thing you found in the attic. Suddenly their personality flaws aren’t worth your time and effort. That’s not love. That’s not how love works.

I firmly believe that the right mindset in that moment when you  meet your man is one of open mindedness. Allow him to demonstrate if he is the man who’s right for you. Simply wanting a boyfriend will never deliver the right guy. You can’t grow something strong from plastic beginnings,  beginnings where the designer only ever intended it to look organic.

Then suddenly, you’re at a funeral. A tearful goodbye, or a hostile farewell, set to an old hymn that sings words of past failed relationships.

The death of another commitment, waiting in a paneled room at the beginning of each day. Your light goes off. You’re alone with nothing but the hiss of Diet Coke.

But look at this way: you’re single, you’re strong, you’re free. Who needs another little fucker?

14 Things I’ve Learned From Being Poor

13 Monday Jan 2014

Posted by in Articles, The New Chapter

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I grew up privileged. I’ll always been eternally grateful for everything I’ve had, every experience and opportunity I was lucky enough to be given. I went to all of the best schools; I traveled Europe and even had a fantastic childhood growing up in paradise. I also had (and still have) amazing parents who raised me to have a good head on my shoulders and who smothered me with more love than any kid deserves. It was magical to grow up so blessed (yes, I was tempted to ironically hashtag the word “blessed”—but I mean it this time).

In 2008, everything changed. Suddenly, there was no more money, no more trips or Oscar de la Renta. There was no one to pay for college or pay the credit card bills. I’ll be the first to admit that I never realized how much I had until it was gone–and maybe that’s the most important thing I’ve taken away from this experience: to appreciate everything with my whole heart.

But you know what being poor teaches you? To be a fast learner.

1. When you lose your money the fake friends (and family, go figure) will run like rats
Yep, here’s looking to you family on my mother’s side!

My mother and father are really good people. The best, actually, despite what anyone says. They were extremely kind and giving to everyone around them. My father employed my mother’s sisters at his bank, despite the fact that they had zero background in finance; they housed 31 struggling families in our guesthouse over 20 years at our old Adler. They would do anything for anyone who asked. They would even do things without being asked because they just loved to help people. They had a lot of friends. When they were rich. As soon as the money was gone, so were their friends. It turns out that being generous and kind won’t always come back to you in your time of need. “The Fake Friends” is what we call them in my family now. The ones that took off as soon as they’d sucked my parents dry of everything they could. They weren’t of use to them anymore so, why stick around? Why pay it forward? Why be decent human beings? I believe in Karma. The universe will have them for lunch (or I will one day—watch your backs).

Of course, there are a tiny number (none of which are blood relatives—classy, right?) who stuck by them and have helped them as much as they could. They know who they are and they are our guardian angels.

My mother’s family ran like filthy rats. They won’t even speak to her. My mom’s youngest brother has AIDs. My parents set up a trust for him, many years ago, to pay for his medical expenses. He’s now the oldest living AIDs patient in Illinois. He won’t even lend a kind word to my parents even though he owes them his life.

You know what’s craziest of all? My mother still loves each and every one of them with all of her heart. Unconditionally. No questions asked. I don’t understand it but maybe some day I will. I doubt it though. Excuse the bitterness, but guess what? I’m really f*****g bitter.

2. Only keep people in your life who deserve to be in it.
Losing everything (well, the money anyway) has made me exceptionally selective when it comes to the people I let into my life. And, sure, I’ve still made mistakes and had to let people go but I feel like I’ve built much stronger relationships. My relationships are based on love, not money. They aren’t tainted or one-sided. They are true and they are precious. I’m incredibly close with my immediate family. We’d never emulate the vile behavior of our extended kin. So, in a way, I’m grateful for my extended family’s repulsive disloyalty. They revealed who they really are. And when we’re on top again–which we will be whether I make millions myself or some other way—you know what I have to say to them? Go. F***. Yourselves.

3. Working hard makes payoff twice as sweet
Once I found my first internship, started writing, began freelancing and nannying in New York I felt so much more free. I was (and am) doing everything on my own, standing on my own. It feels genuine. There’s no falling back on daddy’s money and it feels empowering and fantastic to know that everything I have, I’ve earned by myself.

4. Your family is irreplaceable
Just because the money is gone doesn’t mean the love is. In fact, I’d gladly trade everything I have and have had for my family. There’s more love there than anywhere in the world. We support each other’s dreams, we stand together and we can’t be broken. This experience had the potential to not only destroy a lifestyle but also our spirit. It’s done the opposite. We’re 100% in love with each other. My mother is a strong, sweet and courageous woman fighting lupus and rheumatoid arthritis–but always manages to put on a happy face and shower us with unconditional love. My father is the perfect man. He’s devoted, loving and more caring than any dad in the entire world—yes, I’m biased. Sorry I’m not sorry. He may be having a real shit time of it right now but he’s never let it get him down. God, my oldest brother even wrote a book! All of my brothers and sisters are freakin brilliant and I am in awe of them. I am so lucky to have been born into this family.

5. You are your greatest asset
You have to first believe in yourself before you can give any part of yourself to someone else. If there’s one thing you have to hold onto dearly it’s your self-worth. It’s a cutthroat world and you have to love yourself more than anyone (family not included). This is actually a lesson I took from Lindsay Tigar. So, thank you Linds.

6. Ambition is addicting.
I guess I always thought I’d have a life like my mom’s: regularly visit Saks, smother Le Mer on my face, watch old movies and be a loving mom. That won’t cut it anymore. Once we lost everything I realized that I’m in charge of my own future. I’m the one who’s going to be responsible for my own success. And, honestly it’s really addicting. I love writing this blog, I love interning, I love creating. I went from unpaid intern to gradually earning my place as a paid intern and now I’ve officially been selected to be a Fashion Aide to an Executive at a major fashion magazine. All before gradating college. I revel in my success. I hunger for more. I can’t wait for the next big thing. It excites me. Poverty has lit a fire inside me like I didn’t even know was even there. I want fame. I want success and I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get it.—but I won’t be stepping on anyone on my way to the top.

7. You need to develop a hard shell
Vulnerability has to go immediately. Forget it. Burn it. You have to be ready for anything and be ready for the worst. I’m not saying ice up or to become completely devoid of emotion but I’ve learned to protect my heart and protect the ones I love with the fierceness of a lioness. 98% of people are assholes. Just deal with it because I am my most perfect me -I am fabulous–and if you can’t see that then why are we even talking right now?

8. Always hold on to your hope or die trying
Now with the hard shell in mind–don’t let your hope whither and die. In fact, cherish it, nurture it. Because without hope what can you expect to accomplish? Hope is what grows inside me and helps me to keep moving forward. That and my faith in the ones I love. Hold onto your hope. It is delicate and it is fragile and sometimes it’s all you have.

9. Don’t expect pity–and don’t want it either
I know some people think I’m self indulgent and self-centered. Whatever. I don’t see it that way at all. Yes, I grew up rich. Guess what? The money’s gone so now what? I don’t pity myself. In fact, I would consider this to be one of the best things that could have happened to me as a person. Do I hate that my house is falling apart and we’re living on social security? Hell yes I do. But I don’t want your pity. I don’t want anyone’s pity. I am strong as nails and I will never be broken.

Poverty has taught me that there are two kinds of people in this world: the breakable and the solid. No one is going to break me. Yes, I was vulnerable in my last post. I voiced my worries. I spoke from the heart about uncertainties and fears that live in the back of my mind but that doesn’t mean I want pity. I just simply hope that through voicing these thoughts and emotions that someone out there in Cyber Space will be able to relate and find some comfort that their experience is not only their own.

10. Things are definitely things
But if you have style you can look like a million bucks in some picks from H&M or forever21.

“Where did you get your bag?”
“Oh, it’s Lavin.”
No, no it’s isn’t it’s definitely Urban and it was definitely on sale

You can buy fashion but you can’t buy style.

11. The value of a dollar
I’ve become a stellar saver and very scrappy. I don’t buy lunch. I only take paid internships. I freelance. I support myself and I can stretch a dollar like a real pro.

12. Don’t hold onto anything too tightly because nothing is really
permanent
–wealth, possessions, and friendships nothing lasts forever. In a post I wrote called “23 things I’ve learned in 23 years” I mentioned this. You have to be ready to give people and things up. Revel in your passions, in your accomplishments. Skip forming attachments to the superficial.

13. It’s really okay to be proud of your accomplishments
When we lost everything we I had my Godmother said to me, “Baby, you can sink or swim.”

I’ve fought tooth and nail for everything I’ve earned. And I’ve become better for it. I’ve developed an insatiable hunger for success and I feel like nothing can stop me from accomplishing my goals. I’ve always been a go-getter and a fighter but this time I’m doing it all on my own. There’s no one to catch me if fall so, you know what, I’m growing some wings.

14. I’ve stopped waiting for Prince Charming
He’s a fairy tale. My dad is my Prince Charming. He set my standards impossibly high and I’ve learned to be more realistic. I used to think I wanted a cushy life just like my mom’s: throwing fancy parties, wearing Versace, going to the Ball at Versailles every year, but once we lost everything I began to see things differently. That dependent (no offense, mom) life won’t do for me. I want more. I want fame and fortune all my own.

–Not that I plan to settle for anyone less than what I deserve but I need a partner, not a free loader-and not just someone who’s going to take care of me and then (in all likeliness) leave me for someone my age in 20 years. Pass, Cupid. I need someone who is going to be there for me, have the same goals–both educational and monetary–and support me in everything I do. I’ve done this whole poor thing. It’s been great, time for me to stand out. So as the great Lady G says, “won’t sleep with a man who dims my shine.”

A footnote to my allies:

To my darling and fabulous Aunt Zaza, I’ll never forget how you raised me, along with my adoring mother, to be the strong willed, hardheaded woman I am today. I reminisce of the times we spent together in your bathtub, aglow with red light singing “Someone to Watch Over Me” and counting a thousand unusual perfume bottles. You gave me my voice, and so my much of my light and for that, I thank you. Know that you are one of the only people who I feel inside my soul, whose blood runs through my veins. You are a part of me. Together forever.

Kochana ciocia. M, You raised your son and I like twins and you have never, for even a moment, doubted our greatness. Your grace and kindness has been a shining light in our time of need. Your children are my siblings as much as any other and your kind heart has always been a thing of envy. I love you dearly (and your husband, of course). In my heart forever. Thank you for giving us the gift of friendship and endless loyalty.

 This post is also available to read on The Nonsense Society 

Why I’m Choking on The Silver Spoon

06 Monday Jan 2014

Posted by in Essays, The New Chapter

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There’s no real way for me to organize these ideas—these sentiments on the once rich, now poor. It is but a stream of thoughts—tangled and complicated like the emotions that swirl and tumble inside my soul on a daily basis. Bear with me.

The great journalist and screenwriter, Nora Ephron once quoted her mother saying, “Take notes, everything is copy.”

That’s what I’ve always done, written about my life, written about what I know. And what a life—rich, then poor, then struggling, and then still struggling. So many different friends, lovers, mentors have come in and out of my life. So many things have fallen apart and these things—these mitigated disasters, these moments of difficulty– I’ve tended to handle with care when I write—don’t rock the boat or someone may fall out—don’t pull away a thread or the whole thing may fall exquisitely to pieces.

I often feel like I’m living on the edge of something—somehow living on the edge of disaster and success. On the one hand I’m living in New York—finishing school, fostering friendships, building connections and living in my own apartment. A young, single girl’s magical paradise. But how permanent are any of these things? School will end; friends come and go; connections are what you make of them and who knows if my roommates will want to stick around next year?

My family too is in this kind of malaise—sell everything we have, spend what little money we make and put off all of our woes just a little bit longer to stave off the disaster that we know is just around the corner—keep the stench off of our breath as long as we possibly can—avoid it forever even though forever can never be.

We’re trapped. When will it all end? We only have so many things we can sell in this old Alder mansion—riddled with cobwebs and the echoed sounds of our now lost Steinway.

englelot

We’re like rats trapped inside a cage, burrowed deep behind the vines that creep up the stone walls and the tangle of plastic wires that make up the electric heaters that keep the pipes from bursting—we hide under a thousand blankets and Ebay accounts to fight off the winter cold.

I, in New York, am also in a kind of static illusion. I let people think we’re still rich, I admit that. It’s easier than admitting the truth. I guess what I mean to say is that it’s easier to ignore the truth because it’s really hard to admit that things aren’t improving anymore—that my life has reached a hinge and this may be as good as it gets. This could really be as good as it gets. Come May I could find myself jobless and in the hole—on my way back to Chicago with my tanked credit and crumpled dreams.

Goodbye fierce, fashion chick of my fantasies. Goodbye famous writing career.

I feel like I’m dependent on other people because of my past financial mishaps–they’ve essentially destroyed my creditability and independence. I fear the future. Like my family hides behind vines and excuses I hide behind denial of the future and approaching deadlines. So much depends on so many things. Nothing seems solid, nothing seems whole.

I envy my friends who have well-off, stable parents. Ones who have property in their names—bought for them—the ones with perfect credit who are the product of the silver spoon. I’m jealous. I’m very jealous. I believe I may be more so than those who’ve never known that life. I don’t mean to get political, but those who have had to struggle for their whole lives are much more accustomed to surviving and overcoming themselves–being the american dream.

I am choking on a silver spoon, the one that fed me.

We had it all. The house, the childhood in Maui, the Lexus and the BMWs—the lavish parties. Everything over the top—everything must be tip top, ship shape. If it wasn’t expensive, it couldn’t be worth buying.

My brother once told our nanny he wanted a game. She suggested they go and get Scrabble. “No.” he replied, “I want a pool table.”

Did he get the pool table? Of course he did.

It’s not to say that our family was without love—quite the contrary. We had (and still have) all the love in the world—all the love that a family could ever hope to have.

But love can’t pay the bills. We’re breaking down—poverty will do that to a family that has never known it and doesn’t know how to fight it—how to bounce back from it. In five years we’ve learned a lot about ourselves as people and yet little about how to save us. We’re nowhere near a light at the end of the tunnel—the tunnel is, instead, closing in.

We’ve grown as people, my brothers and sisters and me. We’ve become pretty rough and tumble and certainly more hard working. Once I couldn’t pay tuition—and after a pretty bleak year at home–I managed to convince my school to pay for most of my education and the twins are on full-scholarship. Our youngest has a 4.0 and hopes to move to a four-year college soon. We’ve become scrappy, and for that I have to be grateful.

My eldest brother, God bless him, is home, selling everything we own to keep us afloat. But slowly—like any ship that’s full of holes—we’re disappearing into a bottomless sea.

And while it may be easier for us kids, having come into this situation in our teens–it is exponentially more difficult for my father. He’s gone from making himself from nothing–originally selling encyclopedias from door to door–to self-starter. He spent 35 years being his own boss, being incredibly wealthy only to find himself in the doldrums of financial debt– stuck between a lawsuit and a hard place, a rock and a tattered business reputation. How do you bounce back from that? How do you start over at 65?

Maybe things would have been different if we’d had more time to prepare, but when you go from Crystal to Discount Cola in the blink of an eye it’s possible to find yourself at the bottom of a proverbial well that seems damn near impossible to climb out of.

We’re all on the way to somewhere and it’s unclear where. It breaks my heart, and makes me sick to my stomach to imagine leaving New York, to leave this all behind—to pretend that somehow I’ll be back or somehow I’ll make something of myself back home even though I know that isn’t true—and even worse, that I could never be happy anywhere else.

I used to say that I was eternally grateful to have found New York. I would always wish to be in Chicago when I was in Maui and always wish to be in Maui when I was in Chicago (rough, right?) New York was the only place I’d ever been where I didn’t want to be anywhere else. It doesn’t seem like a beautiful dream anymore—not when I’m so dangerously close to waking. It’s as if I’ve found happiness only to have it taken away from me—have the life I’ve fantasied about building in this magnificent city slowly fade away and out of reach.

I’ve learned to become strong, to stand on my own and believe in myself—but the truth is: what if my roommates decide they don’t want to live with anymore? It’s not like I can ever be on a lease. What if I don’t find a job? It’s not like I can afford to live in New York for even a month without a source of income.

And, once again, I’m on the edge of things, teetering helplessly somewhere between success and disaster.