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Cigars and Jewelry

~ Gigi, you're from another planet.

Cigars and Jewelry

Tag Archives: funny

Gay Men Are A Girl’s Best Friend

05 Friday Sep 2014

Posted by Gigi Engle in Single in New York

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advice, articles, basic bitches, break up stories, chicago, dating, dating stories, experiencing sex, family, funny, gay, GBF, growing up, hope, LGBT, life, lifestyle, love, men, New York City, permalink, relationships, sex, viral, wellness, women, writing

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

How I Got Pressured into Being a Youtuber’s Cohort

06 Friday Jun 2014

Posted by Gigi Engle in Single in New York

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advice, funny, lol, love, New York City, permalink, relationships, sex, single in new york, the new chapter, video, viral, words, writing

The answer: wine, of course.

Last week my roommate and gay husband, Jonathan and I made a ridiculous video about alcoholic gummies, and he’s once again gotten me to participate in his antics. What can I say? I’m trying my hand at comedy. We decided to play “The Roommate Challenge” and asked each other some of the most inapropro questions we could think of. The results: we may know each other a little too well. I love getting to spend some quality time after work with Jon, and I certainly don’t dislike being fed wine while I say horrifying, sexually TMI things for everyone to judge me for. I promise more serious writing to come but, for now, enjoy this vid of me acting like a complete jackass! And try not to stare at my frumpy-ass house dress that makes me look like an orca whale.

Getting Cray Making Alcoholic Gummies

28 Wednesday May 2014

Posted by Gigi Engle in Single in New York

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alcohol, funny, lmao, love, New York City, permalink, relationships, sex, the new chapter, videos, viral, youtube

My roommate and lovechild, JT, — who is actually named Jonathan–which I may as well tell you since he for sure blows his name up 154 times during this video– has an awesome YouTube channel where he acts a fool and does ridiculous things like “The Baby Food Challenge.”

For Memorial Day, to honor our troops, we made an instructional video on how to make alcoholic gummie things. And proceeded to get heavily intoxicated in the process. Enjoy!

Farewell, Little F*ckers!

10 Monday Feb 2014

Posted by Gigi Engle in This Thing Called Love

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break up stories, dating, family, funny, love, quotes, relationships, sex, short stories, the new chapter, truth, understanding men, viral, women, words, writing

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?

‘Twas The Night Before Fashion Week

05 Wednesday Feb 2014

Posted by Gigi Engle in Single in New York

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Tags

caradelavine, clothes, fashion, fashion week, funny, life in nyc, lincoln center, love, models, new york, new york fashion week, nyfw, poetry, relationships, single in new york, style, the new chapter, viral, women, words, writing

‘Twas the night before Fashion Week and all throughout New York City
Not a creature was stirring, not even the tent workers making the sets so pretty
The nylons were hung by the radiators with care
In hopes that Ralph Lauren soon would be there
The PR girls were snuggled all tight in their beds
While runway shows and Valium danced in their heads
And I in Oscar cashmere and my roommate in Gap
Had just settled down for a wine-infused nap

(I guess part of this poem is missing because Tommy Hilfiger definitely didn’t come arising a clatter on my frosty porch, but they do have goodie bags– HOORAH!!)

And now I say to you, darlings, as I dream of the spot light
Happy New York Fashion Week to all, and to all a goodnight

cara

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