The New York Dentist

My dentist is a condescending arse who wears way too much purple and has a peculiar fetish for mouth guards. He is convinced I need a root canal, yet the man has no proof. He refuses to set my appointments prior to 1pm because I was 10 minutes late one morning roughly four years ago. I'm always scared to go into his office. He's a one-man show with no receptionist and no assistant. This is weird. I could easily disappear into the abyss of his purple-swathed office, never to return and no one would be the wiser.

Case in point: On Saturday, I stroll in at 12:55pm for two fillings. He sharply demands that I sit down and straps a lavender slobber catchall around my neck. And so the drilling, poking, prodding (torture, essentially) ensues sandwiched between caustic commands to "Sit still," and "Don't move your head," followed by my personal favorite, "Good girl." (Oh, gee! Can I have a dog biscuit, too? No? OK, I'll settle for another wad of cotton while I choke on my saliva.) Meanwhile, I can't help but think that I'd kill for an inspirational ceiling poster or something to serve as a distraction. When it's all said and done, he hands me a travel toothpaste to add to my growing collection of tiny tubes of Colgate. Sad to say I never get a toothbrush. The dentists in the Midwest would hook me up (toothbrush, floss, the whole nine yards). But not this guy. I then bolt before he can give me his usual laundry list of reasons as to why I should spend $500 on a night guard. Thanks, but no thanks.

Dating in New York

10:52pm, text message exchange with a friend.

Me: So, how was your date?
Friend: Fine. It was just fine. He's super nice. And cute. And brought us a bottle of red for the waiter to make sangria 'cause I said I like sangria. I just don't want him to take my dress off.
Me: That's OK, honey. He doesn't have to.
Friend: Yeah, I don't think I'm going to go out with him again.

Laundry list of amazing qualities. Perfection on paper. But we repeatedly find ourselves saying, "Ehh. I'd rather sit at home with my dog eating Greek yogurt while watching another episode of The Bachelor." I wish I had an answer. I do. But I can't help but think — it's no wonder that Carrie, Samantha, Charlotte and Miranda were single well into their 30s. Then again, Carrie was neurotic, Samantha was a slut, Charlotte a prude and Miranda, well... poor Miranda.

NYC (otherwise known as Cougar Town)

It was a typical girls' night out with J and M: Cheese, chocolate and wine at The Melting Pot. Then J suggested heading to a nearby sports bar to catch the Florida football game. So we took it down a notch and headed to a spot that is notorious for hosting a crowd of barely-out-of-college yuppies and Jersey Shore meatheads. The upside? Affordable beer on tap and enough widescreen TVs to fill Giants stadium. Upon our arrival, a squat thirtysomething chats us up. I will call him Homeboy. Homeboy has been sitting on the same barstool for roughly six hours and is clearly incoherent. We indulge him while he regales us with tales of his dog (complete with photos!), that he affectionately refers to as "bitch."

Meanwhile, a group of five frat guys come in. Note that three of them are at least 6'5". I can't stop staring, for two reasons. 1. Tall Really Tall Guys generally don't travel in packs. 2. I was growing annoyed with Homeboy and was pretending to watch the game. The RTGs were blocking my view. RTG #1 sees me bobbing and weaving around his torso. We start chatting. I don't remember what we discussed, as he then began to high-five every female that walked past. I think he enjoyed watching the girls jump to slap his hand. Homeboy is now awkwardly standing up, as RTG #1 introduces himself. I think the RTGs think he is our friend. RTG #2 starts chatting to M and I. J is still politely feigning interest in whatever Homeboy is babbling about...

Subway Car Confessions

Reason #147 why there is no place like New York. After a fruitless afternoon of shopping, I found myself on a crowded subway car, homeward bound. Standing all straphanger-like, I was minding my own business while pretending to be enthralled by an above Budweiser advertisement, when I suddenly heard a raspy voice whisper, "Daayum. You have got the perfect body." I glanced down to see an attractive black girl licking her lips, staring at me. My jaw dropped, and I pointed to myself, mouthing, "Me?" I will never forget the 10 minutes that ensued for as long a I live: 

Girl: Mmhmmm. You got some cuuurves. (As she traced an invisible hourglass with her well manicured hands.) Mmhmm. You got a perfect body, girl.

It hadn't yet registered that this woman might have been hitting on me. Naive New Yorker that I am, I assumed she was simply very outgoing, friendly and appreciative of other women. Bear in mind that I had just tried on a pair of too-tight, too-low jeans and was not feeling very fond of the junk in my trunk, muffin top and all. So her compliments were more than welcome. I felt my face flush crimson, as I fumbled over my words.

Me: Wow. Stop! Thank you! That's very sweet of you to say. You honestly just made my day.
Girl: Ooh yeah, you like them meat and potatoes, girl. Your booty, mmhmm, I just wanna lay you down... you got a boyfriend?

It then occurred to me that she likes girls. Tugging on my sweater, I began to feel slightly uncomfortable, what with the way she was looking me up and down. It was as if I'd somehow walked onto the train, forgetting to wear pants.

Me: No, no boyfriend.
Girl: You got a girlfriend?
Me: No.
Girl: You want a girlfriend?
Me: No, thanks. I prefer boys.
Girl: Alright, that's cool. So where you from?
Me: Kansas City.
Girl: I knew it! I knew she ain't from around here. They don't grow 'em like that here. (Gesturing to a tall, slightly nerdy guy behind me.) See?? He be peepin' at you, girl! She from Kansas! Meat and potatoes! She be thick, mmhmm. I just wanna stick a chicken wing up her... look at her, she blushin'! I guess they don't have lesbians in Kansas!

At this point, people were starting to stare. The tall guy behind me seemed delighted to be dragged into this unexpected conversation. Slightly offended at the term thick and rather confused-slash-appalled about the chicken wing, I went into defense mode. 

Me: Yes, we do... one of my best friends back home likes girls. But I don't like that you called me thick.
Girl: Don't worry, you ain't fat, you perfect. I'mma take you to dinner. (Gesturing to a larger woman a foot away.) Now that one, she fat. But you, you're not fat.
Me: Shhh!!! Don't say that! She'll hear you...
Girl: She don't care. She know she big.
Me: But... but you'll hurt her feelings...
Girl: Eh, it's alright. See, I'm a renegade. Always causing drama. My fiancé is mad at me 'cause I got a girlfriend on the side. He don't like that. But I'm a renegade. So it's cool. I'm just honest.

Ignoring the fact that the attention of the entire car was on us, I found myself intrigued... 

Me: Yeah, I respect that. By the way, you have great hair.
Girl: Oh, this? Thanks, I just bought it yesterday! $150 a pack.
Me: Oooh, um... how many packs are in your head?
Girl: Three. I sewed 'em in myself. It's curly now, but I can straighten it, do whatever.

At this point, we were nearing my stop. It was time to say good-bye. 

Girl: I'll see you later. I won't forget you, Kansas.
Me: Oh, I won't forget you either...

Only in New York, kids. Only in New York.

The Art of Importing Coffee

True Story: While walking to work, I notice a cute cop blocking the entrance to the Hoboken PATH station. We lock eyes; I blush. Gesturing to my large iced coffee*, he says, "You can't take that in there, miss." My jaw drops when I realize that no, Cute Cop is not flirting with me. The man is serious. "Are you serious?" I ask, panic rising in my voice. "You can't be serious. It's Monday. This is my morning coffee." His curt reply: "Yes. You have to toss it out."

It is then that I notice four other cops standing around, regulating coffee imports into New York. There are also about 10 pissed-off commuters sucking down their coffees. I make puppy dog eyes at the officer (I've gotten out of speeding tickets this way, surely he will make an exception for me and my beloved beverage?) He snarls, "Don't look so sad. I've been up since 3:30am..." I block him out, sip suck down my coffee and seriously consider sprinting across the street to the unguarded, unused PATH station entrance, coffee in hand. I debate running home, switching outfits and returning with coffee securely hidden in handbag, foiling their plan...