You are currently browsing the monthly archive for August, 2008.
I drank beer before my liquor drinks.
I mixed liquor.
I even mixed liquor with sugary juices.
I did shots at 2 AM.
I drank well vodka at the end of the night.
I didn’t consider the benefits of vomiting until too late.
I got home at 5 AM.
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This all led to this conversation with one of my employees—
MN walks into the office. My head is down on my desk.
MN: “Hey! How are you?”
C: “WHY are you yelling?”
MN: [looks hurt]
C: “I’m sorry. I’m not entirely sober.”
MN: “What?! I’m so jealous.”
C: “Excuse me, I need to throw up now.”
When a guy says to me, “All girls are dumb” or anything even approximating that statement, I’m not sure what to say in return, mostly because I don’t want to goad him on. Or unleash some kind of thirty-minute tirade that brings up incidences from childhood between him and his mother/aunt/sister/female dentist to that girl who took his virginity to the woman who mind-fucked with him a few months ago.
Instead, I turn away. I ignore. I might blink a couple times. I basically act as if I could potentially trip the charge on a bomb.
People think that bitter women are bad. They complain incessantly and everything gets them going. Bitter men are far worst. They are like minefields, in that it is incredibly unpredictable as to what will set them off and once they do, and they invariably do, you will possibly lose an arm, but surely lose an hour of your time.
And of course your patience will be burned up.
Dates make me anxious. Actually, my initial reaction is that I feel inconvenienced. My free time is far and few between. And, let’s face it, I would rather be watching Mad Men, be taken in by Don Draper.
This reaction then warms up to nervousness, anxiety, the anticipation of exhaustion and of something worse.
On top of this, I don’t even have time for this bs. Even if I like them [rarely] and they turn out to be good guys [this happens either right before or after hell freezes over], I wouldn’t even have time. And truthfully, I probably won’t even be here.
The other night, a man I’ve known for quite some time says this: “I was thinking of this earlier and I can’t believe we haven’t ever dated.” I wasn’t sure what to say so I smiled, and turned to my drink. I nodded.
I felt the anxiety creeping, leaving sour trails in my mouth, down my throat.
Generally, I can’t stand flakes. Who can? You make plans. You squeeze them in. More often than not, you’ve set a time and a place. You’re practically standing at the restaurant/park entrance/etc and you get a phone call or text message. “Oh. Sorry. Something came up….”
But lately, in the past few weeks, when I have dinner plans just about every single night and I have no money, I’ve been grateful for the bailers. The last-minute cancellations now receive warm replies. “Oh, NO WORRIES! (= [!!!] Absolutely, don’t even stress about it! Some other time!” After I somehow scrape together the luck and funds for a winning super lotto ticket. Before, replies would go something like this: “Ok.” Succint. Frigid. Dismissive.
Now, bring on the burner outers. I can go to the gym. I can enjoy my toast. I can watch some Mad Men episodes. I can read more books.
Ahhh.
So if you want to flake on me, now would be the time to do it. I’ll even encourage it.
M: “Hey, you look great!”
C: “Oh thanks. I’m on a new diet.”
M: “Oh yeah? What?”
C: “Work long but lazy hours at a low-paying job. Coffee for breakfast, handful of nuts for lunch, two glasses of water and toast. I go to the gym because I feel compelled, because I’m automatically charged every month and I can’t break the contract yet.”
M: “Dude….”
C: [hands up and open] “Dude, I know.”
This is what I did:
“She said I think I’ll go to Boston…
I think I’ll start a new life,
I think I’ll start it over, where no one knows my name,
I’ll get out of California, I’m tired of the weather,
I think I’ll get a lover and fly em out to Spain…
I think I’ll go to Boston,
I think that I’m just tired
I think I need a new town, to leave this all behind…
I think I need a sunrise, I’m tired of the sunset,
I hear it’s nice in the Summer, some snow would be nice… oh yeah,
Boston… where no one knows my name…
Where no one knows my name…
Where no one knows my name…
Yeah Boston…
Where no one knows my name.”
Except I moved to NYC. And the part that makes me antsy is that I’m feeling this way again. And the only places I can see are outside of this country. And I can’t possibly because of the possibility of grad school in a couple years.
And because as much as I want to be able to start over, I never really got to and never really will. I carry it all with me, wherever I go.
I actually said this aloud, to myself, to justify my actions:
“I doubt this will kill me….”
At this point in my life, with impending unemployment, the possibility of being forced to move home to CA, a shift in graduate school plans, and being single in an unforgiving city, I shouldn’t be allowed to leave home without one or more of the following:
-a full flask
-coffee, two or three thermos’ full
-cigarettes
But I’d settle for sex.
I haven’t been able to post because we don’t have Internet at home, which is when I usually try to accomplish this updating. My work computer screen faces any one that walks by my office so that anyone can tell pretty much immediately whether I’m doing work. Also, my “supervisor” assumes that if I’m laughing, joking, and generally enjoying myself, that there is no way in hell I’m doing work at all and then sends everyone around me ominous emails about the “sound level” that is coming from our wing of the office.
At any rate, here are a few incidents/thoughts/etc that come to mind as for an appropriate update of this past weekend:
NP was in town! He met my favorite bartender! He took me to see In the Heights which was so great and amazing and wonderful. I loved spending time with NP and the Ps in general.
Saturday, MML and I met these kids [pretty much literal sense here--they were all '07 or '08 grads ::shudder::] at a bar and one of them was a liar and the other one was shady and the third was a dolphin trainer at Coney Island [?!] so maybe, really, there were 2 liars that night. Harmless junk, really. But this only further bolsters my theory that men in NYC suck, with few exceptions [I think I found nearly all of them--and yes, they're all taken]. Even the ones who travel here, maybe especially the ones who travel and then settle down here, because here they get some strange level of anonymity and the perceived lack of responsibility that comes with it. I don’t think the lacking maturity of having just graduated from college like ten milliseconds ago helped either. One of them ever-so-kindly offered to assist me with my self breast exams, after inviting me over to his place to see his Asian basket-weaving products which he made himself. All of which screams to me PERVERT and ASIAN FETISH, on top of the usual shouts of SYPHILIS, CHLAMYDIA, and GONORRHEA.
I’ve been very lethargic lately. I’ve slept/napped probably ten hours a day during the weekend. Obviously, I can’t swing that kind of schedule now that I’m back in the work week, but it was strange to feel constantly tired and like I couldn’t keep my eyes open.
EY said to me the other day: “I don’t think you should drink so much.”
C: “But I like it. I have fun. It makes me happy.”
EY: “Exactly.”
So I’ve been drinking a lot. So what? And it happens about three to four times a week. Okay, is that really a problem? Once I develop a problem, I’ll stop. I swear. Alcoholism is seemingly relative. I don’t black out–for the most part. I don’t have a gut. I haven’t been arrested. I didn’t start on illegal drugs. I don’t plan on it. I haven’t hit anyone in the face with a pint glass in over a year! I feel like, if anything, I’ve made huge improvements as a drinker since embarking on my ten drinks a night rampage. Also, if I keep going back to my favorite bartender, it’ll be down to four drinks because a gin and tonic from that man is 22 parts gin and 1 part tonic.
I met one of the most overeager men ever this past weekend. I have two feelings about this: [1] CHILL THE F— OUT and [2] this is kind of frightening. On the one hand, I appreciate the enthusiasm. It’s mostly flattering. And then, I feel like the walls are slowly caving in. EVERY DAY he wanted to hang out. He would text and invite himself out to where I was. I had to beg off. I had to push him away, via texts. And you know that can’t be nice. “Uhm. I wouldn’t say that I miss you.” “When I say all girls, why do you think you’re invited?” ”I’m going to pass on that offer.” “No, thanks.” “NO.” “Please stop texting me. I’m waiting for an important call.”
In other news, I met two nice guys. Men I am hoping to pass off to my single hopeless [in the sense that they possess no hope] girlfriends. One man has a great smile. And the other has a great body. Apparently, it’s difficult to combine the two. Also, for those who are considering it, my friends who are on match.com have had extraordinary luck–marriage, relationships, cuddling, nice meals. It can be as big or as little as all/any those things.
Little known fact: artificial sweeteners + oatmeal = intense gag reflex. I’ve been dry heaving all morning, trying to replace that sticky faux-sweet taste in my mouth with nearly anything. Right now, I’m sucking on questionably expired mints. And you know that when a mint expires, it is probably older than those man-children I was speaking to on Saturday night. If I don’t post for a month, then it’s the mint that killed me, at least physically.
It’s my life in Manhattan that has sucked me dry.
This morning, my new roommate’s mother woke me up by calling [annoying hum of vibrating cell phone on wooden windowsill followed by my quizzical, not entirely sober, look at the unknown number were both met by my burying my head under my pillows]. She leaves a message [zzzzzt, goes my phone]. She calls back again, without missing a beat. I bite because there is the possibility of the real sense of satisfaction I will get when I am able to yell at this stranger on the phone for calling me SO GODDAMN FUCKING early in the morning DO I EVEN KNOW YOU?! I croak out hello. This is when I recall all the shouting I did last night at the bars, loud happy shouting followed by therapeutic belly laughs. Her mother has a long conversation with me. This is LM’s mother. I don’t know where she is. I’m so worried. I have no idea at first who the hell LM is and why her mother has my cell phone number and is calling me FOUR HOURS after I managed to miraculously make it home in one piece, unscathed and un-violated and remarkably having not made out with anyone at all much less five people. Mental high-five right now for keeping it all in my pants.
And here is this woman, near tears, on the phone as I am trying hard to jump start my memory, fight my way out of the fog.
Something in my mind clicks into place. I explain her misunderstanding. Her daughter is flying from Brazil tonight, did not in fact fly last night. No, no. I understand why you’re calling. Lovely speaking with you too. No, of course it isn’t too early. I’m ALWAYS awake now. Please, let’s draw out this fifteen-minute conversation even more. I am deadpan. Croaking still. I am a wry frog. I feel sleep leaving me now, hear the slam of the door as she goes. We continue on the phone for another five minutes. Bless my mother for teaching me patience via this exact interaction. I am practically reading from the script of my childhood mornings. Afterward, I hang up the phone and try to get back to sleep’s embrace. But she’s really gone. Her scent isn’t even here.
Resigned, I sit up, search the floor for my slippers. I drink a glass of water. I put on a shirt and shorts. I pull out the bucket and mop. And then I scrub and clean and sweat for about two hours. Cleaning this place top to bottom. I even clean the bathroom I don’t use, the bedroom that isn’t my responsibility to clean since I never lived there, I didn’t move out recently, leaving the place–the entire apartment and not just that room and bathroom–a motherfucking dump. But, no I won’t go into it. I’m just going to deep breathe through this. I set my teeth. I scrub the floor in that room. Make it shine.
Later, after showering, I finish the book Split by Suzanne Finnamore, whom I adore. It is bittersweet, finishing it. I plowed straight through it too. I purchased it yesterday, during my silent shopping spree. I only took a break from it to get incredibly drunk with my friend and watch some of the Olympics and suck cherries from some guy’s mouth. Oh yes, and to sleep.
Once I’ve finished the book, I put it down and snuggle deeper into my bed. I luxuriate for a bit with my blinds all up, big slats of sunlight forming columns in my room, the AC blasting, my down comforter pulled around me [because the nights have already gotten a bit chilly]. And then the part of me that grew up in the Bay Area lambasts the part of me that’s grown a bit in NY and I power off the AC, throw open the windows and lie on top of the blankets so my head is hanging upside-down off the side of the bed. I watch the clouds make their slow progression across the sky and how this all affects what’s happening in my room. Bright. Dim. Bright. Dim. Bright.
I forgot how I used to enjoy doing this. Looking up. Peering up at the clouds while I drove around. Lying on my back in the grass somewhere. Being able to disconnect from my inner narrator for a bit.
That deep peace.
I remember it now. And once the colors have stopped their soft explosions in my mind’s eye, I lie down again. Upside down, staring out my windows.
