Monkeys and Hairdryers

Unless you live under a rock or outside the NY City limits (see: “living under a rock”) you are as terrified as I regarding the bedbug infestation currently kicking Manhattan’s ass.

Bedbugs are shacking up and shutting the doors at Victoria's Secret, Hollister, Abercrombie & Fitch, The Time Warner Center, and the Times Square AMC. Even our beloved Empire State Building has reported a case of the creepy crawlies. There have been many speculations as to why we are in such dire straits but most experts point their bloodied nub of a gnawed finger at the illegalization of DDT. Thanks late 1970’s earth loving hippies for fighting the good fight against carcinogens, but REALLY does it make me a bad person because I would rather trade the extinction of the bald eagle for a lifetime free of nocturnal parasites feeding off my flesh?

Face it bedbugs are our new modern reality but since we are battling them old school (Holla to the Middle Ages homes!) several exterminating companies have employed bedbug sniffing beagles to determine whether or not a business or abode is contaminated. Yes even the uber posh Bergdorf Goodman’s has employed a full time pooch to patrol the premises after dark for fear that some globetrotting Euro shopper deposited an offending bloodsucker in their sparkling tower of consumption.

The following is an actual phone conversation between my mother and me regarding the use of beagles in the battle to eradicate the Manhattan bedbug plague.

Me: Did you hear that Bergdorf’s is using a beagle to sniff out bedbugs?

Mom: Really? All they have to do is turn up the heat to 140 degrees to kill them all.

Me: No Mom, you need direct heat like a hair dryer.

Mom: Oh well then what they need is a monkey.

Me: A monkey?

Mom: Of course a monkey. The dog can only sniff out the bugs; you need the monkey to shoot them with the hair dryer.

Me: Oh right, maybe the monkey could ride ON the dog?

Mom: He could but you would need a saddle.

Me: Like in the circus, monkeys always ride on dogs.

Mom: Yes, monkeys love riding dogs; it is very natural for them.

Me: I think I would need a cordless hairdryer though.

Mom: No just get one with a long cord, it will be fine.

Me: Nah then I would have to train the monkey to plug and unplug the dryer and it would probably get tangled.

Mom: Ah you are right a cordless hair dryer is a good idea. Oh and you should gaff tape the hairdryer to the monkey, that way he doesn’t lose it. You can’t trust a monkey with a hairdryer.

Me: That sounds cruel.

Mom: Monkeys are Ok with that, they have lots of fur. He probably won’t even feel it.

Me: I could probably get a monkey on Craig’s List.

Mom: I am certain Craig’s List has monkeys. You should get one of those nice organ grinder monkeys. I haven’t seen an organ grinder since the 30’s so there must be MANY available monkeys looking for work.

Me: Yes those old Italian guys with their organ grinders. Maybe I could get a monkey with a fez.

Mom: Now G don’t be ridiculous, the last thing you want is an Italian monkey. Just get yourself a nice simple American monkey, you are making this all too complicated.

Me: Sorry.
The conversation concluded with mom’s monkey training instructions, “Monkey see, monkey do” and monkey/dog security, “Keep them in your apartment, youdon’t want people stealing them. You are gonna have yourself one hot commodity!”

Cocktails, Balls, and A Boy At A Urinal

Just a few little tid bits that never really amounted to a full post this week :

Monday night was another free drink fest hosted by my office building’s concierge service. Pix (one of my favorite long lost gays) and I stood atop a roof lounge between the Empire State Building and the golden turret of the NY Life Building enjoying our free bee Bombay Sapphire Gin cocktails while tearing apart the fashion (hardly) choices of the surrounding guests. Lot’s of sloppy boobs, bad spray tans, and at least one twenty something in a borrowed suit 3 sizes too big. The highlight of my night was discovering my new signature drink - ta ta G&T, and hello Tom Collins! How retro 60’s of me. I swear I was built for the bombshell era and now with my Tom Collins in hand…. I am ready for my time machine.

Tuesday was Bastille Day and in celebration Jesus and I went to Barolo for an Italian dinner. Upon entering we were faced with a rowdy group of red faced French men (ooh la la) playing petanque in the restaurant’s roomy back garden. As fate would have it just hours before dinner the co-workers and I were researching petanque and agreed, after looking at the official FPUSA (Federation of Petanque USA) website, I would probably have better chances of scoring a date if I joined an officially sanctioned NYC petanque team than if I stay on Match.com. The pictures show hardy teams of grinning floppy haired Frenchmen enjoying big French Provincial meals and several bottles of red wine – and why am I not playing petanque? Oh and for a mere $20 registration fee I can obtain my official USA petanque credentials so I could compete in the national tournaments. Vivre la France!

On Sunday after my lazy day in the hammock I took a detour over to PS 1 since I was in desperate need of a bathroom. I hightailed it past their summertime environment installation

(looked like Frank Gehry meets Snuffleupagus) zipped past the admissions counter, with a quick smile and a wave, then down the stairs to the WC. As far as I could tell there was only one restroom, I looked at the door for any gender demarcation but there was none. I quickly searched the hallway for another such facility and again nothing so considering PS1 is avant garde I went with the whole Gender Non-specific situation and made a beeline for one of the 2 open stalls. The stalls were fully contained rooms with doors that went from floor to ceiling…ahh ha this is why it is all genders all the time, unfortunately when I exited my private pisser I was forced into a VERY public situation that I was not prepared for. There I was face to back with a young man who was mid stream in his urinal experience – whoopsie! Unsure of how to react he put his head down and sped up his task at hand, I trying to appear ‘cool’ and oh so “avant garde” sidestepped it over to the sinks to quickly wash my hands (running out into the hallway would have been so prosaic). (the following is my internal monologue) - Turn water on…TURN WATER ON….. crap no water, ok move to next sink…good lord who designed this place we have a half wall between us, our shoulders are touching…. ok now just some soap …no not the MIRROR yikes, (half smile as we both regard each others’ countenance in the reflection of the mirror in front of me)...ok I don’t need soap, look back down…. now for a paper towel and I’ll be out of here but where is the paper towel dispenser?...please don’t think I am stalking you peeing man…. I am just looking for a towel…. WTF!!??? It is on the wall next to his right arm!!! Nope no paper towel I’m good…. wipe hands on pants and I’m OUT! What is it with me and bathrooms, maybe this is why I never go?

Back in the Mix

Last night while not installing my two air conditioners I re-registered on Match.com. I feel like I have to do something to meet a guy and even though I have been on and off Match for over ten years (yikes) and have never met anybody I am still optimistic that I will find that arty confident needle in the haystack. I tried in earnest in February to really focus on my Match subscription, hitting it hard for hours every night, searching profiles, emailing, ‘winking” but after 2.5 weeks of chumming the waters in the hopes of snagging a dude who would pony up for some drinks to justify my $32 subscription fee not only did I not bag a single response I also was laid off. Being laid off with no savings and two grad school student loans tends to put a damper on one’s flirting ability so I was forced to quickly shift my obsessive focus from Match.com to Monster.com. Now that I am gainfully employed and have traded in my winter bluish skim milk pallor for a good “starter tan” I am primed for the hunt (I guess). I even bit the bullet and prepaid $75 for a three month membership. I usually only purchase a month’s subscription because at day 27 I lose momentum and throw in the towel but now I can’t shrug off my responsibilities to continually search the postings of the 30 – 45 year old male populous who inhabit the 30 mile radius around Metro NY.

On Match, like most web dating sites, you have to log in and search profiles frequently or else your profile gets pushed to the bottom of the pile, the more time spent searching the better your chances are at getting found, especially since it is about a 2:1 ratio of woman to men in my age group and geographic location. Please note this ratio includes all the married guys who are lying about their status, the 5’5” guys who state that they are 5’9”, the guys who post a full add but never pay for a subscription just so they can feed their ego, and the Nigerians. Then there is the self marketing side of the equation and since “it takes a village” I am posting my actual add here in hopes that you will weigh in with your edits and or comments:

I'm a smarty pants artistic chick who’s sensitive and sappy when I am not bitingly witty. I have a quick tongue, a great sense of humor, and I will keep you on your toes. I'm gregarious and goofy with an affinity for alliteration. What I lack in interest for essay questions I make up 10 fold in entertainment value. I can spit out a story in seconds that will send milk shooting from your nose or rival any barrel of monkeys.
My Date: You would posses the 3 C’s, charisma, charm, and confidence. Any dude with the phrases “Laid Back” or “Easy Going” may not be the guy for me. I tend to head for the guys who are actively engaged, energetically enthusiastic, dynamically intrigued, connected, inspired, and curious.

I will keep you updated on my progress and if we all think happy thoughts within 90 days I will have at least one date that will produce more than just a humorous blog posting.