Confessions.of.a.NYC.Lezie

This past weekend, I wanted to spend it alone – as in I wanted some fresh air, I wanted peace, I wanted sanity and really…no one to entertain.

Saturday morning was spent at the beach. A little fake surfing here and there and jet skiing along Long Beach Island was blissful. You may think otherwise, but I was in heaven. I went back to my summer crib and started to dial some numbers because I was starting to get bored. The first person I called was of course The Writer and since she lives in NYC and I swear no one who lives in the East Village owns a car, we had to make plans around her neck of the woods. Next person on my list was BFF NYU. She’s always fun to hang out with and when she is drunk she is the best entertainment available. I asked her if she would want to hang in the city and so she agreed. So my next and last person was my Intern and it was a quick yes.

My night started just fine. Traffic into the city was calm- it was just pleasant. We all met up at Porky’s. If you don’t know Porky’s then good. It is the trashiest college frat boy bar in city. It was packed with hair gel and tight pink shirts and over ripped bodies and nipples saying HellOooOo. I wasn’t complaining. 1. Because Guido(s) are just another species I don’t turn head for and 2. I was there for the drinks.

I made my way to the bar and observed the crowd dancing to “Umbrella” c’mon…how old is that song? Ella Ella … I laughed as I walked to the dance floor to show the boys how it’s really done. I got this kid’s cane who was crippled and told him that I’d be right back. I got my danced on and seriously made up some crazy dance moves with that cane. I was in 4-inch heels and a little top with skinny jeans (for some of you – tapered jeans and you don’t know what’s a la mode!) and I was really hetero that night – guys wanting to dance with me, getting my number and offering drinks to a pretty lass. I kid you not.

Fast forward 4 hours on the dance floor.

I was sliding across the floor; the floor got so wet with fucktards who were drunk and kept dropping their sweet “i'm your best friend” beers on the floor and I danced and sang through every 80’s hit music and made friends that I don’t remember making. 12 rum and cokes later, I found myself dancing with my ex- intern. Ouch! And I’ll leave it as that.

It was about 3:30am when I decided to rack up my girlies, sip my last drink and head out. No I didn’t drive home. I slept in the city.

I don’t remember walking to The Writer’s place. I don’t remember the cab there. And I certainly do not remember what happened after that.

I woke up at 9am, wondered what happened. Looked over and saw her and woke up with “I’m fucking hungry, my head hurts, I need to puke!” I went to my clutch to look to see whose number I got that night and saw that my phone was missing and all I could think was:
“Fuck. I’m screwed”

I went back to bed and woke up for my flight at 10pm. It didn’t register that I didn’t have my phone until I got home and my mother was asking where the hell I was.

“Fuck. I’m screwed.” I need to come up with a story to my HR people so that I can get a new phone without having to pay 500 bucks for it. I should just lie.

Yep. That’s not going to work.

Lately, it has been day after day of the mundane and the tedious. I’ve never professed to have the most exciting, interesting life in the world. I do, however, usually keep myself pretty well entertained between my family and friends, writing and assorted social exploits.

I’ve always said that one of the best things about being an adult is that no one is standing there telling you what to do, what not to do or how silly doing something you’re doing is. I talk a big talk about not having to go out when I don’t want to. About having as many friends as anyone could dream of having.

But, you know, being an adult really does suck. I should be going out and party more. And meeting new people and cultivating new friendships isn’t bad. And I shouldn’t stay up so late.

I don’t feel as in control of my body, my diet, my schedule, my chores, my finances, my free time, my laundry, my future, my present, my hair. Myself.

Just writing that out feels like a first step.

On the other hand, I am out in D.C. on business. I am of course with my intern whom I have never seen in a pinstripe suit until this morning – I complimented her 4 times. Only 4.

And again, today is August 1 - It means three things for me.

1) My student loans are due
2)Rent is fucking due
3) It is Hope's birthday. (I looked at my phone this morning for an hour +, trying to figure out if I should send her a birthday text. – after an hour, I said fuck it. I wont)

New Intern: Where are you from?
Me: I grew up in Paris
New Intern: Where is that? Wait…next to France right?
Me: (Puzzled look) no
New Intern: oh
Me: It’s a major city IN France
New Intern: really, I guess you learn something everyday.
Me: Certainly.
New Intern: (giggling) […]


What? Is she serious?? And she is from Harvard for crying outloud. Ohhh those Trust-Fund babies kill me sometimes.