As a firm believer in female solidarity and putting chicks before, well you know, I have to wonder if there is a point where that belief can go too far.  In the perilous battlefield of finding your perfect guy, have the rules of engagement between women gone too far?

I was out last weekend celebrating a friend’s birthday and there was the usual mix of too many martinis and too few men. The scene was hot and everyone was having a ball when a very eligible bachelor joined our group. Being new to the group, I asked my friend if he was seeing anyone, she replied no but that she had had a crush on him. Automatically, my eye candy didn’t look so sweet because I was not about to violate the golden rule between women: “Don’t mess with your girls’ guys.” But, she followed up by saying that it wasn’t a big thing and she didn’t really care. So, I took things slow and waited for him to make the first move—which he did.  Nothing happened. It was all just harmless flirting and dancing, because I wanted to talk to my girl beforehand just too clear the air.  This could have been possible if I wasn’t getting the silent treatment—for three days.

After I figured out her silence wasn’t due to stress at work or PMS, I started wondering why there is such a strictly forbidden policy for women to share men. My guy friends have a much more fluid policy on women. Does that mean that they have evolved past the possession games or that women are simply more respectful? Perhaps it is both.   What I mean by that is, if one of your friend’s has a thing for a guy and you do too, why can’t the good old ways of competition be reinstated. Can’t it just be that we can both flirt and go after him, and whoever meshes better wins?

I am not condoning for women to fight over guys, but why the hands-off policy? On to that, where does this end?  So, in five years if I still like him and he still likes me and has no interest in her, are we supposed to do nothing because it breaks the silent but ever present code of conduct? Perhaps she should invest in the single girl’s Bible, He’s Just Not That Into You! My second thought is: Why wasn’t she just honest?  If she is that into him then why not just tell me so—is it a game or a test of friendship? Straight off, if she would have told me that he wasn’t fair game, I would have immediately backed off, but she left it ambiguous and without the special gift of being a psychic how the hell was I supposed to know?

I know a guy is never worth the loss of a friendship but it also doesn’t have to be an either or  So girls, next time you want to kill your friend for crushing on the same guy, flip the situation and think about what it feels like to be on both sides of the fence.

Vogue India‘s August issue consisted of a 16-page spread of high-end, status symbol designer pieces modeled not by the wealthiest fraction of India’s population who could actually afford such luxuries, but by average Indian citizens. These citizens, though they comprise about half of India’s population, live on less than 1.25 dollars a day. That said, it is unsurprising that Vogue India and its August spread has split India down the middle, the opposing teams being Displeasure versus “What’s the big deal?”

On the one hand there’s Kanika Gahlaut, a columnist for the newspaper Mail Today based in New Delhi. She represents the displeased. According to her, the editorial spread was “not just tacky, but downright distasteful” and “an example of vulgarity.” Furthermore, “there is nothing ‘fun or funny’ about putting a poor person in a mud hut in clothing designed by Alexander McQueen. There are farmer suicides here,’” she said in a phone interview, referencing the thousands of Indian farmers who have killed themselves over the course of the last decade as a result of their debt.

On the other hand, there’s Priya Tanna, Vogue India‘s Editor-in-Chief, who had two words for all Vogue spread critics: “Lighten up.” Vogue‘s mantra is about realizing the “power of fashion” and, these days, “fashion is no longer a rich man’s privilege. Anyone can carry it off and make it look beautiful… You have to remember with fashion, you can’t take it that seriously.”

Now… My thoughts:

First and foremost, I did not find the Vogue spread distasteful, and I do not think that those offended by the spread need to “lighten up.” So, I guess you can count me out of both Kanika and Priya’s camp. In fact, my immediate reaction to the spread was, “So? What else is new?”

Vogue India has merely started a phenomenon, if it hasn’t started already, that has long been present here in the United States, particularly in the Black and Hispanic communities It’s a phenomenon characterized by odd pairings: Fusion hair weaves and chronic student loan debt; white, creaseless Air Force Ones in every color and unpaid child support; a 2009 (insert car of your choice) and an out-of-service cell phone; the latest game system and involuntary unemployment.

I am an African American woman well aware of my ancestral history, and I understand that due to racism, historically most harmfully manifested in American legislation, African Americans (and other minority groups) have had to play catch up behind their Caucasian counterparts for centuries now in an effort to obtain a substantial position within the world in which they live. That said, how much longer will we, as a collective, remain hanging from the bottom rung of the American socioeconomic ladder while continuously pointing fingers at the system?

It is the media’s duty to entice it’s target audiences to buy goods and/or services, but we can’t always afford to be tranced by the “Keep up with the Joneses” tag lines, nor should saying “I spent a hundred bucks on this, just to be like – you ain’t up on this” be cute any longer, yet based on my experiences, those lyrics, courtesy of Mr. Kanye West, still reflect a powerful mentality in ethnic communities.

If fashion is a cause more worthy of our attention and energies than financial well-being, planfulness, and socioeconomic progress, then here’s to the beginning of our demise as a people. Yes, fashion is a powerful entity, and so is style, but neither are defined by designer brands which are inconsistently trendy. And, calling such brands ‘status symbols’ has resulted in many living paycheck to paycheck to create and maintain an addicting illusion of wealth and status most harmful to themselves. Thus, the rich get richer, and the poor stay poor. All in the name of short-term gratification. All in the name of fashion?

I will keep this short and directly to the point because, as of now, there is only so much to be said.

Whether it was Senator Obama’s dynamic speech, Michelle Obama’s form-fitting turquoise dress opening night, or daughter Eisenhower’s proclamation of her support for the Democratic Party this election despite having been a lifelong Republican; I don’t know. But, at this point, all that matters is this: the Democratic National Convention had me saying, “John McCain who?!”

Evidently, I wasn’t the only person who felt that way. Why else would McCain select Sarah Palin as his Vice Presidential pick for this year’s election if he wasn’t desperately seeking attention?

Political platforms and promises aside, McCain is officially (in my mind, anyway) a bonafide stuntman, doing all he can to match history in the making with what he believes to be its equal. In other words, McCain understands that all the hype that surrounded the battle between Hilary and Barack for the Democratic ticket could have only been matched, if at all, by a young, former beauty-pageant-runner-up-turned-hockey-mom as the VP pick.

Good move McCain; I’m impressed. But, what now? Do you expect Hilary’s entire following to turn Republican overnight with the newfound scent of estrogen in the air? And, to briefly address Sarah’s and Michelle’s aesthetic appeal (since it has been eluded to many times since Palin was picked), do you really think Sarah Palin can compete with Michelle Obama’s brick house? Methinks not.

McCain, you are too old to be playing games. Period. But thanks for keeping me entertained…honestly.

Is age really just a number? I can say, from experience, that it certainly is not. I am in the midst of an eight-month slump in my now nonexistent dating life. So, feeling slightly undesirable and kind of like everyone thought I had scales underneath my clothes, I accepted a date from someone who was definitely not my type.

When I first met him, he was really nice and I assumed he was trying to make me feel comfortable in my new environment – that is, until he asked me out on a legit date. My first inclination was to say ‘no;’ not because he was a troll or anything, but mainly because I think all men are trolls and am the most awkward person in the dating situation, mainly for two reasons: If I don’t lubricate the situation with alcohol, I have nothing to say, but if I drink I usually end up making out with my date because, for some reason, making out is less awkward than speaking. But, due to intense peer pressure, I accepted.

Approximately half way through my first martini I knew the ‘zsa zsa zu’ (or “that spark,” for non-Sex and the City fans) just wasn’t there, but I didn’t want to be a bitch and jump in a cab with the excuse that I forgot to turn off my straightening iron, so I endured for two more martinis and a couple games of pool. At this point, I was dying to get back to my book at my apartment and immediately call my best friend and inform her that not only am I an awful person, but I will also spend my life alone. My date was a complete gentleman and walked me to a cab, and on the way we stumbled onto the subject of my impending graduation from college. I knew he was older than me – possibly 28 – and me being 21, seven years is manageable. But then, the now-troll wouldn’t spill his graduation year and I was getting more internally hysterical by the moment. Then he dropped it: 1991. For those of you who are not great with math, that would make him 39! My stomach literally fell out of my butt and I wanted to throw myself in front of a moving cab.

After he revealed to me that he was practically twice my age, I promptly ended the date, but since we worked in close proximity of each other I didn’t want to pull the total bitch move of the handshake – I mean, I did get three martinis out of being with the geriatric. So I went for the side-cheek kiss, but he snaked around and kissed me on the lips! After having forty-year-old mouth on mine, it was time to shamefully climb into the cab and end my life.

In the end, this experience wasn’t so horrifying because he was forty, but believe me, that played a huge part. The real problem was that he withheld this vital information. I mean, I guess there is no good way to drop it in – ‘hey, I am old enough to be your dad,’ would have totally killed my buzz. Needless to say, I have yet to be on another date because I am frankly terrified. Now, I am not saying that a large age gap is a total deal breaker (look at Whitney and Ray J! Totally one for the storybooks), but I just couldn’t imagine bringing my forty-year-old boyfriend home to meet my 31-year-old brother…something about that just screams Deliverance.

There are a certain amount of inevitable circumstances all single women have to accept. For instance, attending parties and work functions alone, being sat at the dreaded ‘singles’ tables at weddings, no morning sex (unless you are either very naughty or very lucky), and the walk of shame. For those of you who don’t know what ‘the walk’ is, it is that dreaded walk home that usually follows an alcoholically induced, poor sexual choice.

Your eyes pop open in slight disorientation as to where you are and how the hell you got there. Then you see Casanova snoring next to you, who, in daylight is not the Armani model look-alike you thought he was. You get up, feeling like your head is about to implode, and then you make the biggest mistake of all: looking in the mirror! Your hair looks like a rat nested in it for the night, and your mascara has made rings around your eyes that make you look like you were paid for last night’s activities and live in a gutter. Your teeth feel like they are wearing sweaters, and the very worst of it is…you have to walk home like that.

On your walk home, your platform heels and freakem’ dress, violently screams ‘slut!’, even though it certainly didn’t the night before. Then come the looks. Everyone is looking at you like you should be burned at the stake for witchcraft. Well – not everyone; women give that look, and guys give you the eyebrow raise, which usually translates to, ‘niiiiiice.’ Either way, the scorn of your shame feels like the sun is beating down on your neck, and you are literally sweating like a whore in church.

Hopefully you are lucky enough to go home and change your clothes and wash your face, or you could end up like me, in college, going straight to my Friday morning class. The class happened to be ‘Jane Austen as a Prominent English Writer;’ by the by, and something about reading about women in petticoats while I am in the same clothes I did shots of Jack Daniels in just felt wrong.

Just remember: if you have the unpleasant experience of taking the walk of shame, either get a cab and avoid it, or know that thousands have gone before you and thousands will go after you. It is part of being blissfully unavailable, yet available to everyone. Put on a mischievous-looking smile and know that people are raising their eyebrows, but probably out of jealousy, because they most likely watched reruns of Jeopardy! last night.

I don’t know about the rest of the female sex, but it is rare that I can get through a bad work day, break-up or any emotional drama without one thing: processed sugar, usually manifested as Ben & Jerry’s ice cream. You know the days, ladies, when you are riding the subway or driving in your car, struggling to keep the tears from flowing like the Nile, and if someone even dared bump into you or cut you off, you might rip their eyes out? Well, nothing is a better cure than a personal pint of American Dream.

I recently had ‘that’ day. I got out of the subway, made a beeline for the closest Duane Read drugstore, and bought myself a pint of Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream, fully intent on getting ‘chip-faced.’ I promptly walked back to my apartment, peeled back the plastic, got the spoon you use to serve mashed potatoes with (no time for cereal spoons, people – I was on a mission) from my silverware drawer, dug in and clicked my TV to LIFETIME- what a cliche. I was speedily making my way through the delicious caramel and chocolate swirls when my roommate came home. She saw my slightly depressing state and said, ‘Jeez, can’t you at least put that in a bowl? You look like a Neanderthal.’

At first I was a little affronted by this, but then I replied, “What’s the point? If you make the choice to buy the pint of ice cream, there is no need to portion it and dirty a bowl; you are eating the whole pint.” Frankly, I don’t even know why Ben n’ Jerry’s bothers to put the fact that a pint of their ice cream is really 2.5 servings… I don’t need the extra guilt that I am eating enough ice cream for two and a half people.

Wouldn’t it be great if your comfort food were something like celery? Mine definitely is not, and most people’s isn’t celery either. So, the next time you are dealing with a flailing career and break-up that feels like that person reached inside your chest and ripped out your heart along with your happiness, it’s ok – just grab your ice cream, or M&Ms, or whatever helps, and just feel it.