How far do I have to go...

Sunday, April 29, 2007

Y esterday I went to my college’s Spring Fest. It wasn’t as much fun as I expected it to be - even with all the alcohol (only 3 beers and a cocktail- I was driving) I consumed - spring fest turned into a boring underage college dorm orgy.

The Pearl (ex girlfriend ) was there I was obliged to be nice and attempt to talk to her bimbo-ish brain. It was with great effort really. We stopped talking 2 weeks ago because of her ways to make me feel inferior to her. So 2 weeks ago, we were having a conversation about my neighbors’ Bentley which got flooded due to the Nor-Easter and she interrupted me and said “ Don’t you live in the ghetto? How can someone who lives next door to you have a Bentley?“ It really hit me in the heart because I knew that she wasn’t joking and because she thinks my parents are poor. The thing about her is that anyone who is financially below her is poor. Mind you, my parents are doctors - they drive nice cars and my house is nice. But because I live in NJ and I am approximately 10 minutes from the train I am considered poor. I was shocked that someone who supposedly loved me, who considered me one of her best friends and wants me to be part of her life but she treats me like shit - really. You might think the argument may be childish on my part but you really have to know her to understand where I am coming from. She is selfish and wants everyone to bow at her feet and follow her. What she doesn’t know is that no one listens to half the bullshit that comes out of her mouth.
As much as I shouldn’t be upset about it, it really hit home to me and so I decided to cut all ties with her. I have yet received an apology from her.

Back to the Spring Fest. I spent half my time debating whether I should leave or not. One-because the pearl was there and two - she was trying really hard to upset me by whoring herself out to some girl who had no interest in her and the worst thing is, the Pearl would never-in a million years talk to that poor girl. She was an easy target. I wasn’t upset that she was trying to hook up with my friend, I was upset that she was trying to get me to be mad. Well also- because she was whoring herself out to any poor straight girl I knew.

I am absolutely not a horrible ex-girlfriend. I don’t talk trash about them, I don’t treat them like they are nobody and I don’t act like I am better than them. There was a reason I went out with them and there was a reason the relationship ended. I don’t know if it is my personality or that’s the kind of person I am, or the fact that I am matured about situations like these or I am a genuine person.

Unfortunately, the Pearl brings the worst in me. She insults me in front of my friends and her friends and I just stand there - because there is one thing I learned in therapy and that is, controlling how I feel and not projecting hurtful feelings towards other people.

On my drive back home, all I kept thinking was how much I fucking hate the character she portrays to the outside world. I hate the way she talks to me, I hate the way she feels towards me and I hate the way she makes me feel afterwards.

All I really wanted to say to her was - “shut the fuck up, you selfish fucking bitch. No one is paying attention to your drunk ass, go home you slut.” I know it’s mean and this is why I would NEVER say it to her. But that’s how I feel.

She is the same girl who cheated on me three times - possibly more. I am the fucking idiot who runs back to her because she was my best friend before anything happened between us and I didn’t want to lose her.

And so now, she is no longer my friend.

This morning I woke up and noticed that she had called me twice.

Ignoring her and pretending she never existed is better than having to talk to her and hearing how selfish (along with a lot of other words) she really is.

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Alumni Magazine

Friday, April 27, 2007

T here is one thing that I enjoy getting in the mail these days besides coupons for my cigarettes, is my college magazine. It is where I have to read paragraphs after paragraphs about the graduates of the class of 2005 and the years and years below who are off doing spectacularly amazing things. I.e.: X '95 is currently Chief of Neurology at New York Presbyterian Hospital. X is currently engaged to Y (Yale '93) who is a lawyer at “idontgiveafuck”. Or to see who the hell is knocked up or dead.

I always proclaimed out loud, “what a total kiss ass bitch she/he is!!” within the first few pages. It is almost addictive as the New York Times Sunday wedding announcements. Yes – I do read them.

They probably email the alum office and say something like this:

“Good Evening/Morning Madam,

I would like to Announce to the Alumni Committee that I am chief of the neurology dept here at NYPH and I’ve graduated top of my class from Cornell with a quadruple-masters in blah blah blah and I’d like to be featured on your cover. Would you mind printing my name in bold – extra large Trebuchet MS and capitalize all letters in CHIEF OF NEUROLOGY DEPT AT NYPH? If I can be of any help during commencement, please do not hesitate to ring me. Thank you

Best,

Dr. Leslie B. DDS. RN. A.S.S. (Whatever they have after their names to sound smart)”

I’m sure the email is super long and describes whatever they do every day and probably embellish a whole lot to make it sound appealing to the future grads like they give a F**K.I have toyed with the idea of fucking with the editor of the magazine and pulling a sort of Romy and Michelle's by faking something totally outrageous. But since the editor is someone I interned for during my college years AND the school is Nun infested and I sure don’t want to be banished to hell. Well nevermind, since i'm already on my way there.

Yet secretly, despite my mockeries of the alumni magazine, I know I’ve yearned to see my name in the spotlight... but not for something lame.

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Facebook - ism

Wednesday, April 25, 2007

H i my name is NYC.Lezzie and I am a facebook addict.

I never imagined how much I loved facebook until I “mistakenly” deactivated my account and couldn’t get back on because I changed my email and whatever. It’s a long story. But I have time and I’m sure you do too. So here brace yourself. Since the gym addict (an ex) added me as her “in a relationship with …” I began to receive messages from my boarding school friends. And let me tell ya…they were not good messages. So to avoid all drama, I deactivated my account and now that the Gym Addict and I broke up, I signed back on and to my surprise her name was expunged. I am as out as Ellen D. but there are people from my past (boarding school rich fucks) whom I cannot disclose my sexual orientation to.

My addiction is there and it has resurfaced. I began to scrutinize through my friends to see who is dating whom, who is fucking whom, who is an alkie or who is a slut. To my findings, more people have become preggers and popped out babies like condoms/birth control never existed in America. Seriously, find some food wrap plastic thingy and wrap the ding dong to its fullest.

But anyway, pregnancy is an epidemic. Really. If one friend gets pregnant, all the other girlfriends get preggers. I’ve noticed that in a group of friends, the one person I thought would never get herself in that trouble because she was so smart and pretty and slim and now she’s a mother, not so pretty and she gain major major weight. The gaining weight part when carrying babies is one of the reasons why I do not want to be inseminated. I remember telling my mother– she was devastated, not only because I was 6 or 7 but also because she knew that no grandchildren would be coming out of my vag.

So it has been almost 5 months since I “accidentally” deactivated my account and 4 of my classmates have popped babies. I never noticed any of them were growing. Oh silly me. I should have known when I saw pictures of them.

Since I got my account back up yesterday, I have been stalking my friends’ profiles and sort of update myself on what they are doing with their lives (thus, no entry was written yesterday). Basically – who’s come out of the closet. So far- just one.

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Texting makes me happy

Monday, April 23, 2007

T exting early in the morning is great - espacially when it involves someone I am truly fond of - The Bestest

Me: We have a date at 6pm.
The Bestest: I broke up with you since friday
Me: I was busy
The Bestest: what don't you understand? I don't want you
Me: come on stop it, I'm on the transit, I don't want people to see me cry.
The Bestest: ok fine - I do feel bad for you. lol

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This Weekend's Debauchery

Friday, April 20, 2007

L ast night I attended a gallery opening of a family friend. Overall rating – 7. Is it so wrong of me to critique his art poorly? It isn’t my style but I like it a little bit. The reason really is not his art per se, but the curator itself. The canvases were not properly positioned and too much direct light affected some of the artwork.

I am always fashionably late at these kinds of events because I want people to see me when I walk in (it might be a Gemini thing) and I want the second rounds of fresh shrimp and cheese and other hors-d’oeuves. I feel as though, the first round is not so fresh because the waiters end up walking aimlessly around the gallery, trying to force feed some of the anorexic ladies and the second rounds means that – YES it is a mouth-watering and people want more.

I walked in, 30 minutes late and NO waiters, no bartenders – self-service. Who are they kidding? The cheap bastard told me that it wasn’t in the budget. Then I suggested next time he should get some of his students (He teaches art history at NYU) to do the work. I saw the entire gallery in less than 20 minutes. I was not impressed with the elephant head and the penises all over the painting. I will admit the cool thing about it was that you really had to look into the picture to see them- it was very graphic design[ish].

I left my parents there and met up with the architect for a quick happy hour. All I have to say is that it was quick. I was in bed 10p.

So this weekend I will be doing the following:

Friday – I want to stay low-key. A beer [or two] and a movie. I absolutely love Fridays because I like staying home and get my sleep on for Saturday nights.

Saturday – I am heading down to Sandy Hook with my dogs…they love going to the beach and in the evening I will be at several bars, no bars are confirmed. A little madness is planned. Trust me.

Sunday – Brunch with the Writer in Soho. Perhaps some window-shopping on 5th because I am too broke to even buy a key holder from Louis Vuitton.

It may not sound so eventful but between shopping and drinking I get tired. Don’t worry, I always make time for my yoga.

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Snob and Single??

Wednesday, April 18, 2007

T his past Saturday I decided to venture out to some wine and beer spots in the west village with the publicist. I know I know…she’s a crazy lady but there is something about her that just drives me crazy. It might be the italian in her. I don’t know.

Well, last night we were drinking wine and making out (somehow, wine and make-out sessions are steamy) and for some unknown, unconscious, uncontrollable, unfortunate reason, she blurted out "I love you." I flinched, but pretended not to hear. we finished the wine. The vibe was weird. She wanted to disappear. Well more like, I wanted to disappear. What a crazy fuck? What? I’ve gone out with her maybe 4 times…the lesbian joke with the uhaul truck holds some truth to it.

I mean, I've had passionate moments like that, where I'm like "don't say I love you, don't say I love you." But usually that means you don't say I love you. It just means that you are drunk off your ass and you are thinking with your lips rather than your brain. And so last night, I decided to meet up with the Model.

I was disappointed – he is a fun guy to hang with, but he only attracts men and whats the use? I thought hey…pretty model guy + pretty model ladies = me having lots and lots of fun.

Then an hour after the model and I got there, some broad brushed up against me and asked if she can buy me a drink. First it is always –always no possible way that some random blonde would just buy me a drink at a straight bar when she obviously has no idea that I like pretty little things. Unless she wanted a threesome. Hey she did make out with the Model. Since the Model was busy, I looked around for my own prey. I stumbled upon this actress (UNEMPLOYED) who happened to be jobless but was at the bar with a couple of her friends (lezzies) and I quickly said buh bye to the Model and made myself available. I am like a Lezzie Magnet I tell ya.

Later on my evening, the one girl that I thought was the carbon copy of a young J. Biel dissapointed me with some heartbreaking news. Wait, I am NOT a snob and can say from the heart that a woman’s job, wallet size or social status does not impress me (ok sometimes). But I'm also a girl who knows that there's nothing worse than being with a lazy woman....or a mooch! And she unashamedly admitted that she was both! That was a stab in the heart – I kid you not. She is under "mooch" on my Bberry.

But I feel like I'm being shallow. My philosophy has always been Live and let live. So why am I not giving this girl a chance, right? I always admire those who live on just nothing and they always seem happier without the hectic New Yorker life.

I know it sounds like my life is a little girl crazy, but isn't that what being single is all about? Taste a little of this, a little of that? Sometimes though, I wonder if my mind is not all over the New York City with this one and that one maybe I’m not built to be in a relationship or maybe I just need to focus and stay focused.

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El Therapist

Tuesday, April 17, 2007

A bout a month ago I went to see a therapist. Don’t judge me. Now, I don’t mock people who seek help or the session itself. I haven’t gone to see a therapist since College – long story short, someone made me go, she thought I needed to let things air out. These days, therapy is a la mode. Everyone sees one – at least once. Don’t deny. But I thought, after college I didn’t think I needed professional help to analyze my drama. Usually I am pretty self-aware and usually work out my own shit on my own. Any therapist would say that is the worst thing you can possibly do.

But Lately, I started to suspect that things in my past might be affecting me in a calculated field of my life. AND since I had recently done my benefits for the new year and noticed that I am covered for X amount of visits at a therapist or psychologist ( I wouldn’t go there- it would really mean I have issues) I jumped on the therapist wagon and opt for a session with an Upper West Side therapist. I’ll call her D.

Dr. D's office seemed like any good ole apartment in Manhattan…a little crowded, a little stuffy; book shelves everywhere and no pictures. As soon as I sat down, she said to talk. So I go on and tell her about my concern and that it may affect my daily routines. I talked and analyzed my own shit, I basically did her work, but I am sure all therapy sessions are like that. More like… “Hey, talk, you are the idiot for sitting here and spending 500 bucks an hour when you obviously know where your problems are coming from”.

The hour went by rather quickly. She fired lots of questions and I utterly responded with pure honesty. There were moments though where we would stare at each other. Awkward moments.

As soon as our chitchat time was up she asked if I wanted to come back and I said, “should I come back? Are you telling me something here?” and she replied “no no no” and so I got up and said, “ok then, I think I am done here”.

The good thing about this little therapy trip is that I found out that I am not a crazy fuck and trust me it was a big load off my shoulders. So I should take the time and thank Dr. D.

Thank you, Dr. D.

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Gender Tags


H as anyone seen last Thursday edition of the Village Voice? Check it here

Before I even start with this one, I want everyone to know that I am NOT and I repeat am absolutely NOT against butch, bois, studs and whatever Lezzies want to be called these days. I support my plethora of dykes in every sense of the word and stand firm on my feet when they are mistreated/misunderstood by our society and unfortunately the media.

Phewww, I got this over with it. So now – the article.

In a nutshell: lezzies these days (based on the article - African Americans and Latinas) idolize big time rappers/gangsters and take into the fondness of that genre and thus, society labels them as these hardcore butch lesbians who fight, hustle and even die for the sake of being appreciated by 1) female companions/lovers and 2) the notorious street male thugs.

They go as far as a complete body image switch – their attire, their body/language. Often they are mistaken for men and some of them don’t mind it. I suppose what they chose to achieve is not only self-acceptance but also approval from society.

Hey, I am no lezzie expert and won’t pretend that I am either. As a femme lezzie, I never found an attraction to the butch ladies. To be honest, I love women. I love the way they feel, the way they look, the way they touch, their femininity. I love a woman who looks like a woman not a woman who thinks/dresses, talks/walks and breathes the male species. No offense to my male species- I fully respect the gender and like them, especially when the majority of my friends are male and are the sweetest guys on earth. But I don’t do the schlong unless it is from Babeland.

I can’t dictate what is right or what is wrong here. But I wonder if they can do some sort of study to show butch/dykes/bois in a corporate setting – outside of GLBT communities. That my friends, I would like to read about. I know it would be discrimination if a company doesn’t hire someone because of the way look but society is so blinded by the norms of Corporate America.

Another thing, I am deeply offended by some of the comments butch lezzies put out there to somehow demean the lezzie community. Hello, may I remind you that you do have a vagina and tits?

I want to know why certain skirt chasers love the macho – masculinity persona and others like myself embrace femininity?

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Letter to the Nor'easter Creator

Monday, April 16, 2007

D ear Mr. Rainmaker,

I really hate to bother you with this but I am having an extremely bad hair day due to the hurricane-Like rainfall as well as your strong wind. My hair was as perfect as it can be on a Monday morning minus the rushed hair bun but essentially cute and appropriate for a stormy weather. Alas, my hair is as repulsively ugly as a wet cat. Oh speaking of wet cat. I am soaked to my underwear. THANK YOU.

Besides that, my outfit today, complimented the weather: Jeans, Raincoat, 65 dollars rain boots, which by the way, didn’t do any justice to my jeans since the rain penetrated the boots through the top where there was a slight opening between my shins and the boots and thus resulted in having wet socks, wet jeans, wet raincoat and a broken umbrella. It was a bummer. I shall now spend another 10 dollars on an umbrella. I refuse to pay more than that because I actually believe that you do this on purpose. Do you find any satisfaction in us spending money on umbrellas?

I know you created the Nor’easter and I am not too sure if you may be mad at the environment, us perhaps? You tell me. I am sorry I burn so much electricity, I am sorry I take advantage to the nice weather and cook barbecues and light bonfires. I am truly sorry the ozone layer is as thin as an aluminum foil sheet, and everything is melting and species are becoming extinct, but really, I am sorry.

Would you mind if I ask you one more question? I guess not. But anyway, do you ever care about the damage that you may cause with your strong winds and your rain falling? This morning I woke up to find no electricity in the entire house, my basement was inundated, somehow my car got flooded. I had to call the special vacuum people to come and suck all the water that you purposely threw at us. Also, thanks to you, the NJ transit does not operate if there are strong winds and rainfalls. My commute to work was long, I felt like crying the entire hour and a half I waited patiently for the train and I am really disappointed in you. Really. I am.

If you find this letter safe and dry, I hope you take into consideration that I, and I am pretty sure the entire coastal area of NY and NJ are as disappointed as I am at you.

Perhaps you should consider taming your winds and absolutely change your rainfall from hurricane status to something more prissy- like rain showers and I’d also settle for a gentle breeze instead of that tornado wind you had the past two days. That way, I wouldn't have to swim to work and I can look somewhat dazzling and not have to worry about looking like I just came back from a fishing trip.

With great sincerity,

C. - A New Jersey Resident.

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The Bestest

Thursday, April 12, 2007

I usually take advantage of my boss’ outings to call the bestest. Usually the conversations we have are not appropriate for Corporate America – its sometimes “so why don’t you give a blow, he wont be mad at you anymore” and today, I kept insisting that my cheeks hurt and it somehow got to a sex convo and actually I had to remind her sometimes (for a first timer) when performing oral sex, your mouth can hurt. She's a hetero, she should have understood- but she didnt.

Just picture me in the office, my door open and people are walking by and listening to my conversation.

I absolutely love talking to the bestest. Our relationship is odd. We have 6pm phone dates and I get mad when she doesn’t pick up the phone which leads to nasty homo voicemails “where the fuck are you…blah blah blah…I need you”

The bestest is my future roommate – she is probably the only person I can deal with and talk to about anything and she wouldn’t mind if I forced her to watch reruns of the Lword with me. She doesn’t know it yet. But she will sit on the couch and cry with me when I watch the scene where Dana is in the hospital dying.

I called her up today and asked her the usual Q&A…how’s everything, the boy and the sex and well you know…everything. After a while I asked about her living situation and she burst out “ I’m like Dora the explorer”. I thought it was the most amusing thing I’ve ever heard. 1) She is the whitest girl from Staten Island and 2) Dora is Mexican/Spanish/Puerto Rican – I don’t know. All I know is that she pulls out the spanglish out of her ass and expect tiny rugrats to learn Spanish. Maybe it works. Anyway, The bestest went on with her story about Dora and how her living situation is part-time day care and part-time living space (her mom owns a daycare) and so when she comes home drunk she has to deal with the cartoons on the walls and the toys everywhere, but most importantly the fake oven (remember those?)

The poor girl tried cooking eggs in it while she was highly intoxicated.

There are very few people on the earth that can get me going so wildly and so outrageously that I literally clutch my eye and fall head first off the edge of my bed, phone in hand, and face in carpet - that's her.

She always makes my afternoons brighter. Te quierro!

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Just say NO

E ver get weird voicemails from someone you met at the bar a couple of weeks ago? Okay, probably not. This is from the publicist – met her at Black Finn, straight, cute, writer on the side, Italian or Jewish (not too sure) and has a killer bod. Let me tell you, I hung out with her maybe three times and the make out sessions was like porn star sex. Amazing. But she creeps me out with her voicemails. Here is the latest:

"Listen, this is just like you ya know. We meet up, we fuck, you ditch me and call outta fucking nowhere [using her best impressions of the drunk me] – hey fucker I wanna hang. So I call you back ya know and I a fucking douche cause I call you all the time and then leaving messages…you don’t fucking call me back, you act like I have a fucking STD. you douche me over and we don’t ever hang out…Stop giving me the shaft ya know. So anyway… Bye. Call me”

So my caller ID for the Publicist immediately switched to “NO”. That way when she calls, I just say “no”.

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Am I too Old?

Wednesday, April 11, 2007

B eing the Sex and The City addict that I am, I can recite episodes after episodes, tell you what Carrie was wearing when and where, who Samantha was fucking, who Miranda was fighting with and how Charlotte decorated her apartment. I am THAT good. I’m sure you’ve seen a couple of the episodes yourself. Remember the episode where the girls headed to Connecticut for a baby shower? Once they arrived, they felt uncomfortable, the little talks, babies crawling everywhere, baby gears in boxes with ribbons of every color of the rainbow, little finger food to munch on. Okay, the first time I saw the episode I was in college and none of my friends had babies – yet. So I thought, “it can’t be that bad…right?”

About 6 months ago, I received an invitation for a friend’s baby shower – sealed in a cute blue envelope and there is this lullaby tune once you open it. Really cute. I don’t even know why they send invitations months ahead but anyway all my perception of baby showers changed. Imagine this, you had to RSVP. Seriously, how many people were they expecting?

My really good friend J. from boarding school lives in Bergen – husband in tow, white picket fence, huge colonial house, two dogs and nice cars. He’s a lawyer and she’s a stay at home/daycare teacher/first grade – I don’t know really. All I know is that we have strikingly different lives. Lets compare:

She’s a teacher of some sort and she lives in suburbia like the Desperate Housewives. I work in magazine publishing and I write. I’ve slept with [exclude number] of women and she’s married to the only person she slept with. She’s a crazy conservative Catholic. And well…I’m just a liberal lezzie. But she will always be a part of my life – we survived boarding together. But we’ve drifted a lot and occasionally talk on the phone. I just don’t think we will be able to relate to one another until I eventually have milk in my breast and ready to pop my third kid.

When I stepped into the foyer, I just knew I didn’t belong there. I am pretty sure I had the same “what the fuck am I doing here” look Carrie had when she went to the party. I thought a pretty Lacy black dress was appropriate baby shower attire – vomit and spit proof. but I was wrong. I looked more like the entertainment of the party – sort of like the stripper guys hire for parties not the girl who bought the bibs and matching bottles with the days of the week engraved in them.

I was ready to head back out when someone came running cheerfully with a giant smile on their face and welcoming me to J’s baby shower. I wonder how teachers are so happy all the time? I dragged my foot and managed to walk to the living room where balloons hung from the ceiling and finger foods were everywhere, children screaming and crying for their mothers and J. sitting looking more gorgeous then the last time I saw her. I felt awkward – all eyes on the girl who wore the black dress with heels instead of wearing loafers and elastic waist pants.

I spent the entire 6 hours glued to a chair saying Ooohs and Aaaaahs at the slightest sight of pajamas and cute little tees and socks. Her friends by the way, are all married, teachers, pregnant or already have children and are on their second or third and all look a-like. I felt out of place. More like Julia Robers in Pretty Woman when she went shopping in her stripper-ish outfit. I made a couple of jokes here and there, told them about my plans for the book, you know, my trademark. I wanted to make them as uncomfortable as I was and also to prove that – YES, I am happy being not married and no poop diapers to change every minute of the day. Of course to them, anyone outside of suburbia is completely insane, naive (for not having kids and a husband) and overly self-absorbed.

I always pictured myself married by uhhh…35 and children a year later. Everyone knows I love kids. Absolutely love them. Being at that shower made me realize that there is a world outside of the city, suburbia isn’t bad, having someone to come home to or vice versa (for those power hungry women) and having children running around, screaming and laughing, but most importantly, hearing them say I love you when you tuck them into bed at night is something worth knowing and fulfilling. What is better than that?

It was almost 7p and I wanted to get home and this really attractive teacher came up to me and asked about my writing and you could just tell that she envied my life – you know the one where I work like a slave, attend black tie parties and basically have a night life. It is exciting. Really.

They always say the grass is greener on the other side. I had my glimpse of suburbia life and I am not too sure if that life is for me yet. Perhaps in the future.

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TLC Life Lessons

Monday, April 9, 2007

S ince I am pretty much stuck in front of the tv when I come home from my escapades I immediately turn on TLC. Its my “ok to be lame, just watch the 700lbs man and feel better about my life” And ever so often I stumbled upon the TLC’s Life Lessons. They are pretty funny but they make you wonder about your potentials to become one of those statues they have, which you can order over the phone.

My favorite besides the cat lady is the “Merlot and emails don’t mix”. It basically sums up my life. I drink and I pull the blackberry and start to email (because my ride home takes forever, I have to entertain myself in some ways) but for some reason I always delete the email before I send them. Secret #1 – its always to the same person. No its not the writer. But it is someone I care deeply about. I am not too sure if she reads this or one of her spies read my stuff and report it back to her (although, I wouldn’t care, since I do want her to read them and see that “hey, I am not so much of a bad person that she thinks I am” – right?) But anyway, the emails sometimes go like this :

“I miss you….I miss being part of your life…I miss talking…I miss you…blah blah
blah” – simple, it’s a whole lot of I miss yous.

Or they go like this:

“I wish you werent with that whore who stole you from me, I fucking hate the whole thing, I fucking hate this. Don’t you see what the hell is going on? no im not fucking crazy I just cant understand why it happened”


Let me just say that if I ever pressed the tiny scroller and send any of these emails to her, I would be in a lot of problems. Actually, she’d probably think that I am crazy and that I need to get over her, which, truthfully I did but I wanted our last night to have been a little hott instead of tears. I should have just gone for the “last sex together, forever”.

Now I really wonder if she is reading.


So going back to my Merlot and the emails. Just after New Years, I had gone out with the architect to a hot spot down in the west village. Good food, good drink specials and 8 martinis later, I was home on the computer emailing her. Of course, it was never sent due to my lack of confidence (nowadays, she intimidates me- which makes the situations sexier) and fear of rejection (again from her). So I avoided the send button and instead saved it as a draft.


[Person’s name]

Better than chocolate, Milicent, 304, tennis matches, icy hot, whales, winter break, peanut butter and jelly crackers, Chesapeake Bay, paintings, thai, cookie cake, beach, bikes, nude, blackout, pesto sauce, tunnel, stick shift, dyke m., pride, Hens, Fridays at 12, movies, palisades, haircuts, puppies, soccer, strength, legs, neck, back, valentine’s day.

Remember me?


You see what Merlot does to you? And so I dare not send it. I guess like the first email I sent her 2 years ago about us being friends and her shutting me with a reply “we cant.” And including a whole Webster dictionary definition of the word friend, I think if I did send this over, it would be “fuck off” and a whole Webster dictionary definition of the word loser. I don’t think I can take anymore of it.

Plus, I don’t think I want her to know that I think about her from time to time or that I actually write letters and can’t send them for numerous reasons. I am pretty darn sure I don’t cross her mind or else she would have offered to grab a drink with me – her girlfriend could have joined. Oh yes, she has a girlfriend. I failed to mention it. Sorry.

It’s been a long time since I last saw her and the last time I did see her, we both ignored each other. I was probably intoxicated and she was definitely sober. The conversation wouldn’t have gone really far.

Me – “hey, what’s up? Still with the so called dyke?”

Her – walking away and pretending she didn’t hear me.

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Crushing it or Loving it?

I usually don’t do the whole crushing thing. It is so passé in my book. But something changed with the writer. I don’t know. For the past weeks or so, I’ve been getting the sweaty hands, the butterflies in my stomach, the occasional blushing when her name pops up, the smiling and the giggling just for the sake of hearing her voice. Anyway, the other day, she stepped really close, making it difficult for me to breathe. I think I did that thing where I look up through my eyelashes and ducked inside. How embarrassing.

Anyhow, Thursday I met up with the writer. She is the most stunning woman I know within my bunch of friends and she always looks good when we go out, she can wear a plain tee and it would look amazing on her. Maybe if I grow a pair I would essentially be able to talk to her about it.We went to dinner at Sushi Samba and the food was delicious – as always. But sadly, despite my best efforts to stay focus on the dinner and conversations, my mind was so not focused. The chemistry we share is fucking irrefutable. I am sure she feels the same way. Or maybe I keep telling myself that. I can just say that 20 minutes into dinner and my goal of keeping this thing on the tame side had disappeared.I kid you not, every time we meet for dinner and drinks I always have to remind myself to “Go with the flow and have fun”. Sounds simple to you, but to me it’s probably the hardest thing to do when I am sitting in front of her and trying to have a decent conversation without thinking about sleeping with her. Shit I just said it AND I thought about it.

For those who know me, you will agree that one of my personality trait is that I am bold I think the shy me disappeared that night and the bold, fearless feline that I am, took over. She invited me back to her place. She always does that. She knows she is torturing me and she probably enjoys every minute of it. The make-out session started on the couch (It isn’t the first time). She is a great kisser and she figured out pretty quickly I liked to be kissed on my neck.

I am a good girl, really I am. I convinced her that we should stop since we are both really good friends and probably are too drunk to do what we envisioned would happen. She agreed. We went to the kitchen to grab some wine and (blush) she pretty much puts me on the counter. I couldn't let that go on for long because it was too hott and would have went south fast....The writer is a friend and as much as I want her (oh I do), I couldn’t do the one night stand and be totally strangers the next day. I slept in her bed that night and nothing happened – just a few heart palpitions everytime she’d roll over and her hands gently caressed my back.I went home the next morning and acted as if I couldn’t remember the night due to too much of Mr. Budweiser and Madame Pinot. She broke the ice though later on that day with a sweet voicemail ( I wouldn’t pick up the phone):

The writer:

"Hey its me, I guess you forgot my number already, or was it the awkwardness you were talking about last night when you decided that south was not the way but north is a lot colder and better for the both of us. Mr. Bud and Madame Pinot would like to know if you’d join me for dinner next week. Let me know. Bisous.

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Second Chances

Friday, April 6, 2007

I believe in second chances when it comes to relationships. BUT and that’s a huge but. I guess it depends on the situation that you are both in or actually, where you left off. Like a lot of people I know who have been on breaks and have gotten back together and gone on breaks again and eventually broke up.

In my case though, when I was in a position (at the time) where I felt I needed a second chance. Well I should really say a “third chance”. I could have sworn we would have ended up back together, because what I thought we shared was priceless. I will admit also that I the time we were dating, I was overprotective and a jealous freak. It was all new to me. I’m sure you all have experienced a time when you were in a real long-term relationship and all that mattered was your significant other. It was me. I was scared, nervous but overall excited to have found the other half of my heart. Besides the fights (which we did a lot, because of my insecurities) there were times when I felt complete and that person understood me. I could have done something horribly wrong, and she would still stand by me; not that I have done anything remotely absurd but I knew in my heart that she would be there for me.

I was wrong the entire time though. A little birdie told me the truth which was that she knew the relationship we had was not going to last and had to do something about it and it totally wasn’t what we all thought sparked the break up. I was not perfect, I did a lot of things that I regret, but if I knew that things were going sour because the chemistry was no longer there I wouldn’t have invested my time and spilled my heart out to her. I was in denial I guess. But who wouldn’t be. I knew she still loved me and I am sure it was as hard for her to let me go as it was for me to forgive myself and move on.

One weekend, I spent the majority of my time in bed – fighting my bronchitis. I had the opportunity to re-read some of my entries from a dark time of my life (for those who were there, reading my blogs and possibly thought I was a lunatic but still stood by- thank you) and I couldn’t help but visually return to that time where nothing seemed bright and everything was cold and dark. And I said, “You got over her, THANK God”. I had to remind myself that I did because at the time, I thought my world was chaotic, nothing mattered and happiness was over-rated. “Forget the re-occurring dreams these past few weeks, it might just means that I am wondering what is happening.” It is completely harmless.

I don’t blame anyone for what happened. Not even myself. I have passed that stage where everything fell on my shoulders. “I could have done this or I could have done that – to save my relationship” but the time came. It was her time to end it because of her own reasons. Everything happens for a reason. She fell in love, moved on and what I wanted most for her – happiness. And as for me, I am stuck in the revolving doors – relationship, single-hood, happiness and relationship, single-hood and happiness. Not complaining. Why should I right? I got a taste of both worlds and I get a chance to write about my disasters. It’s amusing.

Second chances are meant to be looked at deeply. In some cases it works and in other cases it becomes a revolving door, which you cannot stop spinning.

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American Idol and SanHairdo

Thursday, April 5, 2007

A s eventful as I wanted my night to be, I was stuck well rather glued to my TV watching American Idol. I have this obsession with AI. I really can’t explain it. Last night, a tear ran down my face when Gina’s name was called. Ok I am only kidding here. I was upset though. SanHairdo should have been eliminated because 1. He is a fucking idiot and a cocky queen, 2. He probably spends more time doing his hair; he should spend that time rehearsing the songs he chose to sing, 3. He reminds me of Mogley, (spell-check) the little Indian jungle boy, and finally 4. He actually thinks he belongs there. I think every week he is getting cockier. Is that even possible? Really get a grip!



I really think his sister should have gotten another chance to showcase her breast on National TV.



But anyway, A lot of people are losing a chance to thrive in the music industry because some 12 year old girls/boys and even vote4theworse followers dialing in and supporting this atrocious singer. Don’t get me wrong here, he has a cute voice a la Michael Jackson, but I don’t think he belongs in the top finalist.



SanHairdo – man up or at least try and impress the judges or me for once. You can do it! Good boy!!!!

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Remember M.A.S.H.?

Wednesday, April 4, 2007

G rowing up I always had the respect every little girls should have for the game of MASH. It foretold my life story according to what number I chose and revealed my extraordinary fortune.

“ When I grow up I will live in a mansion, with a fabulous husband (I was only 7) with a name starting with the letter A., have 3 children and finally drive a luxurious SUV. ”

With the forthcoming years, the game of MASH became my sanctuary. No longer will it be a husband but rather a wife. I was 14 and heading to my tennis camp during my summers and my nights were spent on the floor playing MASH with the other camp girls. Having to deal with the fact that I knew I wasn’t into boys but rather into girls, MASH played a huge role in serving my imagination with constant reminder of My husband, the 3 kids and the SUV and lets not forget the Mansion.

Having that unvarying keepsake was satisfying but accepting reality was harsher in the sense that MASH was no longer my escape. So not too long ago, I ripped a piece of paper from my notebook and wrote a new version of M.A.S.H.

Categories:
Name
Type of House
Type of Car
Children
Pets
Career
Location

I will not disclose the names for the sake of not embarrassing myself or I suppose, the people I chose. Yikes! If they only knew.

I crossed my fingers like I did when I was a kid and my sister drew the spiral. I called 7.

My Answers: [name withheld], Apt, BMW truck, 3 kids, Bulldog, Writer, NYC

Very ironic. As pleased as I should have been, I still felt like I was dependent on MASH to make good predictions.

One thing is for sure: I want to be a trophy wife, go to museums on a lazy Sunday, listen to Opera and watch Ballet, attend benefit parties and have lunch and dinner dates with the other trophy wives, cheer for my children’s teams and be a great wife along with being a writer for Time or The New Yorker. I am not too sure how it will all fit together. I don’t care. I want it all.

Although these days I am not a big fan of predictions and of MASH, I am still a firm believer of finding love and being happy with what you have. And all I have is a dead end job with a cubicle facing Central Park, no love and amazing imagination of what my future may be.

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Peeks and Pokes and then some...

Tuesday, April 3, 2007

L ast night I ended up going home instead of going out to happy hour with the ladies. I was tired. I was drugged up on pills. No no… just tylenol PM pills. I figured I should just take them and head straight to bed – it worked.

Before I went to bed though, I check the blackberry for some last emails from work and to do some updating with my files. I stumbled upon an email from match.com. Let me tell you, after all these years (almost 3 now) I am still getting “my matches" in my inbox. It’s sort of a reminder that I am getting old and I am single and there are lots of decent (to my standards) looking people out there. So I should swim away and find me a pretty little fish in this big ocean.

To be honest, I met some of my really great friends online and so I hardly reject the “peeks” or “pokes” whatever Match.com does. I’m sure it’s one of those. So I was poked or someone peeked at my profile and as I am so adventurous (cough) I clicked and checked her out. Holy shit, I was on my (work) blackberry. I wonder if they have a way to check my online (naughty) activities. Hmm…

I absolutely dislike bitter people online. One of my biggest pet peeves are some of the lines they chose to write like “drama queens, needy chicks and complicated people need not apply, absolutely no baggage” always blew my mind. “Complicated people need not apply”? FYI, everyone is complicated, everyone has a little bit of baggage they are dragging and everyone (girls) are drama queens at least one day/week of every month.

Something else that bothers/ exasperates the fuck out of me (depending on my frame of mind) about online profiles? It’s how everyone seems to ride their bikes in Central Park, watch Indie movies, make Indie movies, go to benefit concerts, yoga or some shit, read all the books on the New York Times bestseller list (ok, I do), run marathons AND still enjoy their jobs as if you would score some extra points on the next potential peekers /pokers? I mean, it’s strenuous just reading about what busy lives they lead, not to mention quite intimidating – I just go to work and then happy hour and then some. I swear, if I ever see a profile where a girl says “I do nothing, really- some TV, some boozing with friends, some skimming /flagging of magazines, but mostly I just sit on the couch and do nothing”, I’ll fall in love in a second… That’s being honest. Telling me that you climbed Mount Everest is not getting you to third base darling, okay maybe up to second.

And because I don’t procrastinate my time with my Match account, I end up writing bad reviews on people’s Match profile. I should be a professional online dating website writer person. That’s what I do all day and apparently all-night. I read profiles and critique to the max. That’s a fabulous life.

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Weekend Madness

Monday, April 2, 2007


I have been nursing a hangover since Friday. I know, its three days and trust me, its possible. It only means that I drank too much all weekend long. I had valid reasons to go out and party like its 2003 – for any lezies or heteros who don’t recall the most important event in the NCAA Wball , well lets just say Uconn vs. Tennessee March madness finals. And since, well…March ended and March Madness is coming to an end with only one final game to play (tomorrow night) I thought, hey why not celebrate an early victory. But that wasn’t my only reason. I have quite a few. Ok not really. As I am typing this I am trying to formulate other reasons for my drinking behavior. Chances are, I don’t have any.

Being the lady that I am, I decided to do a ladies night on Friday. I met with the writer and a couple of other beautiful ladies for some martinis at a bar downtown. We arrived at 7 and didn’t leave until wayyyy after. I actually don’t know what time we all left.

Around 10ish the bar turned into a nightclub, complete with a DJ who spun some hit songs from the 80s. I am a sucker for dance music, so I head to the bar and grab another round of martinis. As I made my way down to the dance floor, someone pulled me to the side and asked to dance. I never refuse, so I kindly said yes. I am not stupid and any other girl in the bar were like eagles looking for their targets – very good looking man, very nicely dressed and who is willing to pay for your tab. His name was Jonathan and he’s an actor (I’ve never seen him on tv, so he isn’t big – that was a bummer). So the actor bought my next drink and every time my tongue was searching for that last bit of flavorful apple martini drop, I was handed another glass. The drinks were coming in faster, as they always do once I’m drunk and sipping is no longer part of my vocabulary but chugging is a better term to describe my unladylike behavior.

I am very flirtatious. I wont deny that. I don’t care if I am flirting with a man or a woman – it will happen regardless. It doesn’t make me any less gay than I am. I am as gay as they come.

Following our exertions on the dance floor, I grabbed the writer (she was busy lip locking but I didn’t care) and headed outside for a smoke. We bummed a cigarette from a guy since we are both drunk off our asses and completely forgot our stogies inside. In my drunken haze, I thought it was Brad Pitt. I kept asking for Angelina Jolie and if she would like to sleep with me. He said no. the asshole played along and it made the situation even funnier.

I honestly can't tell you what happened after since I don’t recall how I got home and if I even made out with the actor or the writer. I don’t know.

I woke up Saturday to a text from the writer: “you are amazing!”

I smiled, turned over and puked.

I finally woke up around 2pm and decided to shower and head out for a little pre-gaming for the NCAA tournament that night. It wasn’t a smart move. And I’ll leave it as that.

So overall, hungover or not I am still 800 bucks richer than I was. So that will be another good reason to go out and celebrate.

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