Confessions.of.a.NYC.Lezie

It took a really rough night last week with a lot of bad decisions involved (the first of many being drinking on antibiotics) to make me stop for a second and think about the amount of alcohol I consume on a weekly basis.I soon realized I’d never thought about this before because it’s too terrifying to contemplate. It’s one of my mind’s “don’t go there topics” along with my parents weird love affair, Requiem for a Dream’s ending, and visuals of live snakes crawling up my leg.

The culprit in this drinking frenzy?
The bottle service system.
More specifically, the free, promotional bottle system.

We’ve been preprogrammed not to be wasteful. Wasting is bad. It contributes to the polar ice cap melt and makes Al Gore lose precious hours of sleep. This mentality has somehow crossed over to unfinished Ciroc vodka and half empty bottles of bubbly. If it’s there, you drink it. Hell, we’ve all seen the 4 A.M. classic ‘waste-not’ move of men passing around liquor bottles and depositing the contents directly down their throat. Belvedere? A baby bottle? They’re essentially the same thing. Watch ‘em slurp it down.

I’ll be the first to admit I’m a champagne-whore. And if people are mixing vodka drinks, I’ll inhale whatever is handed to me through six of those little straws. I think the last time someone asked me my mixer preference, “orange or cranberry?” I shrugged with a sad smile and responded, “like it matters.” After four plus years of passively accepting and consuming drinks, I’m beginning to realize that there might be a mini problem here.I haven’t fully formulated my exact thoughts on the topic yet. As an experiment however, when I went out yesterday, I didn’t drink.

OK, lies.

I had two beers. But we all know that beer’s like alcoholic water, and only two from 11:30 P.M. to 2:30 A.M.? I was a sober chick. And you know what? I still had fun. Perhaps I didn’t feel like as much of a superstar as I do after seven champagnes, and perhaps Bob Sinclair didn’t make me as outrageously happy as he does when vodka’s swirling around in my brain, but I had some good, old-fashion fun. I danced. I talked. I knew what people looked like. I even felt like I was part of some conspiratory secret club: ‘the sober ones.’ Watching the retards jumping around like orangutans off-beat to Timbaland was both amusing and humiliating. Amusing because they looked like they needed leashes, and humiliating because I’m sure I’m usually one of them.


And my sobriety didn’t go unnoticed.“Why aren’t you drinking?” I got asked repeatedly from table managers.It wasn’t until then that I realized when I’m out, I ALWAYS have a drink in my hand. There’s photo proof of this. I almost had to re-teach myself how to dance not having a drink in my hand. It was that big a shock. My body balance was off. So much so that after I was tired of getting harassed, I poured myself a cup of cranberry just to fit in. And as I swooped down to get my juice I caught site of our three-quarters full Grey Goose bottle and the ‘waste not’ mentality started to creep over me.I fought off the temptation, kept my resolve, and it was an interesting experiment.

Best perk: the next morning I felt fabulous instead of an extra from the Planet of the Apes movie.

Sometimes, sobriety can pay off.

A couple of months ago – soon after I broke up with The Gym Addict, I had a one night stand with a girl I’ll call Annoying. It happened back in January on a cold winter evening in Midtown, when I met some friends for dinner and drinks and she was part of that group.

When you look at her, she is absolutely stunning. She has this really really strong Italian Accent, about my height and beautiful with long dark hair and eyes the color of a gorgeous summer sky and a smile that can melt you instantly.

But, she’s so fucking annoying. Sort of like a bird that wouldn’t shut up and it just kept chirping and chirping and all you wanted to do was to shut it. Well, that was her. That night while heading uptown to her place, I found myself wondering what on earth I was doing. Something about her mannerisms and what she talked about and how she actually spoke just grated on my nerves. Alas, I had just broken up with The Gym Addict and was kind of in my I’m free again period. I was just having fun.

I think I am pretty much a really good person to get along with. I also like different kinds of people, that’s why I have a plethora of friends. I have my sports friends, my drinking buddies, and college folks, work peeps and people I truly enjoy talking to about anything. The big plus too is that I enjoy having gorgeous ladies around me. But this girl? Just irritating in every way possible. It's unfortunate, really.

This past Monday evening, after spending hours at the office, and out of the blue, Annoying called me. I looked at my phone and just wondered what she wanted – sex, alcohol, my office…

She wanted to grab a drink at my favorite bar on 8th avenue.

It wasn’t until I went to meet her in the lobby that it all rushed back to me that I hated this woman’s company. It was already 7pm on a Monday night. And I had to go to work the next morning. Not all of us are fortunate enough to be freelancers.

So I looked at her and she knew that I changed my mind. But she had those piercing blue eyes that got me. They got me good. They got me to sit at a bar and eating calamari and drinking mojitos. The clock was ticking, and I was getting more annoyed at her. She wanted to discuss our one night stand from last year in excruciating detail. And then she started to tell me about other encounters that she’s had, in an equally graphic way. And then I felt a hand on my knee. And then she was asking me if I wanted to come back to her place.

I was polite. I said no. Paid for the bill and called her a cab. And I could see that she was kind of disappointed. She obviously wanted to have sex with somebody.

But it wasn’t going to be me.

PS: Tomorrow's post should be super exciting - tonight is my company's website re-launch party. and guess who will be attending?? The Model.

Stay Tunned.

Have you heard of Tavern on the Green? How about their famous Halloween parties? Well that’s where I was. Halloween is a holiday that I love very much and since I know a lot of PR people/club promoters, I know that Halloween is a great excuse for them to financially ass rape the NY population with an extra thrust by charging $50 entrance fees, justified by the concept of a “Halloween Party”.

And clubs aren’t the only ones cleverly commercializing on Halloween’s easily exploitive nature. Costume shops somehow convince normally savvy Manhattanites to shell out a hundred bucks for a disintegrating cliché costume in a plastic bag that cost $2.50 to produce in China or India.

I’m being the textbook definition of a party pooper, I know. And I apologize. Anyone who follows this blog knows hating on an excuse to party isn’t my nature. But I spent a wretched twenty minutes competing with sluts, Ghost Busters, and a lot of slutty outfits (ref, genie, cop, wonderwoman) for a cab home Saturday evening on Seventh Avenue after I prematurely aborted my evening plans. The city was that overcrowded. I wasn’t drunk, and an especially disorganized trip to a stupid opening night at a restaurant led to a hit and run (drunk driver speeding and went in my dad’s new 2008 BMW) on Friday night had cut into my quality weekend costume planning time, which I wasn’t looking forward to anyway. Sober in a sweater and jeans isn’t really the best way to crash a Halloween party, especially when you’re still upset about the asshole who crashed into your car.

I enjoyed an especially leisurely dinner with The Writer Saturday night, so we didn’t even get to Tavern on the Green until around midnight. It was clear from twenty yards away that entering the establishment was a lost cause. Lines branched off in two directions outside the entrance, both so long and winding that they were difficult to follow even while squinting. Mobs larger than anything I’ve seen on 27th street launched themselves through the middle.Who were all these people?

Another disturbing thing about Holidays…those who consistently stay home on a Saturday night come out for the ‘special occasion’ of Halloween. The city becomes disproportionately packed! The entire party-going system is clogged with outsiders. Which is fine. I have nothing against non-religious-party-goers, although I wish they’d try harder to not get so ripped off.In order to even out the New York going-out equilibrium, I feel the regulars like me need to stay in. That’s why I was home by 3 a.m. The Writer and I took one look at the throngs outside Tavern, calculated that everyone lucky enough to negotiate a successful entrance would be coughing up $40-ish for the privilege of buying drinks inside, silently applauded Tavern’s money-making savvy, and high-tailed it out of there.

A girlfriend of ours who’d wisely arrived at ten p.m. and had a table in the VIP section (Tavern on the Green has a VIP section? Apparently on Halloween they do…) confirmed that the party was fabulously fun. So I’m not bad-mouthing their bash. I like Tavern if only for the sparkly Christmas lights wrapped around all the trees. Cheers to them for monopolizing on Halloween in the most lucrative scheme I’ve seen yet.

The good news is that if I have the willpower, I can redeem myself Wednesday night – the official day of Old Hallows Eve. Word on the street is that Cipriani’s 42nd street is throwing some sort of Wednesday night Halloween ‘ball’ in collaboration with Roberto Cavalli vodka, Pink’s hosting a ‘disco inferno,’ and the Italians will be rocking their own mini party at I Tre Merli in SoHo. See yout there?

Yesterday morning I booked my round trip flight on Orbitz and in this world of heightened security, my flight needs to be confirmed by the airline.

So I am flightless as I wait for Virgin to confirm that I am not a terrorist.

On that note, let me share a funny dream I had last night that made me smile when I woke up this morning:

I was at the airport waiting for my flight at one of those chained restaurants with a bar (Applebee’s? TGIF? Unos? Like always, my flight was delayed and the only thing that seemed perfectly fine (logical) for me to do was to grab an appetizer and 1 drink while my Virgin arrived.

For some odd reason, I was a virgin (not the plane but sex challenged). I was at the bar when she (I wont say whom, because it was embarrassing) sat next to me and ordered the same drink. We talked and talked and got loaded. As luck would have it, we noticed that we were sitting a few rows away from each other.

When we boarded the airplane, we asked a woman if we could switch seats so we could sit next to each other, to continue the conversation. We order more drinks and continue to chat. The lights in the cabin grow dim, and we are getting drunker. She puts a blanket over us and starts to lightly touch my leg. Now, I could say that I had no idea, but that would be bullshit. I wanted to see how far it would go. Her hand moved up to my breast and she began to kiss me. Between sips of our vodka tonics, her hand ventures into my pants and she feel that I have a Brazilian.

She invites me into the bathroom to join her and the mile high club. I turn her down. I was a virgin and didn't feel like losing my virginity over a toilet at 37,000 ft. She went to the bathroom, and waited for me. And returned all disapointed. I fell asleep with my head on the window after she returned to her seat.It seemed like It was one of the biggest regrets of my life. I mean, how fucking poetic would that have been? Losing my virginity on Virgin Atlantic.

Let's hope this trip will have the same luck.

Since I am still too sick to go out and party – pretty much the best excuse I’ve given everyone who invited me out the past two weeks (it worked so far), I’ve resorted to the next best thing – stalking my friends’ online albums for pictures of myself. Sound pitiable? It is. I’ll be the first to admit it. I came across a bunch of pictures taken almost a year ago and to my disappointment found that I look absolutely atrocious in every single one and no, I am not giving you the link.

Usually these so called-professional (my friends) photographer people take good photos. Usually I’m out in a place that’s dark enough with such an impressive but minimal make-up on that I always come across looking acceptable. Usually, I pass for having a sense of style.Not on the night these photos were taken.First of all, I’m wearing a top and leggings that don’t match. Two, the top isn’t a top anyone should wear with leggings. Three, I’m way shiny, and silly, and look lost. Four, my hair looks drier than hay.

At the particular party where these photos where taken, there happened to also be in attendance a young woman I especially dislike. Everyone has people in this world we scribble on our imaginary hit list, either because they trash talk our friends, are clueless about proper social behavior, are extremely desirable, or have fucked the girl we like (in my case with this woman, all four). The worst part about this group of online photos is that however much I look awful, my nemesis looks fabulous.

She’s a knockout in every frame! I’d say we’re tied for the number of photo opts, but while I look remarkably unwanted, she’s glowing like a model straight from a Maxim cover. Her outfit was also casual, classy, and…perfect.Guess you can’t win ‘em all.

If you are at a party, and there are pictures being taken, don't assume that they are not going to photograph you--especially if you are dressed up very stripper-ish, I mean elegantly. Furthermore, in this day and age of internet, don't assume that they will not put up the most uncomprosiing pictures of you.

Evidently I was even more scandelous when one sees my behavior in snap-shot form.

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.