As I cheerfully sauntered into Sing Sing Karaoke Lounge & Suites on St. Marks at 2:30 in the morning with my quick-witted, always-amiable, fun-lovin’, 35-year-old boyfriend and my chubby, ever-so-cuddly, pony-hair-purse-carrying, “joyous” friend Fredy, I never expected to see a strapping young man down on his knees amid the spilled sake and beer singing passionately and aggressively into the spit-covered mic. I mean, that’s something I would do, but…

“He’s cute,” Fredy said in a voice far from a whisper.

“Yeah,” I agreed (in a much softer tone, sensing the well-built, blond-haired, blue-eyed vocalist could hear the oh-so-flattering dialogue). “AND he can sing.”

So, unsurprisingly, after “cute” boy finished belting his beloved ballad, Fredy rushed to grab the seat next to him as I hurried to congratulate him on a job well done. That’s what we do; we gravitate toward the good/good-looking ones. That’s how I fell for my huggable, loveable Fredy almost four years ago. He was on stage at Nevada Smiths, a frat-boy-infested Irish pub on 3rd Avenue, rockin’ out to Cher’s “If I Could Turn Back Time,” or was it Gloria Gaynor’s “I Will Survive”? I can’t remember the details exactly, but I do recall that it was irrefutable flove at first song. (Oh, I could just squeeze him right now!)

No doubt about it, making bona-fide buddies at karaoke is easy for the both of us, so it wasn’t at all unusual for Fredy and me — and Mike (Mr. Gregarious) — to instantly hit it off with “cute” boy, whose actual name is Corey.

To begin our early-morning night (with our new friend by our side), sweet-n-sexy Mike decided to serenade the sake-sipping ladies with the ever-popular, “ooh-ahh”-inducing Breakfast Club ballad — Simple Minds’ “Don’t You (Forget About Me).” And, after he finished his buttery smooth rendition, and the revved-up women (feeling hot! hot! hot!) cooled down a bit, it was Fredy’s turn to heat things up. So he sifted through his mental repertoire of sure-to-be show-stoppin’ tunes and found the perfect, rock-n-roll classic to impress our new friend (and everyone else in the bar and on the street nearby) — Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin’.”

And, as soon as the first few notes of the oldie-but-goodie became audible, and thus recognizable, the crowd’s excitement level went from sort-of-chill to can’t-sit-still. The room instantly became smothered by heat and overwhelmed by applause. The women cried out in elation. The men pounded the air with their drink-free fists to the pulsating beat of the music. Simply stated, everyone was pretty much having a good time watching Fredy flaunt his beguiling, Broadway-bound voice.

Then, shortly after Fredy finished his crowd-rousin’, roof-raisin’ tune, something both wrongfully amusing and worthy of note was brought to my attention.

“I have this tick,” Corey said, acting timidly toward me for the first time. “But don’t worry about it.”

I wasn’t worried about it. In fact, I didn’t even notice it until he mentioned it, and that’s because it was no big deal.

Every so often, he’d stick out his tongue and tilt his head to the side so his ear would touch his shoulder, or he’d raise his middle finger two or three times in succession.

Fortunately for karaoke-croonin’ Corey (who just happens to be afflicted with two psychologically debilitating disorders – OCD and Tourette Syndrome), all that matters at karaoke, is the music – the tunes you choose and the performances you make, and most of the time, that doesn’t even matter.

It’s true. Disorders are not an issue at karaoke. Age is not a factor. One’s sexual orientation, race, religion, bank-account balance…they’re all inconsequential because when you’re at karaoke, amidst the sweet sounds of music and merriment, disparities – of all kinds – tend to disappear.

Thus, after learning of Corey’s minor eccentricities, nothing changed. My attitude/friendliness toward him remained the same, and the night carried as usual. Fredy and I sang a duet – “Suddenly Seymour” from Little Shop of Horrors – and the Broadway fanatics (being it New York City, there were a lot of them) adored it. Then, after we hit the final, pulse-tingling note (“Seymour’s my (your) man!”), we both reached for the karaoke bible (i.e., the song book) to pick another tune, but the bartender stopped us and said, “No. Sold out. No more song.”

So, clearly unsatisfied with the number of songs we were able to sing, we decided to, um, get a room. Sing Sing (God bless ‘em!) stays open ‘til six in the morn’ if you keep the singing/screaming to yourself – within a semi-sound-proof room with one comfy couch, two mics, and a big-screen TV.

With three 24 oz. beer cans tucked away under Mike’s winter coat, and a bottle of sake, courtesy of Corey, on its way to our private room, the four of us followed the karaoke keeper to our quarter, impulsively seizing two additional not-ready-to-go-home music addicts along the way. (Bonus: one of ‘em had a half-off the first hour coupon!)

And then there were six…

The two add-ons – one male, one female – graciously thanked us for randomly selecting them to be our guests. Indeed, the two complete strangers (albeit excellent singers from what I heard) joined us for song and sake in a small, enclosed space at four in the morning, and it all seemed positively normal. So we all sat down on the sofa, our bodies touching, and began to program our picks into the karaoke machine.

The hours passed. The sake spilled. The songs played on. The room slowly began to reek of sake and sweat, two more people joined us, and, like karaoke-singing insomniacs, we stayed in the sauna-like room ‘til six in the morning singing songs ranging from The Killers’ “Mr. Brightside,” to Sara McLachlan’s “Angel.”

And, after the bouncer angrily screamed, “Last song!” and kicked our butts out into the cold, the original four (Fredy, Mike, Corey and me) didn’t want to part ways, so we transported our party to Moonstruck Diner on 5th Street and 2nd Ave, humming our favorite tunes of the night the whole way there.

We grabbed a booth. Fredy and Corey sat on one side, and Mike and I sat on the other. And, as my eyes gradually became adjusted to the nauseating, artificial light, I began, for the first time in the fun-filled night, to notice the differences.

Corey’s head-to-shoulder-stick-out-tongue tick caused him to spit bits of food at me, and Fredy, with his fresh, Bumble and Bumble haircut, ordered the biggest, cholesterol-filled meal at the table – and Mike, almost 36, sat amongst a table full of 20-somethings. And I, the only girl at the table, didn’t have much to add to the man-controlled conversation.

Why were our differences so apparent in the brightly lit diner, but almost imperceptible at the karaoke bar?

Because when you’re at karaoke, there are no judgments. There is no evil. Unity abounds when music is in the air.

Karaoke, I do declare, can cure the world’s ills.

Someone please inform the President.

Obviously, I didn’t learn anything from my last post, for my obsession with perfection is as persistent and as torturous as ever.

Almost every day for the past three months, I’ve tried to write something… something funny, something meaningful, something memorable, something at least somewhat entertaining– SOMETHING! Anything! But nothing. Nothing has come of my efforts except a few measly paragraphs and a whole mess of stress. Ultimately, and unfortunately, my therapy has become my agony.

Six different story ideas. Six arduous attempts at storywriting, and…nothing.

I’d write and rewrite and read and reread like an OCD-stricken hand-washer locked in a bathroom lined with sinks, around and around I’d go, over and over again — rinse, wash, rinse, wash — but no matter how much time or brainpower I’d spend on a story, it just wouldn’t work; it wouldn’t mesh. It wouldn’t flow.

I’d get three or four paragraphs into a story, and suddenly, an unrelenting urge to check, recheck, and perfect would become so overwhelmingly unbearable, I’d have to stop writing. I’d become stuck, trapped, entangled in my obsession, and thus, completely and utterly unproductive.

Disgusted with myself and my fruitless exertions, I decided, no matter how painful or time-consuming, to finish and publish my next story.

And so, I wrote on, and after more than a month of type, type, typing away, I was astonishingly able to squeeze five full paragraphs from my battered, uninspired brain…and here they are:

1.) Just as my awkwardly large forkful of too-hot-to-devour-too-quickly, marinara-and-parmesan-coated, angel-hair pasta made its way passed my inelegantly parted, plum-hued pucker, my boyfriend Mike’s third cousin’s girlfriend’s father (a preacher, no less) decided to recite a short, meal-time blessing.

2.) Sitting somewhat center at an extended table of 18, partaking in Mike’s third cousin’s 30th-birthday brunch at a warm-and-cozy Olive Garden Restaurant somewhere in Georgia (with always-couth Mike on my right and his distant-yet-close relatives gathered ’round), my already-flushed cheeks swiftly turned an eerie shade of red nearing that of the spaghetti sauce, as I…gulp…swallowed the scorching clump o’ noodles — whole as can be.

3.) “Well, isn’t that just great!” I thought to myself…my eyes fixated on my plate, my esophagus burning itself raw as I envisioned a table filled with scornful, disapproving faces. “And to think, I almost made it the whole Thanksgiving week without offending anyone or embarrassing myself completely. (Well, there was that toilet-stuffing incident and, of course, the massive sofa drool), but this?!? This pasta-n-prayer mishap is definitely going to mar my ’she’s-so-perfect-for-Mike’ status.”

4.) Fortunately, no harm was done, for as I prepared to make my sincerest of apologies, removing the leftover bits of sauce and noodle from my gloss-stained lips, I heard one kind-hearted soul say: “It’s OK, Paula. Don’t worry about it.”

5.) “Well…um…thank you,” I replied, lifting my reddened head. “Halleluyah…” I exhaled.

It was as if an evil demon crawled inside my mind and maliciously constructed an unbreakable wall blocking me from creating the sixth paragraph.

I yearned for paragraph six, to publish a new story, to entertain my readers, but I couldn’t. I was stuck, glued to my obsession. My mind’s feet wouldn’t move.

Clearly, I needed help. The wall was much too large for one brain to handle, so I turned to my friend Lauren for some literary (and mental) advice.

Without hesitation, she happily agreed to read and comment on all five of my paragraphs, and as she studied my “work,” I monitored her face, searching for some sign of amusement, some sign of pleasure, but none appeared. Confusion was all I could see – deeply furrowed brows and pursed lips.

And then, she said it…four words I didn’t want to hear about a story I’d been working on for much, much longer than I should have.

“I don’t get it,” she said blatantly.

“What do you mean you don’t get it?” I questioned, wanting to drop dead right then and there.

“What exactly did you do with the spaghetti?”

“Here,” I pointed to the first paragraph. “See? I swallowed the pasta whole as Mike’s third cousin’s girlfriend’s father said a blessing. See?”

But she didn’t, and suddenly, I didn’t see it either. And then, frantically, I tried to explain it…but I couldn’t. It didn’t make sense anymore.

“Maybe if you move this sentence here, and this one here, it would work,” she suggested. “Or maybe you should just start over.”

“Yeah, maybe,” I responded, thinking about stabbing myself repetitively with her pen. “Yeah, um, Lauren, I’m done as a writer. I have nothing left to give.”

And after an hour or so of please-pity-me self-hatred and torment, I finally came to my senses. It was Lauren who set my mind’s feet free, for she had the heart and courage to tell me what I already knew but would never admit to myself: The truth.

My story sucked, plain and simple, and I needed to fix it, erase it, start over if need be, and the moment I realized this and accepted it, the wall came tumbling down.

Truth be told, lying to yourself won’t get anywhere — especially to the next paragraph.

Broken, brittle, and colorless, my life, I mean…my nails unarguably needed a quick fix, so I decided, against my itsy-bitsy budget, to buy myself a little fret-free me-time at the new, non-English-speaking nail salon down the avenue from my apartment.

“This is going to be PER-FECT,” I thought as I stood outside the salon gazing happily at the magazine-entranced, visibly relaxed patrons inside. “Everything’s going to be great! For the next hour, my mind and body will be at ease. I will be free from work and worry. Pleasure and peace will unite, and I will be at rest.”

Half a second later, as I opened the door, no more than an inch, I saw a frail, sickly woman running frantically toward me gripping a basket full of frighteningly sharp, nail-trimming tools.

“Manicure, pedicure?!” the woman screeched as she cleared the cringe-worthy phlegm from her throat. “Twenty-two dollar. Ok? C’mon, c’mon. Pick color.”

“Just one frickin’ minute!” I wanted to scream, knocking the basket from her mangy, misshapen talons. “OK?! This is my RE-LAX-A-TION time, so don’t F it up. Understand?!”

But instead, I took a deep breath, grabbed the first wine-colored lacquer I could find, and followed the little nail-devil to my assigned seat.

As I submerged my weary feet, one set of toes at a time, the warm, bubbling water enveloped each one with an ever-so-gentle embrace, and my entire body instantaneously neared a state of relaxation. But my mind, unfortunately, did not make it that far thanks to the eerily freakish, phlegm-filled female at my toes and the high-intensity fluorescent bulbs blazing brightly above my head.

Wicked: That was the name of the hue I had chosen, and a more-than-apropos name for the heartless woman who nearly sawed off my toes and chopped my cuticles to pieces.

Despite the loopy nail lady and her tools o’ terror, I surprisingly exited the premises with a nice-looking set of nails. But I was neither happy nor relaxed, and to add anger to my disappointment, two minutes after leaving the salon, I tripped over a crack in the sidewalk and chipped one of my ‘wicked’ nails.

“Well, there goes one hour and 22, hard-earned dollars down the drain, plus a well-undeserved tip!,” I cried aloud, strolling down 2nd Avenue with tears filling my eyes. “I hate my life!”

Indeed, my nail lady was a bit crazy, and, yes, my toenail did have a noticeable chip in it…but, so what? I left the salon with all ten toes, and my nails, as a whole, looking absolutely amazing.

So, I began to ponder, why is it that I always tend to focus on the flaws and consistently fail to see the whole (beautiful) picture? Is my obsession with perfection so out of control that a chipped nail suddenly becomes an all-out catastrophe?

Sadly, I’ve been perfection-obsessed for years.

Truth be told, I used to cry over crookedly cut bangs and bawl over B pluses. A C+ would be, no joke, the end of my world. A pimple? Disabling. And…um…I once kicked a kid for not catching a ball.

It’s been tough growing up as a perfectionist: The fear of failing, f-ing up, and/or not fulfilling self-imposed expectations (all side effects of perfectionism) have tortured my mind for years, hindering my access to much-needed happiness.

Interestingly, the perfectionism that has crippled me has also been a major component in my success. You see, I can’t seem to live sanely with it, but I can’t seem to do well without it.

So, what I need is a steadfast solution to my ‘perfect’ problem…

And, just by accident, I think I may have found it.

The story of my serendipitous self-recovery goes something like this: Excited about my new-found enjoyment in writing (thank you, Mike, for setting up my blog, and thank you, everyone, for taking the time to read it), I decided to splurge a lot on a brand-new, dove-hued, iBook G4 computer. You know, the one that has a cute, little, light-up apple on its cover.

About four weeks after my big purchase and four days after my ‘catastrophic’ mani-pedi mishap, I removed my pristine computer from its original protective packaging (having only used it about 14 times) to perform a quick email check, and as if it happened in slow motion, I accidentally brushed the computer’s colorless surface with my blood-red nail polish.

And so, there it was…glaring at me…laughing at me…a long, wicked strip of red on shiny white.

“What?!” I thought to myself. “How the hell did I do that?”

Immediately after that puzzling thought, my blood pressure sprinted passed high, landing squarely on panic. My hands began to shake, my heart, race. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t know how to fix it, and I needed to fix it — fast — before the tears had a chance to form.

My first instinct was to try and scrape it off, but that didn’t work, so I ran to the bathroom, reached for a Q-tip, added a little bit of water to it, and carefully, as if I were a surgeon, scrubbed the computer’s glossy surface with the soft cotton tip. But again, nothing happened, and my panic quickly turned to pain. It hurt to think that a two-inch mark (my own stupid mistake) could be the end of my new computer’s prettiness and my new writing bliss.

So, without thinking it through (thoroughly), I grabbed something a bit stronger to remove the stain, something with a bit of a chemical kick to it: A Clorox Wipe.

I rubbed and rubbed and rubbed the spot with the citrus-scented cleansing wipe (my hands still trembling; my heart bursting with anxiety)…but, yet again, as if the damn thing were taunting me, nothing happened.

Clearly, the wicked strip, now coated with a fresh-n-fruity fragrance, was determined to make my computer’s cover its home.

Desperate…to hide it, to cover it up, to remove it from sight. Desperate for it to return to its perfect state, I did what any irrational person would do. I opened a bottle of Sally Hansen nail polish remover, dipped another Q-tip in the toxic mix, and removed the scarlet strip from my 1,000-dollar unit.

Aha! That’s it! I won!

Indeed, at first glance, the saga had ended. The heart-wrenching red had been removed and a smile returned to my face, my hands stopped quivering, my blood pressure slowed…and then…I took a second look, a third, a fourth…and…

I must have glanced at it (repeatedly) for at least an hour, peering at it from different angles, under different lights, until I admitted to myself that the chemical solution I had used wasn’t a ’solution’ at all but an irremovable mistake that I must live with — forever.

Indeed, the solvent removed more than the stain. The computer’s high-gloss finish and my spirit vanished, too.

Completely helpless, sadness overwhelmed me. I know. Dramatic, right? But completely true. I allowed a tiny flaw on a lifeless piece of plastic seize control of my mind, my heart…my life.

Foolish, I know, but I could not escape my obsession. The mark, almost unnoticeable, continued to overpower my thoughts. It catapulted me into a deep depression (I cried a painful cry) and the only way out, or so I thought, was to somehow acquire a new cover. But a new cover meant lying (telling Apple I received a flawed unit), and I never lie.

Morally conflicted, I didn’t know what to do, so I asked my sister for advice.

“Put a sticker on it and move on,” she said.

And my boyfriend…

“Paula, if you use it, you’re going to get marks on it.”

And my mother…

“Do whatever makes you happy.”

After several inconclusive conversations and unsatisfactory advice, I decided to follow my obsession, dismiss my conscience, make a quick trip to the Apple store, and resolve my problem.

But, when I arrived, I couldn’t do it…I couldn’t lie. So, I had the repair guy do it for me.

I told him my story with cleavage and the saddest of puppy-dog eyes. “Oh, poor me…my new computer…it’s all scratched and ruined…and…blah, blah blah…”

“Don’t worry,” he said wholeheartedly. “I’ll go in the back and see if I can fix it.”

He carried it away protectively, holding it close to him as if it were a baby, and as he walked away, I could feel my heart mending itself with just the thought of my mistake being permanently erased from my machine and my memory.

Ten minutes later, my heart ceased its restorative process and began to tear once again.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I did what I could. I talked to my manager, but the warranty just doesn’t cover aesthetic issues. If you want to replace it, it’ll cost you.”

“It’ll cost me?!” I replied. “It has already cost me.”

My time. My thoughts. My happiness. Enough is enough! And there you have it: A revelation.

“My computer works just fine, so what am I worrying about?” Finally, I could see the whole picture; I could see the ‘perfection’ in imperfection.

A chipped nail, a spilt coffee, gum on my favorite pair of jeans? So what? I can still walk, drink and sit, right?

So everything’s ‘perflect.’ Problem solved.

Consider this: After excessive martini intake on an empty stomach, your so-called “better” judgment inevitably disappears, and sans hesitation, you agree to accompany your Friday-night date back to his apartment to “watch a little TV and sober up” before stumbling on home. Fine, no problem.

When you arrive at his dorm-room-esque studio, he asks (wearing a devilish grin) if you’d like another mixed drink. Sleepy, queasy, and far from sober, you fervently decline his offer. He shrugs, fixes himself another vodka cocktail, and invites you to cozy up next to him on his laundry-laden sofa. You apprehensively accept his invitation and attempt to make yourself “comfortable.” He then places his right hand on your leg, his left arm around your neck, and his liquor-laced lips upon your mouth, artlessly executing the legendary, let’s-make-out-right-now move. Again, you accept, more hesitantly this time, gradually regaining your alcohol-impaired common sense. Unfortunately, however, your levelheadedness arrives too late.

Before you could gather your things, excuse yourself, and get the hell out of there, your intoxicated date (without permission and/or warning) stands up, unzips his pants, and exposes his boxerless, briefless nether region to your unsuspecting eyes.

Is it utter disgust and jaw-dropping surprise that you feel? Has your comfort zone been disrupted? Was his action unwanted, unwarranted? Is your date over? Let’s hope so.

This undeniably probable encounter, both uncomfortable and completely awkward, makes me wonder if our highly regarded ‘personal space’ is steadily shrinking, leaving more than enough room for outsiders (and ‘nuts’) to enter without asking? Is a knock at the door too much to ask for these days?

Invasion of the personal kind is indeed a common occurrence in Overpopulated Cesspool City (otherwise known as NYC). Take the City’s subway system, for example. It’s the perfect place to view, participate in and/or become a victim of personal-space invasion. In fact, just about a week ago, within the confines of a tightly packed rush-hour train, it happened to me: A dreadfully obese woman deliberately attacked me with her notably large bum.

Hot, sweaty, and in my post-work, don’t-talk-to-me, space-out zone, I stood behind her on the train, quietly maintaining my balance and distance, traveling peacefully through my la-la iPod land, and ignoring all the obnoxiously talkative, perspiring people around me…

Then, SUDDENLY, without a smidgen of notice, the overweight woman decided to swoop down, thrust her tubby tushie into my soda-filled belly and sort leisurely through her oversized, over-stuffed shopping bags.

Thus, I was stuck…between a butt and another man’s hard place. You can only imagine the discomfort (and rage) I felt.

Nothing. She gave me nothing. No warning, no “excuse me,” no “watch out, please,” not even a throat-clearing cough to arouse my attention, and I certainly didn’t receive an apology. It was…oh yes…space invasion at its best.

Now let’s move on to what’s really been bothering me. I like to call it the “Attack of the ‘Affectionate’ People.”

Do you remember your friend’s last apartment party? Good. Now, readjust your focus and zoom in on your entrance and exit. While saying hello and goodbye…

1. Did the host (your friend), his/her friends, and other drunken, unrecognizable party-goers give you a big XO, XX, XXO, or XXX?
2. Did you feel socially pressured to return the hug(s) and/or airkiss(es) just because it seemed situationally appropriate and polite?

If you anwered yes to both questions, then the faux-affectionate, personal-space-invading people have reached you, too. But don’t worry, they mean no harm.

When ‘attacked’ by a person’s pucker or phony embrace, you may feel a bit uneasy if unaccustomed to this form of lovey-dovey greeting. You may even panic: How do I prevent a mouth-on-mouth collision? Which cheek do I kiss first? Is it one kiss or two? Two kisses or three? A hug and a kiss? A kiss and a hug?

If it’s so damn complicated, stressful and time-consuming (a proper kiss-kiss-hug session may take up to 15 minutes or more), why do we do it? Is it closeness that we subconsciously seek? Is it simply the social standard now? Or, is it just a passing trend for posh party-goers?

Whatever it is, this très-European salutation system (merci to the French) has infiltrated the U.S. party scene, and there’s little to nothing we can do about it, except, of course, counterattack. You know, give ‘em a little “back-off-now-or-I’ll-scream” scare. Here are a few party-tested combat strategies that have worked for me:

1. The Big Bear Hug.
2. The Sloppy Smooch.
3. The Funny Face.
4. The Uncontrollable Cough.
And my personal favorite…
5. The Giant Wave. (Simply raise your hand, wave, and say, “Hello, everyone!” Or, “Goodbye, everyone!” This one really works. My sister uses it all the time.)

Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not a cold, cruel woman who abhors affection. I’m actually a ‘happy hugger’: I give heartfelt hugs to friends and family when I’m happy to see them (or just plain happy). But I never squeeze those who are hug-opposed.

Bottom line, hug me if you’re excited to see me. Give me a great, big kiss! I don’t care what you do as long as you do it like you mean it.

It’s the faux-affectionate folks who irk me. The airkissers. The back patters. What’s the reason for this type of contact? Is it really that enjoyable? We’re not in France!

It’s just getting out of control. When you arrive at a party or before you leave, you feel obligated to kiss and/or hug everyone there. And if you don’t, you feel like you’re going to offend someone, and trust me, no one wants to be the unkissed outcast.

Personal space is precious and should be preserved, and the only way to stop it from disappearing completely is to show a little R-E-S-P-E-C-T. Give those affection who want it. Ask if you’re not sure.

Let’s all try to keep our mouths to ourselves, our butts in check, and our pants on, k?

2002, NYC.

Twenty-two-year-old, northern-suburb-of-Chicago girl finds herself single and friendless in the Big City.

Her mother urges her to return home. She refuses.

———————————————————————————————————–

“I had it all when I moved to Manhattan,” she says, sniffling. “Enthusiasm, confidence.”

Sadly, months later, she lost it all, becoming a woman she no longer recognized, no longer loved.

“But how did she lose it?” you question.

It was a bartender, an Irish one. She became addicted.

“I guzzled his attention, never ceasing to breathe,” she sighs, wiping the tears. “His beers, I sipped slowly.”

Intoxicated by his piercing brown eyes, unintelligible brogue, and body-rousing embraces, she transformed into a submissive, yet fire-breathing creature, a grotesque beast of a woman.

“Horns, talons, fangs, and the willingness to do whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted,” she weeps. “A whole other woman.”

Thank God he was allergic to cats.

Pop! Gone. Vanished. No more “Bubbles.”

Twenty-five years young, and the pep from my (more often than not) perky personality has been sucked dry.

Watered down by worries, I’m drowning in quarter-life. Money, men, wrinkles, work. Somebody, please. Throw me a lifesaver!

Back in high school, I unarguably had a bubbly personality. Hence the nickname: “Bubbles.” I was a cheerleader for two years, a gymnast for four. I performed in musicals, participated in student council. I had what was known as the “Skittle Car,” a magenta Dodge Neon (the only purple 4-door in the lot!), and I even started my own cheer group called “Bleacher Babes.” Go team!

Blah. That’s how I feel now. Blah, blah, BLAH!

So, where did all the pep go?

Well, for starters, money IS an issue. Checking account? Stagnant. Savings? None. It’s almost as if $100 drops from my wallet every time I walk amongst the rats, roaches and coffee-cup-rattling vagabonds. I live in the city that never gives. Take. Take. Take. Drip. Drip. Drip. My Kenneth Cole coin purse has a leak in it, and unfortunately, the plumber’s out of town. Does anybody know when he’ll be back?

Men. Ah, yes. For the past three years, I’ve been on a merciless manhunt in the city of millions. Torture, I tell ya. Pure, gut-wrenching, heart-breaking agony with a couple of oh-I-think-this-could-work, and oooh-this-does-work-do-it-again moments. Flings? Yes. Three bartenders, a writer, an editor, an auditor, a construction worker, an artist, one merchant marine, a party promoter, an actor, a middle school teacher, two lighting designers, a British law student, “Hot Bob,” and my personal favorite: a German tourist who didn’t sprechen sie wort of Englisch. Relationships? One (Duration: 4-6 months, depending on who tells the story). And then, halleluyah, (can I get a big “oy vey!”?), there was Mike, my Michel. Interestingly, he was there all along. One of my first friends (and hook-up chum) in NYC. He was well within reach…always a phone call or a doorbell away. But he was out of touch, that is, with whom he wanted to be with, or if he wanted to be with anyone at all. But alas! We’re together (insert smile here), and I’m crossing my fingers that my cream filling will stay put ’cause, after all, nobody wants to eat an empty Oreo, right?

Speaking of filling…it’s time to let the world know that I’m 25, and (Oh, God!), I have five visible creases on my forehead, flab where I’ve never had flab before, and a left boob that hangs a little lower than my right. The signs are there, ladies, but, but…why me? Why now? I’m not ready. Will I ever be?

Work…hmm…a rollercoaster ride…with long stalls…that’s how I’d explain my “career” so far. I moved to Manhattan to become a magazine journalist. My mission: Accomplished. But, wow! What a bumpy road! And what’s frustrating is that there doesn’t seem to be an exit in sight. No doubt about it, I’ve had a wide variety of jobs in the big city — ranging from “bar socializer” to comic-strip editor to theatre and comedy show-ticket saleswoman — but finally, it’s over. The odd-job hunt ended about a year ago when I became a full-time, bona-fide, salaried employee, an editor at a magazine (a research editor…otherwise known as a glorified fact-checker). (insert frown here).

Become an exotic dancer? Drug dealer? Extreme makeover? Magic love potion? Grad school?

What the hell am I going to do to get my pep back?

Find happiness. ☺

First, I must define happiness – for myself.

So, I’ve made a short list of things, events, situations that make me smile, chuckle, laugh, giggle, smirk…feel good…feel happy.

I call them my happinecessities:
1. Belting Broadway tunes with my joyous friend Fredy at Nevada Smith’s on Thursday nights. A few free Buds in my belly, and I’m on stage singing my heart out to drunken frat boys, underage girls and Irish bartenders. I love it. It makes me feel ALIVE.
2. Rollerblading with my fun-n-fabulous friend Lauren on the West Side Highway. With a bit of a breeze to cool my skin, smooth ground to relax my feet, and gossipy girl talk to stimulate my mind. For me, rollerblading is as comforting as devouring warm, just-out-of-the-oven chocolate chip cookies after having multiple, mind-blowing orgasms on a lazy Sunday afternoon. It makes me feel 100 percent AT EASE.
3. Spending quality time with my friends and family (dinner, movies, dancing, laughing). It makes me feel LOVED.

Feel free. Love and be loved. It’s as simple and as complicated as that.

Everyone knows Mike.

He’s that guy you feel so comfortable with…the guy you’ve known “for, like, forever.” The one who gives you goose bumps in 90-degree heat…the one who makes you laugh uncontrollably at something only mildly funny…the one you liked a lot, the one you loved as a friend, the one you realized was…um…

Yep, he’s the one who knows you so well that when you’re not with him, you feel like an Oreo cookie without the cream filling…empty…like there’s something missing…something so delicious.

You know you’re a goner when he accidentally leaves his shirt at your apartment, and you (know it’s wrong and weird…but you) sniff the collar to get a whiff of his intoxicating scent, or when you secretly kiss his picture (that you’ve hidden beneath your bed so he doesn’t see it when he comes over). It’s the things you do when he’s not around that make you realize how much you really do like the guy you’ve been dating, sleeping with, etc., etc.

And then there’s that “Oh, shit!” moment, the moment you give him your heart all wrapped up in baggage and bitterness, and he unwraps it ever-so-nicely and then stuffs it in his back pocket for easy access. You know, it’s that moment he does something so unexpectedly wonderful that you know he’s the one you want to be with “forever and ever.” It’s the moment you wave your little white flag, and say, “Ok, ok, you’ve got me. I love you, you son of a bitch!” Yep! That’s the moment!

And once he’s got it, it takes just a tiny bit longer to realize that the guy you think is absolutely “the one” is actually the same guy that’s using your little gift as a big rubber ball to shoot a few hoops at the park with his friends on weekends.

He’ll make a basket or two. He’ll sink a three-pointer from time to time, and you’ll applaud, and jump up and down, and maybe even do a little victory dance. But sure as my name is Paula, he’ll miss a few. My good friend Loretta calls them “Butthead Moments,” but I like to call them, “What-the-hell-were-you-thinking-you-stupid-stupid-man?”

So if he has no desire to take a few lessons, practice day in and day out, and listen to his coach (that would be you)…if he keeps on throwing air-balls – one after the other – is it time for you to the throw in the towel or should you take some time to rewrite your gameplan?

Well, as I see it, there’s always the timeout option. Timeouts are tricky, however, because when the buzzer goes off, and it’s time to jump back in, your heart is still in his court.

How do you get your heart back without a scratch? How do you find a professional, a man who knows how to make a slam dunk every time?

First of all, you have to think of yourself as the winner. Hell, he’s the one throwing air-balls, right?? When you realize that he’s not as good as he looks, it will be easier to get your heart back.

Second, you have to feel good about yourself. Whatever it takes. Whether it be teeth-whitening, psychotherapy or merengue, you have to put a smile on your face – without having to see his – because confidence is the best flirtation policy.

So, turn your frown upside down, throw on a hoochie halter and get the hell out of your room because sitting and sulking won’t get you anywhere – literally.

But, please, don’t be self-destructive. Don’t over-consume anything – including chocolate, cheese, cosmos and men. Be self-assured. Choose wisely, and make sure he knows that he doesn’t have a shot – unless he knows how to shoot. The ball’s in your court now, baby!