Lost in Manhattan: Is It Cheating If You Have A Sleepover With An Ex?

"Just because he's staying with his ex girlfriend and her family for a week doesn't mean he's gonna fuck her, right?"

 -Parker

        Last night I was up late killing time on Tumblr, like one does at one in the morning, when I got a Facebook chat from Parker. After asking if I was still awake, she sent a a series of hysterical messages about The Tardis and how she thinks he's cheating on her. I couldn't understand the gibberish of mistypes and spelling erros so I told her I'd go up to her apartment if she wanted. She begged me to, with the promise of sharing her Strawberry Vodka. 

I had never been inside Parker's apartment before. It was twice the size of mine (which really isn't a big feat) and if possible, even messier. The walls were covered in Doctor Who framed prints, Supernatural posters, and a portrait of Albert Einstein. We climbed over her bed (which was covered in clothes, text books, and a Mac Book) to go out on her fire escape. She had obviously been crying and was drinking Smirnoff out of a Boba Fett mug.

"So what's going on?"

"I think he's cheating on me."

Now I could recall the conversation in a well written recap, or I could just copy down the rant that I reordered on my iPhone. And seeing as how I was up until 4am on a fire escape, here's a shortened version of Parker's low down:

"We're both broke, you know? We don't have a lot of money or else we'd spend it seeing each other. We've been saving up for San Diego so we can share a hotel room and everything. But get this! He casually tells me today that he's going to spend the next WEEK in California! He says he has a meeting with some people from Marvel about a possible job opportunity. I say that's great but how is he affording everything? He said his dad lent him some money for a plane ticket and he's staying with some friends in LA. But then I get confused. Marvel comics offices are in New York, not LA so why would he have a job offer there? And then hours later I ask who he's staying with and it turns out, his ex girlfriend and her family! Now I know they dated for like, forever before her family moved to the US but it doesn't make sense! His meeting is only ONE DAY and yet he's staying a whole week. He could easily fly out to New York or take a bus or something and stay with me for the rest of the trip! But I know how his dad bought him the plane ticket and everything and it just sucks. He doesn't even think its weird that he's staying with his ex girlfriend's family. I just don't know. I see him tweeting at her sometimes and he doesn't with me because he's trying to keep our relationship a secret so people don't harass me even more than they do now. But, how fucked up is this? It's fucked up right?" 

I've been in long distance relationships before, a few shorter ones and one that turned into an actual relationship. All of whom I've met off of Twitter. Parker and The Tardis met through Tumblr (if you recall) and have been dating since August but have not actually met. Here's the thing, obviously this situation isn't right for Parker at all. It isn't right that she's in a relationship with a guy who is staying with his ex girlfriend for a week when she hasn't even met her in person yet. But that's the thing: is it a real relationship because they haven't met?

She doesn't have any "real" rights as a girlfriend because they haven't crossed that boundary of actually touching each other yet. It doesn't seem fair and people in LDR would probably argue with me that love is love no matter and all that other bullshit. Then again, a relationship is a relationship and if he loves her, which he tells her he does, wouldn't he care about how she feels? And isn't his Marvel interview in LA and not New York kind of shady?

These days long distance relationships between people who have met on the Internet is shockingly common. You search the "LDR" tag on Tumblr and you've met with hundreds of stories about love affairs reaching around the world. A guy in Australia connected with his "true love" in Maryland, USA. Everyone from lovesick teenagers to business adults are making connections in a way that has never been done before this generation.

Last month Durex announced their "Fundawear", a series of underwear that can be stimulated over the Internet. Your significant other can get to second base, operating sensors over a bra of your man's under roos. Couples like Parker and The Tardis can please each other without having to meet, ever. When I mentioned this to her, Parker said the Fundawear isn't available yet but she would buy a set in a heartbeat. That is, if they were still together by the time it came out.

I didn't have much advice for her, except that if she trusts him then it shouldn't be too big of a problem. So instead we shared a black and mild on her fire escape, watching taxis speed down Broadway at 2 in the morning and hoped for the best. 

P.S. -Let's also take a moment to fawn over the amazing artwork Chris Flocco did of the girls! Without seeing actual pictures of them (to keep their identities anonymous), Chris was able to perfectly capture them all. I especially adore the Rebel Alliance shirt/sweater combo. Even though 'Parker' has different tattoos in real life, she loves the ones her character has. Thanks again so much Chris!

Previously on Lost in Manhattan:

1.) Gelato & an Idea

2.) Dirty Underwear and The Tardis

3.) Enter Olivia
4.) SnapChating Your Way to Internet Fame (or Just To Secure a Date)

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Lost in Manhattan: SnapChatting Your Way to Internet Fame (Or Just To Secure A Date)

"He called me Daisy! This has got to mean that he loves me."- Meg

During her last semester at Columbia last Spring, my friend Meg fell in love with her "Military & History" seminar professor, whom we'll call simply call "The Professor". He is a 29 year old native New Yorker with a slight beard that wears tweed jackets and often made 'Indiana Jones' references during class. Meg wound up spending a significant amount of time in his office to talk about papers and became obsessed with him. One day in April 2012, they ran into each other at the Intrepid (aka she stalked his Twitter page & saw he was going that day) where they had a lovely afternoon together. He even paid for her dinner and walked her back to her apartment. 

For weeks they exchanged casual emails on topics such as their favorite history books and movies. She tried to coax him out for another outing but he reasonably refused. However, one night they agreed to grab a quick meal at a food truck and ended up walking in Riverside Park well into the night where an inevitable kiss occured. After that their days were full of sneaking glances during class, arguing over the ethics of their relationship, and going out for late night dinners away from campus. However, The Professor was always in fear of getting caught and finally ended it their relationship right before finals. 

This caused broken hearted Meg to fail his final exam horribly (out of sadness and a bit of resentment I gather). This prompted him to beg her to secretly retake the exam so that he didn't have to fail her for the class. She agreed, but only if he would give her a recommendation for a job position at the college she was applying for. Out of desperation he agreed but seemed disheartened when she did get the job.

Meg's intention was that as coworkers, her and The Professor would be viewed as equals and they could restart their relationship. However, he viewed the situation as even worse since he helped her get the job. Now, after nearly a year of working at Columbia as a secretary, Meg and The Professor have yet to get to "banging". They've had a few casual work lunches but their interactions don't stray far from emailing and SnapChatting. 

SnapChat is an app where (according to Wikipedia) "users can take photos, record videos, add text and drawings, and send them to a controlled list of recipients. Users set a time limit for how long recipients can view their photos, up to 10 seconds, after which it will be deleted from the recipient's device and the company's servers." In other words, this is meant for people to send naked pictures & naughty videos to each other without fear of them being sent to everyone on Facebook. When I pointed this out to Meg she, rather disappointedly, said that no nudes were exchanged "yet". Mostly their chats are of random things they both see, and the occasional funny faces.

They SnapChat more than actual talking due to the secrecy of the app which appeals to The Professor's paranoid nature. However, last week Meg tried taking their relationship to the next level. She sent him a video of a taxi cab with an advertisement for the new "The Great Gatsby" movie starring Leonardo DiCaprio with the caption "Our fave! See it w/ me?" In return he sent a video of the same movie poster taken somewhere in the city with the caption "Sure thing, Daisy."

In turn it led to much enthusiasm on Meg's part, swooning over the fact that The Professor called her Daisy, a reference to the woman Gatsby loves in the story. (These were apparently the two characters Meg and The Professor used to refer to each other as during their affair.) Meg is ignoring the fact that they don't have a set day for the date (as the movie doesn't come out until May 10th, nor did he respond to her texts for the next few days). Meg is too good for him, and I suggested that she go after someone who doesn't have a beard but she can be very stubborn.  In turn I suggested that she start sending nudes to figure out if he's gay or not. Maybe he has a tiny penis and doesn't want to show it, which would probably explain everything.

According to their Wikipedia page, SnapChat is mostly used for children to send pictures to their parents of their whereabouts (yeah right). When searched online, there is a Internet phenomena called "SnapChat Sluts" that started as hashtag on Twitter turned Tumblr, the latter of which has been deleted since this article was published on Gawker. However, there is a new website called Wastechester where is seems girls voluntarily send nudes to a specific SnapChat user. Forbes even posted an article about the app yesterday about the sexting fears.

Welcome to dating in 2013: all you have to do is SnapChat your way into someone's pants (or even just a date).

Previously on "Lost in Manhattan":
1.) Gelato & an Idea
2.) Dirty Underwear & the Tardis
3.) Enter Olivia

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Lost in Manhattan: Enter Olivia

Meg asked her former college roommate, Olivia, if she would be interested in my blogging project. I would have asked her myself but I am admittedly scared of Olivia because she is strikingly gorgeous, a Republican, and petite. Towering over most females I encounter at 5’7’’ since the age of 12, I have always found women shorter than me to be scary. Short women are closer to the ground and thus have the higher ground (no pun intended) and could push me over if they so pleased. Anyway, Olivia was 5’4’’ with long dyed black hair and had agreed to meet with me.

She invited me over on a Monday early afternoon to her place in Murray Hill. I grabbed my voice recorder & notebook as any good journalist would do and took the subway down there. Olivia lived on the 17^th floor in a one-bedroom apartment with the most spectacular view of the Chrysler Building. I was dripping with New York real estate envy.

The place smelled of cookies and cigarette smoke. Olivia was dressed in a green maxi dress with her long hair in a high ponytail. When I sat down she offered a plate of cookies, something she apparently baked on days when she was feeling “domestic”. I realized this was the first time I had encountered Olivia in the light of day as well as the first time she wasn't intoxicated.

Over delicious (organic) sugar cookies and glasses of soymilk, Olivia offered up some of her background: She was from Boston and had majored in Art History at Columbia where she roomed with Meg their sophomore year. In the summer before her junior year Olivia was working at Hooters over on 56^th and 8^th avenue, which is where she first met a man we'll call “Doc Holiday”. He was a surgeon from Atlanta who often traveled for specific operations in Manhattan.

Holiday was married to a woman ten years his elder, which made her about 55, as far as Olivia could guess. This wife was from old family money and had affairs with male models in their twenties, which left Holiday to as many women as he pleased. Over a late night of boneless wings and cheesy fries, Holiday fell for Olivia’s charm but mostly for how “perky” her butt looked in the orange shorts.  They soon began going out every time he was in town, but he loathed how they only interacted in hotel rooms.

In short, Holiday bought Olivia her Murray Hill one bedroom apartment to live in as long as she a.) kept it clean and b.) cleared her schedule when he was in town. I mentioned my comparison of her to Julia Roberts in ‘Pretty Woman’ and she laughed. She said Holiday wasn’t exactly prince charming, but he gave her a place to live and that was enough.

Olivia explained in a matter of fact and aloof air that she also has other wealthy boyfriends in town that “help her out” though she doesn’t consider herself to be a hooker. She has never had sex directly for money, but has made sure to surround herself with men who would take care of her. She would also never do porn because her “dad would most likely see it”.

I then asked if she knew other girls who had lifestyles like hers. Olivia said she had met other girls who accompanied Holiday’s friends to dinner parties, but she didn’t know if they were hookers or just lucky like her. When asked what she did with her free time she, with a wave of her hand, showed off the extensive art pieces that adorned her apartment. Olivia loved art, and invested her money wisely in buying and selling pieces she could afford.

“Would you open up an art gallery?”

“Not really. I’d actually like to open up a bakery some day.”

Olivia then asked me why I wanted to write about other people. I gave a long-winded explanation on how I wanted to write about life in New York City and what this certain group of people thought about the world but I didn’t want to write about just myself because I was tired of me and blah blah blah.

“So you’re like Harriet the Spy, but not trying to hide your spying.”

“Well, uh- I guess.”

“That’s cool, I liked that movie as a kid.”

“So you don’t mind if I use you for my project?”

“Go for it, Spygirl.”

And with that I’ve convinced 3 acquaintances into letting me write about their intricate and utmost personal lives for the Internet to see. Maybe this is what Ryan Seacrest felt like when he started the Kardashian show. However, I guess Parker would actually be the one most likely to have a sex tape…

Previously on "Lost in Manhattan":
1.) Gelato & an Idea
2.) Dirty Underwear & the Tardis

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Lost in Manhattan: The Year I Was 22

There is a lot of stigma about 22 year old females in pop culture. Charlotte in “Sex and the City” yelled at her business successor: “You’re 22, what do you know about life!” Norah Jones sings the tune “She's 22” about the tramp who stole her boyfriend. In ‘You’ve Got Mail” Meg Ryan hashes out against “those stupid 22-year-old girls with no last name!”  Females in their 22^nd year are apparently notorious for stealing boyfriends & husbands, being perky, and ruining lives. I can promise you I was none of those things in the last year.

 However, I can tell you what I did do the year I was 22. I started off in my last semester at college where I was taking 21 credits (seven classes) in order to graduate on time. A professor told me that I wasn’t competent enough pass all seven classes on time and I, through a burst of tears, yelled back at him that I most certainly could. And I did.

It was the year I quit job after job because I refused to be treated with less than common fucking courtesy. (Just because a boss buys you beer to drink in the office or have ping pong competitions does not necessarily mean its good place to work). It was the year I had panic attacks at my bookstore job, reducing me to crying in the bathroom before every shift. It was the year I worked at The New York Public Library on 5^th ave.

It was the year I moved not only to New York City in my own studio apartment, but a studio on the Upper West Side (my dream home for as long as I can remember.) It was the year I met Karen Allen (Marion in 'Indiana Jones')- twice. The year I met Sean Astin, Dominic Monaghan , and Peter Jackson  of 'Lord of the Rings'. The year I met Gerard Butler, Ryan Gosling, Damien Echols, Tom Wolfe, Robert Redford, and others. The year I sat with Frank Oz who gave me a huge bear hug after our interview. The year Alan Menken sang me Disney songs that never made final cut. The year I got really drunk with some 'Games of Thrones' cast members. The year I was in the same room as Robert Downey Jr and he winked at me.

It was the year I got not one, but two tattoos on the same day: a matching LOTR one with my best friend and another of a paper airplane from “Paperman”.  It was the year I adopted a little black cat from a garbage can the weekend before a hurricane. And then adopted a huge black cat from Craigslist that likes to eat sticks of butter and Cinnamon Toast Crunch. The year I got a job where I wound up being zero degrees away from Keven Bacon.

This was also the year I dressed up as femme Captain America and a drunk sorority girl took a picture with me then tagged me as Super Woman on Facebook. The year I got a papercut on my eye the morning after Thanksgiving and had to go to the emergency room. The year I got quad skates and resolved to be a Derby Girl. (That didn't happen.) The year I resolved to shake hands with Nick Fury. (I did. Cool dude, that Samuel L. Jackson) The year Liam Neeson said to me "I'm not a human being, I'm a badass."

When I was 22 I learned to not work in a place you hate going to. That barely making rent makes me a lot happier compared to having a big paycheck and being stuck with people I can’t stand. I learned that it’s okay to cut people out of your life that you don’t trust, or actually like. The year I found the best friends a girl could ask for. The year I stared getting requests from companies asking to work with me, instead of the other way around. 

Although, I'm glad I'm not 22 anymore, if only for the sole reason that Taylor Swift apparently has some song out about being 22 and that makes me want to vomit. Also, being 23 has a lot in store for me. If last year was a transitional year, this upcoming one will be the big game changer. I hearby resolve, on April 25th 2013, that by the time I turn 24 I will have two major life goals done. I won't tell you about them now-you'll just have to stick around to see what they are =)

I do have a small bit of advice for other 22 year olds out there: 1.) women will hate you because you're younger than they are. 2.) men that are mean to you are just pissed off that you won't fuck them.

and-> 3.) The only person who is a qualified expert on being you, is you.

As always, thanks for being around guys.

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Lost in Manhattan: Gelato & an Idea

         Last Wednesday I invited my friend to Meg ¹ to grab gelato at a place between our apartments on the Upper West Side. I had met Meg the same way I met most of my friends: off of Twitter. A while back I was searching tweets to see if other people were also hearing an “explosion” in my neighborhood. Meg was one of the fellow tweeters who thought it was an alien invasion. Like most friendships, we bonded over mutual fear that we would soon die at the hand of body snatchers.

Along with alien invasions, we soon discovered a shared love of Ally McBeal, fear of adult life, and frozen treats. At this most recent dessert trip, after a quick catch up on each other’s adventures (mine adopting a cat off the gayest black man in Harlem, hers of the woes of working as a secretary at Columbia), the conversation turned to my latest Internet endeavors.

She told me that she read my blog post about not being able to find something to write about. Admittedly, this is not a topic easily discussed with me. I hate getting writing advice from people, especially those who have no background in writing. Granted, Meg was qualified to give advice since she is a fellow writer, but more of the nonfiction/history variation. Still, I was not one easily open to hearing what I “ought” to be doing with my life.

However, she provided a good argument. I knew what I wanted to write about but I was too scared to. I wanted to write about life: life in New York City, life as a girl living on her own for the first time, and a life where I didn’t have a single idea what to do with myself. I want to be open and talk about matters that are important to me, but I don’t feel comfortable with people knowing such intricate details about my life.

Also, writing about myself gets to be rather boring. It’s not a thrilling because I’m myself every goddman day. What I want to do is write about life around me. What I did want to do was write about other people’s adventures, but I haven't know exactly how to approach that. This is an idea I was tinkering with for months.

I don’t want to be Gossip Girl, spreading the dirt on people I knew. That was cruel, childish, and tragically boring. That was when Meg offered up herself. She said that I could write about her adventures, a stenographer of sorts. If something interesting happened she would relay the story and I could post it online with my own added commentary.

She found this appealing because 1.) She was too lazy to do it herself and 2.) She signed a contract at work saying she wouldn’t discuss her workplace online. However, there isn’t clause saying that I can’t, under a pseudonym of course. I did admit that Meg had an appealing life for this sort of project: she was very much a New York girl in her earlier twenties everyone could relate to and yet had a side of trouble. Last year, during her final semester at Columbia, she had a minor affair with her history professor whom she was still in love with. He was the reason she now worked at the college, even though he currently doesn’t pay her much attention besides the occasional Snapchat.

Meg then also suggested that I talk to her former college roommate Olivia, whom I’ve met a couple of times. Olivia, on the opposite spectrum, did not have a job of any sort. She was pretty much Julia Roberts in 'Pretty Woman' post Richard Gere climbing up her fire escape. Meaning: she didn’t have to have a job because the gorgeous men who slept with her paid for her rent and clothes and all she had to do was stay beautiful and thin. I, on the other hand, couldn’t do either on my own.

I also suggested that I talk to my friend Henry, who loved men so much that he saw the fourth 'Twilight' movie in theaters four times, for “the visuals alone”.  He could provide the gay point of view to my discussions on life even better than Lady Gaga herself.

Still, I wasn’t exactly convinced.

Meg: It would be much better than the crap on that fat girl’s show

Me: You mean Lena Dunham?”

Meg: Yes.

Me: You really thought about this, haven’t you?

Meg: It was a boring day at work; nobody tried to steal my coffee.

Me: Nobody is going to want to read this.

Meg: We’ll see. 

---

1 All names have been changed to protect the identity of the people involved. Under no circumstances will I reveal their personal information, including Twitter handles and photos of mentioned individuals. ^↩

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