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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