I had planned for many months to travel to India last December for the wedding of a close friend from college. Friends from all over the globe whom I hadn’t seen in years promised to reunite in the tiny southwestern state of Goa, overlooking the Arabian Sea. The trip was fabulous. Sure, we had a Seinfeld moment and missed the wedding ceremony completely… and then went to the wrong reception, but that didn’t stop us from having a blast.

However, I had a big surprise waiting for me at home in Brooklyn. While I was away, my boyfriend fell in love with another woman - Annette Obrestad.

When I returned home after three weeks of traveling, I found lots of suspicious evidence indicting his affair with the Norwegian poker princess. Videos illicitly showing her hole cards. Highlight reels of her EPT win. Voyeuristic screenshots of graphs showing her ROI upswing. And folders upon folders of glamour shots!

The nerve.

Now, I consider myself a fairly respectable live poker player. I can tear up a $1/$2 No-Limit Hold’em table with panache, and I delight in using my womanly charms at the expense of the suit-wearing calling stations who call me “honey” at the table. I’ll keep smiling and flirting, just so long as they keep rebuying when I bust them. But at least I’m old enough to get into a casino. Did I mention Annette is 19?!

I get it that my boyfriend is wooed by her online aggression - it’s the classic submission fantasy. He, along with legions of other fans, sits at her Pokerstars tourney tables, chattering away in the box as her 4d7d busts some poor soul’s high card Ace with a straight and his kid’s college tuition dwindles. She represents the picture-perfect model of youth, of intellect, of competitive spirit and international chic - everything I’m not when I ask him for the fifteenth time to get his underwear off the floor.

Now, I can’t hate on Annette because she certainly brings lots of respect for women players. But here’s a tip for you donkeys crushing on Miss Obrestad: Keep it a secret from your girl. It’s the most +EV thing you can do for your relationship.

Every sane New Yorker goes through semi-regular phases during which they repeatedly ask themselves the penultimate question: “WTF.” Usually this is followed up with “Why do I live here? In a box?” except in instances where said New Yorker is in the investment banking industry. Then, that question usually doesn’t matter because they’re either still in their grey Goldman Sachs cube crunching numbers, or at their ridiculously swank Wall Street studio, drowning their sorrows - alone - in a glass of Johnnie Walker Blue. Tell me - does a $200 bottle of blended whisky taste better when you’re alone?

Since I did not sell my soul to the University of Chicago economics department, and rather preferred to sell it to the heartful upstart that touches children’s lives while protecting their stingy wallets, I am not in the latter category. Instead, I get by on meager allowances and use my personal credit card for work expenses so that I may accrue enough ThankYouPoints to one day get my tail on a plane and escape.

… How depressing.

Today, I’ve fallen victim to another of what I call the seasonal blues in NYC. In the summer, it’s lack-of-central-AC depression. In the fall, it’s why-can’t-I-live-close-enough-to-Central-Park-to-have-falling-leaves-and- movie-moments blues. In winter, it typically laments the fact that the walking distance to the gym, when combined with the ridiculously freezing temperatures and hurricane-force outer-borough winds, prevents any real physical fitness from taking place. Nevermind that my gym boasts a 24-hour schedule. Screw that. The windchill outside is 16 degrees and you’re asking me to walk 15 minutes each way?! No, thanks.

Yes, I would like some cheese with my whine, thanks. But let’s just say that I’ve spent the large majority of my evening perusing Craigslist for better apartments, in better locations, for money I can never afford just to shake myself out of my seasonal funk.

I guess I’ll just go watch the Food Network. At least that will guarantee large living… literally.

Somehow, I’ve managed to make friends with a group of ladies whom I affectionately refer to as my MILFs. Yes, you read me right. They are a boisterous group of smoking hot women who own and manage a dance studio in Bensonhurst, and I am always at my wit’s end to try and keep up with them when we go out. Having three kids apiece, putting them through the paces of the competitive NYC high school world, and sending them off to college don’t slow these sexy moms down. Oh, no. There is always time for an impromptu spanking contest at a beefcake bar.

Last night, in celebration of a birthday, we went out to Lai Yuen for dinner, an upscale Chinese restaurant at the foot of the Verrazano Narrows bridge with a breath-taking view. (On a side-note, be sure to check out the HDR photography of gordonf238 by clicking on the bridge photo below — his NYC work is stunning.) The restaurant didn’t disappoint, and neither did the dramz. There were old flames at the bar, beach club cabana queens, and the ubiquitous old Italian couple, sporting a hideous comb-over and draped in gold jewelry.

It’s always a blast to hang out with my lady-friends, and the feeling is mutual. I am the crass Midwestern girl who travels all over the globe and is captivated by their quintessentially Brooklyn stories; they are my sharp-tongued, middle-aged muses in slinky dresses who joke that the most travel they do is driving to Dyker Heights in their boyfriends’ BMWs.

What’s even greater about my MILFs is that their “destination bar” is a hole-in-the-wall literally across the street from my house, the Wicked Monk. Now, four or five days out of the week, I curse my proximity to this bar and its stumbling-drunk, rowdy patrons and bad cover bands. But oh, when the ladies come to party, it’s on.

Last night, about 4AM as I was leaving for my thirty-second walk home, I confirmed with the ladies that we’re going out next month again for another birthday — this time, a 40th birthday party for a 50-year-old woman. If you’d made me guess, she wasn’t a day over 35.

Boy, I cannot wait.