Over the Hills

Tonight was the season finale of The Hills on MTV. Now, I don’t watch The Hills (yes I do), but if I did (and I do), I would tell you that I don’t know why I tune in season after hideously painful season (that one’s actually true, I really have no clue).

There’s a part of me that absolutely hates to be left out of any pop culture phenomenon, and let’s face it, for better or worse, The Hills is one -- as was its predecessor, Laguna Beach. And even if you don’t watch (like me), you can’t help but stumble across the dozen or so semi-celebrities that the shows have spawned over the years (the most useless by FAR being Justin Bobby -- trust me).

So whether you’re a casual observer or true student of The Hills, you’ve probably heard that Heidi & Spencer -- barfingly known as Speidi -- have recently tied the knot. Or have they?

Here’s my list of 5 things that are more real than their marriage:
1. Velveeta
2. Unicorns
3. Blue carnations
4. Pleather
5. Bernie Madoff’s $50 B ponzi scheme

One thing’s for certain -- The Hills are alive with the sound of fakeness. Now here’s a truth: I’d REALLY like to make a clean break from this show. I think I get dumber each time I watch. Yet, if left to my own devices, I fear I’ll tune in AGAIN when it comes back for season 5 in the spring. And I ask you, if I watched Newport Harbor (which I did -- don't judge), is there ANY doubt I’ll get sucked into the spin-off vortex that is The City, and – God help me – Bromance?

This is serious. I’m 35.

My last remaining brain cells are screaming for help. Is there a support group I can join? A 12-step recovery program? Should I go all biblical and just poke my eyes out? Please stage an intervention below.

What a Waste of Lip Gloss

So I went on my first date with someone I “met” online.

The guy was from Match. He virtually winked at me, we exchanged several anonymous emails, then spoke on the phone and texted. On paper, he seemed pretty good...

He had a cleverly-written profile that used big words and didn't contain any grammatical errors. 43 year old hedge fund manager. Never married. No kids, no pets. Owned his apt on the UWS. Penn undergrad and Wharton MBA. Former college-level tennis player. A “people person” with a “feminine side ingrained by sisters.” Said he ate healthy, and ran or biked 15-30 miles per week. Had most of his hair. At a reported 5’10”, he was shorter than I normally like, but I thought I should keep an open mind.

We decided to meet.

Based on his pictures (there were 10), I arrived at Soho Park expecting someone who looked like David Addison from the Blue Moon Detective Agency. What I got was someone who looked more like Columbo. His suit was all rumpled, he had a belly like Santa, and SUCH big dark bags under his eyes that I’m confident Delta would have charged him a handling fee for merely setting foot on a plane. And even though I was in heels that made me just under 6’, he was no 5’10”.

Okaaaay. Keep an open mind.

We quickly sat down and there was this weird exchange with the waitress. She brought him something that looked like a coke or an iced coffee in a to-go cup. He sent it away and ordered a glass of white wine while I ordered a beer. Then she brought menus. “We won’t be eating,” he declared, and started rapidly firing questions at me. It felt very much like an interview, not at all like a conversation, and he kept asking me things we’d already discussed on the phone. Still, I tried to be breezy and light, tell stories, BE HUMAN. His eyes darted all around, and he checked his BlackBerry 7 times.

When I did manage to squeak a question in, I got mostly vague answers. “So, how many siblings do you have?” “A few.” “How long have you lived in New York?” “A while.” “Where’s your office?” “Downtown.” He fidgeted in his seat like a kid that had to go potty. But I did get one direct answer when I asked if his parents still lived in Florida. “They’re dead,” he replied.

Everything I said was met with the same reaction, an exaggerated, “Woooow.” We started out by talking about work, so at first, I thought the wows meant he was impressed. But when I said I liked pepperoni pizza and he said wow, I knew this date was over. He downed his glass of wine while I was only halfway thru my beer, and practically jumped out of his skin asking for the check.

It was actually pretty rude -- I was like, wait, YOU have had enough of ME? Oh, ok.

It was very awkward outside, so I went to shake his hand, as if to say, “Good luck, Freak.” Instead, he went in for a shoulder hug and an air-kiss on the cheek. But one cheek wasn’t enough -- apparently he thinks he’s European, because he barked, “One more!” and air-kissed my other cheek. I was like, ewww, you weird little midget!

And with that, I jumped in the first cab I saw, went straight home, and ate an entire pepperoni pizza.

Wow.

Poetry in Motion

I live in a nice building, I think. There's a good mix of young and old, all appear gainfully employed. There is also this contingency of 20-something guys who are generally doing at least one of the following: coming back from the gym, coming back from a beer/pizza run, coming back from a smoke, coming back from a bar, or coming home from a hookup.

I've decided to chronicle my most recent NYC encounter with a poem. I call this one, "Stinkies."

I stepped in the elevator this morning
and got trapped inside without any warning,
as if my feet were shackled to the ground
by a stink, coming from all around.
Should I turn to my left,
as a man's booze stunk like breath?
Or turn to my right,
I see someone who did not shower last night!
It made my straight hair curl and my sunglasses melt.
Why, oh why, did I smell what I smelt?

Won't You Be My Neighbor?

One of the things I need to get used to again is living amongst the general population. I don't like strangers, and I REALLY don't like the sounds and smells they make.

I've yet to actually meet anybody who lives on my floor, but I know 3 things about my neighbors to the left:

1. They slam the front door a lot, especially at night just as I've drifted off to a peaceful sleep

2. They cook dinner at 6:45pm on the dot (and don't own a cookbook, because it smells like the same weird stew every single day)

3. They think they own the hall because they leave all their crap outside their apt

Few things bother me more than people who are inconsiderate. I can get over the dinner smells (thanks Lysol!) but the other two just bug me. The slamming is just plain rude. And they have a 2-bedroom apt for God's sake, you mean they don't have room for a stroller and a couple of dirty mops? Maybe they have a burgeoning business as door-slamming, floor-scrubbing babysitters and this hallway eyesore is just performance advertising. I don't know.

Oh wait, I know 1 more thing about them:

4. They smoke, which I always suspected, and have now confirmed with a casual inspection of the basket on the back of their kid's stroller -- it contains a lovely pack of ciggies. Way to go mommy & daddy!

Am I the only one with annoying neighbors? Should I pin a note on their door asking them to clean up their act, or will that force them to leave a flaming pot of "dirty mop stew" outside mine?