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.

The Writer and I hung out this weekend and we went to Bungalo 8. For those who are clueless – it is where the young celebs hang out when they are in NYC. We had to prove it wasn’t too cool for us.

“One drink and then we go,” I told The Writer as we crossed the street. “I don’t want to hang out here all night, all the men look like they wax their eyebrows.”

“So…we only have one mission – to find L. Lohan,” she said. And with a quick smirk I agreed and enforced the one drink policy.

“One drink,” she agreed, adjusting her cleavage for the eighth time. She had run into the age-old dilemma while getting ready: How much boob is too much boob? Trying to combine the best of both worlds, she was wearing an extremely low cut dress with a small tank top underneath. While I, wore a cute white summer lace baby doll dress.

We got into the club with an ease that can only be described as anticlimactic and two drinks later (like we ever actually have one drink) our egos were appeased. We were ready to meet up with our friends at a less pretentious club.

Making the requisite stop at the bathroom, we found it to be one of those single stall types and went in together. (The Writer and I are really good friends ;) and if you tell me you’ve never peed with any of your friends then I think you’re either lying or you are my mother.)

We were all set to leave, when we discovered we literally could not.She pulled, pushed and jiggled the handle but the door remained closed. She even smacked the wood a few times in an attempt to open the door through brute force, but it remained firm as I stood in the corner, helping no one by giggling uncontrollably.

“NYC.Lezie, what are we going to do?” she demanded.

Suddenly there were agitated voices outside the bathroom. I looked at her.“I can’t handle this right now,” I announced, turning to the mirror. “I’m going to put on Mascara.”

“I’m going to take off this tank top,” she said, either following my lead of ignoring the problem at hand or thinking that more of her cleavage could solve the situation as it has solved so many situations before.It was only when her tank top was half-off that the door flew open, revealing a concerned looking busboy and a small crowd of anxious, would-be bathroom goers.She quickly pulled up her straps.

“Uhhh…we heard the door move, we thought you might have needed...help?” The busboy looked embarrassed to have caught us in a passionate, door shaking, girl-on-girl bathroom tryst.

The Writer looked like she might try to explain, an event that could only make things worse (“No, see I was trying to get out, but couldn’t, and then I took off my shirt! Get it?”) so I gave her a shove, brightly said “Thanks!” and darted past the smirking on-lookers.

And then, with people still looking after us curiously, a sudden gust of air blew her skirt up. She screamed, clutched her ass and ran outside while I strolled, faux-casually, after her.

“So now we can never go back,” I explained to my Hetero friends.

They smiled. “Why not? I bet they’d love to have you back.”

Very ODD weekend.

Stay tuned.

Dear Marketing Genius at Nike,

The other day I was walking down the street, in a hurry to get somewhere. While passing your beautiful flagship store on 57th street, I came across this sign in the window...

Some lady running in some fancy tank and shorts and it said “someone who is busier than you is running right now”

and it made me stop dead in my tracks. I started thinking about all the "important" things in my life; family, friends, work, drinking, sleeping, sexing it up, blogging (Okay I kinda felt like I had to say the blogging part, just so you all know I care). I realized that yes, I could be spending my precious time concerning my self with all those silly things, but this clearly wasn't just a sign. It was a SIGN.

Suddenly, I felt the urge to stop what I was doing, drop everything, ditch the person I was with and go into your store and spend upwards of a couple hundred dollars on a new pair of shoes, socks, shorts, sports bra, tank top, zip up jacket and wrap around sunglasses to kick off my new purpose driven life. Oh, and throw in one of Nike + iPod sport kits too, so I can have some tunes and listen to running tutorials while I'm out pounding the pavement.

Meanwhile, someone else who is busier than I am is also, working, saving lives, reading a book, cooking, having sex, blogging, getting their nails done, drinking, finding a cure for diseases, making money, shopping, watching a sports game at a bar with friends.... the list goes on.But who wants to waste their time doing those things? So thanks Nike, for causing me to have this epiphany and making me realized just how fucked up my priorities are.

Regards,

NYC.Lezie

p.s. Actually, I won't be buying your shoes, they suck. The last pair of Nikes I had gave me shin splints. This letter will also serve as my official endorsement for Asics, New Balance and basically any brand that aren't NIKE.

I have been told that other people do not think about the possibility of their relationship ending every single day. Then again, I have been told I seem like a really great girlfriend, so who the hell knows what to believe.

In any case, when I was in a relationship, I remember at least three times a week, I thought that the Pearl and I were going to break up.

Example: Whenever we had a chance to talk during the week and the conversations would go sour at the slight tone of one of us - CERTAIN OUR RELATIONSHIP WAS OVER.

Naturally, I then never wanted to have sex. DISASTER.

Then, when she would be super quiet on the drive to the Metro North. Probably because she was thinking about how she didn't love me anymore. MORE DISASTER.

I then spent the entire train ride home telling myself that single life can be fun, and though there would be the minor problem of living together to sort out, in general breaking up with the Pearl really wouldn’t be that bad.Then I realized I was insane.

This is a realization I have come to before, most notably when I got annoyed with the Pearl for telling me I was beautiful because what if she couldn't love me once I was old?

It's was really exhausting to love the Pearl and be happy while at the same time trying to convince myself it would be totally fine if she were gone.

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)