After reflecting upon my Valentine’s Day debacle last week, I came to two major conclusions. First, I was in no mental state for dating, especially on major Hallmark holidays. Luckily, the next holiday was President’s Day, a holiday that I would spend entirely focused on toasting whichever President was in office when the Twenty-First Amendment repealed that pesky Eighteenth Amendment that had been responsible for mandating Prohibition. Whoever thought that Prohibition was a good idea should be forced to drink an entire bottle of Jack Daniels through their eye sockets.
Second, I concluded that I needed to schedule an emergency appointment with my shrink. I dialed my dear Dr. Zellner and for once I didn’t get her answering machine.
“Hi Dr. Zellner, it’s Bacchus G. I’m not scheduled to come in until March 31st, but I’m having some…issues. Could you maybe get me in, ummm, today?”
“Bacchus, I haven’t seen you in over a year.”
“Are you sure?” I asked.
“Yes. I’m looking at your file right now.” she confirmed.
Oh my God, I really was losing my mind. Of course there had always been tell-tale signs, but I swore I had just seen her two weeks ago. I started to panic. I wasn’t ready for a 10-day observation period in Bellevue and those horrendous sea-foam green gowns did not go with my fair complexion.
“But I just had an appointment a few weeks ago and you’re in my calendar for Tuesday, March 31st at 6:15pm!” I was on the verge of hyperventilation now.
“Bacchus, this is Dr. Abbott.”
“Ohhh. Dr. Abbott.” A long, awkward silence followed.
“Did you get a new doctor then?”
“Yes, yes I did.” I replied with pure discomfiture.
“Good, I’m really glad to hear that.” she genuinely replied before she hung up the phone.
Was I such a head case that my ex-shrink (who I dumped for a better, more-generous-with-prescriptions shrink) was truly glad that I was still under some sort of psychological care, even if it wasn’t with her and her $175 per hour rate? There was only one person I could turn to in this situation. I immediately dialed Mena Prance, my dear friend and the only person I know that is crazier than me.
“Do I ever have a story for you!” she answered the phone.
“Hi Mena. I’m doing well, thank you for asking. Small talk aside, I need you to immediately reassure me that you are more of a lunatic than I am.” I requested.
Mena was not only the craziest person I knew, but also one of the people I respected most. I went to college in Ohio with her and by the end of freshman orientation she had decided that after graduation she would head to New York and never look back. And that was exactly what she did. Ohio was not a place for the Mena Prance’s of the world. Hell, she was more of a New Yorker than Guiliani.
Some of the other reasons I loved Mena so much was that she loved to push the envelope, didn’t care what other people thought, and was willing to take a risk. If she woke up in the morning and needed something new in her life, she would dye her hair red or get a pixie cut. And if it didn’t look good (which rarely happened) she would shrug it off and say “Its just hair. It’ll grow back.” Its unfortunate Britney Spears hadn’t taken such an approach—she could have completely avoided the whole hair plugging-pink wig fiasco.
Mena’s carefree, egocentric attitude bled into her love life as well. She loved a challenge and never had any regrets. I could always count on her to make me feel saner and more virginal than I actually was.
“So even though you ditched me on Valentine’s Day,” Mena began. “I still proceeded with our original plan to go to Mad River and pick up men who were there to prey on sad, sulking, single girls. I ended up meeting this James Franco look-a-like who worked for Morgan Stanley and lived two blocks away on 83rd & Lex. Perfect, right?”
“Couldn’t be more perfect.” I dutifully replied.
“So we ended up back at his place and had a great time. When I woke up in the morning, he had already left for work. And I guess between all of those Irish Car Bombs and Bud Lights, I had forgotten his name. Not that it really mattered anyway.”
“Right. I mean its not like you need to know the identities of your sexual partners or anything.” I sarcastically retorted.
“Exactly!” she agreed. “I think you’re the only one who agrees with me on that.”
“Anyways, I was getting ready to leave and I noticed a stack of birthday cards on his nightstand. So I went to peek through a few of them to find out his name, just in case I would ever need it.” she continued.
“I started opening a few of them and it turned out they weren’t birthday cards—they were @#%$ing engagement cards! Can you believe this bastard?”
“Well yes, Mena, I actually can believe this bastard. I can believe many bastards exist, in fact. Do we need to reflect upon my recent single status?” I asked.
I wanted to keep my question rhetorical due to the fact that my incessant single status reflections had only led me to pranking my ex-psychiatrist, so I quickly asked, “So what did you do after you read all of these engagement cards?”
“I left my underwear at the foot of the bed, tangled in the sheets. His fiancé will find them when she makes the bed—God knows he would never do it.”
“You’re right. The only men I know who make their own beds are gay. At least you were thoughtful enough to leave your underwear. Now this poor girl can find out what kind of guy she’s really dealing with.” I concluded.
“Straight men will never learn.” she sighed.
Thursday, February 26, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
The Year Cupid Played Hooky: Part 2
The morning of February 15th can leave you with a warm, cozy, I-feel-like-I-just-did-two-shots of-Jameson feeling if you were the husband who finally got laid, the girl who got flowers at the office, or the fattie who fell into a refined sugar coma after demolishing three heart-shaped boxes of Russell Stover chocolates the day before. But if you were the single alcoholic or more specifically, the flu-ridden, Day-Quil chugging, vodka-slugging, heartbroken headcase such as myself, post-Valentine’s Day morning can leave you with a more than negative feeling. A negative feeling that could be equated with the fact that I would rather bear the wrath of my George W-loving father after telling him that I had just burned all of his Joel Osteen DVD’s, ripped up his NRA membership card, and was joining a lesbian punk rock band than wake up in this hot mess of a situation.
I quickly assessed my situation. At the foot of my bed were those atrocious pants I vaguely remembered from the night before. Maybe they had turned into a pair of Helmut Lang’s overnight and this skinny thing next to me was actually a hedge fund manager who lived in Normandie Court rather than a cheap denim-doting Astorian.
As I quietly sat up to check the label on his pants, I heard the crackling of some sort of wrapper under me. Did I eat another bag of Jelly Belly’s in the middle of the night again? I reached under my thigh to inspect whether I had gone with Traditional or Fruit Bowl only to pull out a PleasureMax Durex wrapper. My stomach dropped past my ovaries and all life was sucked out of me—a sinking feeling far worse than when I leave my cell phone in a cab or I don’t make it to Taco Bell before closing time on Thursday nights.
He must have heard me gasping for air because suddenly he was awake. He rolled over, smiling, to find me digging through my drawer for my “emergency” pills. There were not enough milligrams of Lorazepam to make this situation go away within the next fifteen minutes.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. He was clearly unaware that the first moments of my morning had been filled with regret, panic, confusion, nausea, and some dull liver pain while his first moments had been filled with satisfaction and a lighter load.
“I totally forgot I had a meeting this morning. I’m so hungover and really late!” I lied.
I jumped up and started to make my bed with him still in it. Luckily he got the hint, so I quickly and rudely rushed him out of my apartment. For the first time in my life I was thankful I didn’t live in a doorman building with respectable neighbors.
With my hangover and stuffy nose, I began to get ready for work, but a glint of something on my dresser caught my eye. I walked over to find my Valentine’s watch, which had been sitting right next to his wallet and keys fifteen minutes ago. There was no way that he could have forgotten his watch, but taken all of his other personal belongings. It was clear he had intentionally left it behind, only to be used as a bargaining chip in this sick game of watch hostage he wanted me to play, in hope of scoring a second date.
Suddenly there was a knock on my door. It was my roommate asking, “Did you just finish a private tutoring lesson or something?”
I looked at him, perplexed. “Since when do I tutor?”
“Since a seventeen year old just rushed out of our apartment so he could make it to homeroom before the bell rings.” he retorted.
I fell back on my bed, groaning. “Well he was definitely twenty-one! We drank at Merrion Square all night.”
“I saw a sixth-grader at happy hour there last week. They’re Irish, they serve anyone!”
I covered my face with a pillow. Had I not been in such a tranquil state from my earlier pill-popping party, I probably would’ve start sobbing like A-Rod at his press conference on Tuesday. Too bad I couldn’t blame this on my cousin.
By 11:00am that morning he had texted me that he had such a great time last night, and oh by the way, he thought he had forgotten his watch. He wondered when he could stop by or we could meet up so he could get it, claiming he felt naked without it. If only I had known the night before that this small piece of ticking, cheap silver would lead to the realization that he had left something far more valuable than a fake Tag Heuer from Chinatown in my bedroom…
I quickly assessed my situation. At the foot of my bed were those atrocious pants I vaguely remembered from the night before. Maybe they had turned into a pair of Helmut Lang’s overnight and this skinny thing next to me was actually a hedge fund manager who lived in Normandie Court rather than a cheap denim-doting Astorian.
As I quietly sat up to check the label on his pants, I heard the crackling of some sort of wrapper under me. Did I eat another bag of Jelly Belly’s in the middle of the night again? I reached under my thigh to inspect whether I had gone with Traditional or Fruit Bowl only to pull out a PleasureMax Durex wrapper. My stomach dropped past my ovaries and all life was sucked out of me—a sinking feeling far worse than when I leave my cell phone in a cab or I don’t make it to Taco Bell before closing time on Thursday nights.
He must have heard me gasping for air because suddenly he was awake. He rolled over, smiling, to find me digging through my drawer for my “emergency” pills. There were not enough milligrams of Lorazepam to make this situation go away within the next fifteen minutes.
“What’s wrong?” he asked. He was clearly unaware that the first moments of my morning had been filled with regret, panic, confusion, nausea, and some dull liver pain while his first moments had been filled with satisfaction and a lighter load.
“I totally forgot I had a meeting this morning. I’m so hungover and really late!” I lied.
I jumped up and started to make my bed with him still in it. Luckily he got the hint, so I quickly and rudely rushed him out of my apartment. For the first time in my life I was thankful I didn’t live in a doorman building with respectable neighbors.
With my hangover and stuffy nose, I began to get ready for work, but a glint of something on my dresser caught my eye. I walked over to find my Valentine’s watch, which had been sitting right next to his wallet and keys fifteen minutes ago. There was no way that he could have forgotten his watch, but taken all of his other personal belongings. It was clear he had intentionally left it behind, only to be used as a bargaining chip in this sick game of watch hostage he wanted me to play, in hope of scoring a second date.
Suddenly there was a knock on my door. It was my roommate asking, “Did you just finish a private tutoring lesson or something?”
I looked at him, perplexed. “Since when do I tutor?”
“Since a seventeen year old just rushed out of our apartment so he could make it to homeroom before the bell rings.” he retorted.
I fell back on my bed, groaning. “Well he was definitely twenty-one! We drank at Merrion Square all night.”
“I saw a sixth-grader at happy hour there last week. They’re Irish, they serve anyone!”
I covered my face with a pillow. Had I not been in such a tranquil state from my earlier pill-popping party, I probably would’ve start sobbing like A-Rod at his press conference on Tuesday. Too bad I couldn’t blame this on my cousin.
By 11:00am that morning he had texted me that he had such a great time last night, and oh by the way, he thought he had forgotten his watch. He wondered when he could stop by or we could meet up so he could get it, claiming he felt naked without it. If only I had known the night before that this small piece of ticking, cheap silver would lead to the realization that he had left something far more valuable than a fake Tag Heuer from Chinatown in my bedroom…
Thursday, February 12, 2009
The Year Cupid Played Hooky: Part 1
There are only four types of people who can fully maximize the indulgences that come with Valentine’s Day: single alcoholics, husbands who have been married more than eighteen months, women whose boyfriends send them flowers at work, and fat people. For single alcoholics, it’s one of the few days where it’s socially acceptable to drink yourself into a self-pitying, I-hate-being-alone, I-hate this-$#*%ing-holiday oblivion. Husbands who are no longer in the newlywed phase cherish this holiday because they are practically guaranteed sex (unless by a sick twist of fate, an Internet girlfriend or inflatable doll collection has been recovered by the wife within the past week). The “I’m Too Tired,” “I’m Too Fat,” and the always classic “But the Kids Might Hear Us” excuses lose all validity on February 14th.
Women with boyfriends thrive on Valentine’s Day, especially when their boyfriend sends them flowers at the office. The adrenaline rush that comes with the oohs and aahs of their cubicle-mates is enough to get Michael Phelps high. These oohs and aahs then segue into the perfect opportunity to remind the entire office of how wonderful the said boyfriend is, how her mother just adores him, and how romantic it was when he surprised her with tickets for The Little Mermaid on Broadway last weekend. Last but not least are the fatties. This holiday provides an opportunity to guiltlessly binge thyself all the way to a hyperglycemic coma by way of cheap chocolate and those hard, crusty candy hearts. After all, no one needs to feel guilty during a sugar binge seizure.
As I reflected back on my past Valentine’s Days, I wondered if I would ever fall into one of those four categories. Obviously I would prefer the single, alcoholic scenario, but I’d take a stab at binge eating to unconsciousness as well. I couldn’t remember the last time I had an enjoyable Valentine’s Day. In fact, I couldn’t even remember a single detail of last year’s holiday for reasons you can conclude on your own. This lack of memories then led me to the one Valentine’s Day I do remember: the year Cupid decided not to show up for work.
It was a cold February night on the Upper East Side, and I was so broke that I was considering which side job could have the most negative implications for me: Hooking or dealing? With prostitution comes exposure to a large number of diseases and requests for anal sex. With drug dealing, you could end up with significant time in the slammer or a bad coke habit—and let’s face it, there was no way I could afford joining Lohan out in Utah at the Cirque Lodge. So when the Mad River manager offered me a coat check shift, I jumped at the opportunity to make some honest money.
Not only was I broke, I was also heartbroken. The Attorney and I had just broken up a few weeks prior and I still hadn’t snapped out of my “woe is me” frame of mind. I was self-medicating with Ketel One and Marlboro Menthol Lights, which only led me to severe dehydration and the fast track to DMX’s voice box. So when a slightly geeky, twenty-something introduced himself while dropping off his coat, my only option was to introduce myself as well, considering I was in a closet full of drunk people’s coats.
Usually the small talk ceases after the customer sees that I’m going to hang their coat in an organized manner instead of throwing it in a pile on the floor, but this guy was not interested in the methodology of my coat checking—he was interested in me. After about fifteen minutes of small talk, he finally decided to go the bar and get a drink. Before I knew it, he was back at the coat check, hanging over the partition and hanging on to my every word. I couldn’t even get through an article about Nicole Richie’s eating disorder with this guy around.
Eventually happy hour ended and his friends came to drag him away from coat check and on to the next bar. As he was slipping on his coat, he handed me his phone number and asked for mine in return. Since I had been having my own little happy hour back in the closet, I less than reluctantly gave him my number.
That Sunday, he called and asked if I wanted to have drinks on Wednesday, which happened to be Valentine’s Day. I had originally been planning on a girls’ night out for the holiday since I was still in the post-break-up mindset, but why mope when I could have a date? I wasn’t going to be so sad and pathetic on Valentine’s Day after all—and I could only hope that The Attorney still would be.
By the time Wednesday rolled around I had caught a vile illness. It was a cold-flu-West Nile-type virus and I could hardly breathe or finish a sentence without sneezing. But I was determined to go on my Valentine’s Day date. There was no way I was going to sit at home when The Attorney could possibly be out on a date of his own. So rather than crawling into bed and cuddling up to some Law & Order like I should have, I took twice the recommended dose of DayQuil, put on some extra blush, and headed down the street to Merrion Square.
When I arrived, he was already there waiting with Duane Reade roses and a rum and coke. I had to give the guy props for his thoughtfulness, but then I looked down and saw his pants and shoes. Clearly there was no thoughtfulness or even a thought process when he left for work this morning. I had a JC Penny-St. John’s Bay-Early Bird Sale situation on my hands. It’s not like I was running around town in Lanvin and Louboutin’s, but I had not encountered an apparel scare like this since my Ohio days.
“So why did you choose this bar? Is this your neighborhood spot or what?” he asked.
“It’s so cold. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving my block, let alone the Upper East Side. Where do you live again?” I asked, expecting a reply along the lines of 76th & Second or even an 89th & Lex.
Instead he responded with “Queens. I live in Astoria.”
I began choking on a piece of ice in my Ketel One and at the same time my illness kicked in and I began to sneeze incessantly. I excused myself and headed to the bathroom to load up on more DayQuil. I could sneak out the side door or even have the bar back take me through the kitchen to the back exit. But in my Acetaminophen-daze I decided I should respectfully finish the date and would just have to avoid looking below his waist.
After a few more drinks we were having a great time. He was in advertising and had gone to Penn State; I was in fashion and had gone to a small liberal arts school. He had a younger sister, I had an older sister. His family had two cats, mine had a dog and a hamster. The more I drank, the more we had in common.
After a few hours I began to wrap things up. My meningitis-Mad Cow disease-flu was actually quite exhausting and I had to work in the morning. Since I had chosen a bar approximately twenty-five yards from my apartment, he walked me home like a gentleman before he headed back to Siberia, I mean Queens. We we got to my front door and he leaned in for the kiss. Before I knew it I had invited him in for a glass of wine. Somewhere in between glass of wine #2 and daybreak I woke up in my bed to the sound of my alarm buzzing on my right side—and on my left side was a skinny, snoring geek. And at the foot of my bed were his atrocious pants and clod-hopping shoes. If only there was a morning after pill that could fix this kind of bad judgement…
TO BE CONTINUED…
Women with boyfriends thrive on Valentine’s Day, especially when their boyfriend sends them flowers at the office. The adrenaline rush that comes with the oohs and aahs of their cubicle-mates is enough to get Michael Phelps high. These oohs and aahs then segue into the perfect opportunity to remind the entire office of how wonderful the said boyfriend is, how her mother just adores him, and how romantic it was when he surprised her with tickets for The Little Mermaid on Broadway last weekend. Last but not least are the fatties. This holiday provides an opportunity to guiltlessly binge thyself all the way to a hyperglycemic coma by way of cheap chocolate and those hard, crusty candy hearts. After all, no one needs to feel guilty during a sugar binge seizure.
As I reflected back on my past Valentine’s Days, I wondered if I would ever fall into one of those four categories. Obviously I would prefer the single, alcoholic scenario, but I’d take a stab at binge eating to unconsciousness as well. I couldn’t remember the last time I had an enjoyable Valentine’s Day. In fact, I couldn’t even remember a single detail of last year’s holiday for reasons you can conclude on your own. This lack of memories then led me to the one Valentine’s Day I do remember: the year Cupid decided not to show up for work.
It was a cold February night on the Upper East Side, and I was so broke that I was considering which side job could have the most negative implications for me: Hooking or dealing? With prostitution comes exposure to a large number of diseases and requests for anal sex. With drug dealing, you could end up with significant time in the slammer or a bad coke habit—and let’s face it, there was no way I could afford joining Lohan out in Utah at the Cirque Lodge. So when the Mad River manager offered me a coat check shift, I jumped at the opportunity to make some honest money.
Not only was I broke, I was also heartbroken. The Attorney and I had just broken up a few weeks prior and I still hadn’t snapped out of my “woe is me” frame of mind. I was self-medicating with Ketel One and Marlboro Menthol Lights, which only led me to severe dehydration and the fast track to DMX’s voice box. So when a slightly geeky, twenty-something introduced himself while dropping off his coat, my only option was to introduce myself as well, considering I was in a closet full of drunk people’s coats.
Usually the small talk ceases after the customer sees that I’m going to hang their coat in an organized manner instead of throwing it in a pile on the floor, but this guy was not interested in the methodology of my coat checking—he was interested in me. After about fifteen minutes of small talk, he finally decided to go the bar and get a drink. Before I knew it, he was back at the coat check, hanging over the partition and hanging on to my every word. I couldn’t even get through an article about Nicole Richie’s eating disorder with this guy around.
Eventually happy hour ended and his friends came to drag him away from coat check and on to the next bar. As he was slipping on his coat, he handed me his phone number and asked for mine in return. Since I had been having my own little happy hour back in the closet, I less than reluctantly gave him my number.
That Sunday, he called and asked if I wanted to have drinks on Wednesday, which happened to be Valentine’s Day. I had originally been planning on a girls’ night out for the holiday since I was still in the post-break-up mindset, but why mope when I could have a date? I wasn’t going to be so sad and pathetic on Valentine’s Day after all—and I could only hope that The Attorney still would be.
By the time Wednesday rolled around I had caught a vile illness. It was a cold-flu-West Nile-type virus and I could hardly breathe or finish a sentence without sneezing. But I was determined to go on my Valentine’s Day date. There was no way I was going to sit at home when The Attorney could possibly be out on a date of his own. So rather than crawling into bed and cuddling up to some Law & Order like I should have, I took twice the recommended dose of DayQuil, put on some extra blush, and headed down the street to Merrion Square.
When I arrived, he was already there waiting with Duane Reade roses and a rum and coke. I had to give the guy props for his thoughtfulness, but then I looked down and saw his pants and shoes. Clearly there was no thoughtfulness or even a thought process when he left for work this morning. I had a JC Penny-St. John’s Bay-Early Bird Sale situation on my hands. It’s not like I was running around town in Lanvin and Louboutin’s, but I had not encountered an apparel scare like this since my Ohio days.
“So why did you choose this bar? Is this your neighborhood spot or what?” he asked.
“It’s so cold. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving my block, let alone the Upper East Side. Where do you live again?” I asked, expecting a reply along the lines of 76th & Second or even an 89th & Lex.
Instead he responded with “Queens. I live in Astoria.”
I began choking on a piece of ice in my Ketel One and at the same time my illness kicked in and I began to sneeze incessantly. I excused myself and headed to the bathroom to load up on more DayQuil. I could sneak out the side door or even have the bar back take me through the kitchen to the back exit. But in my Acetaminophen-daze I decided I should respectfully finish the date and would just have to avoid looking below his waist.
After a few more drinks we were having a great time. He was in advertising and had gone to Penn State; I was in fashion and had gone to a small liberal arts school. He had a younger sister, I had an older sister. His family had two cats, mine had a dog and a hamster. The more I drank, the more we had in common.
After a few hours I began to wrap things up. My meningitis-Mad Cow disease-flu was actually quite exhausting and I had to work in the morning. Since I had chosen a bar approximately twenty-five yards from my apartment, he walked me home like a gentleman before he headed back to Siberia, I mean Queens. We we got to my front door and he leaned in for the kiss. Before I knew it I had invited him in for a glass of wine. Somewhere in between glass of wine #2 and daybreak I woke up in my bed to the sound of my alarm buzzing on my right side—and on my left side was a skinny, snoring geek. And at the foot of my bed were his atrocious pants and clod-hopping shoes. If only there was a morning after pill that could fix this kind of bad judgement…
TO BE CONTINUED…
Monday, February 02, 2009
44691 to 10021: My Journey to the Upper East Side
How does a twenty-something year old from Ohio with a political science degree end up living on the Upper East Side, working in the fashion industry by day and slinging Coors Lights at night? It starts with harboring a perpetual dissatisfaction for Domino’s pizza and The Gap and ends with watching far too many Sex & the City reruns—and no, I don’t drink cosmos. I prefer real drinks, such as Ketel One on the rocks and shots of Jack Daniels.
While my fellow junior high cohorts were trying out for the cheerleading squad and going to the roller-skating rink to meet pimple-faced boys, I was home secretly reading my older sister’s Seventeen and Cosmo magazines. I was constantly wondering why K-Mart didn’t carry any brand of eye shadow other than Wet ‘N Wild and why every sweater in the mall (which was a 45 minute drive away) was cable knit and pastel? And, perhaps most importantly, why was I the only one who noticed that 85% of the boys in the drama club were flirting with each other and had absolutely no interest in football or bra snapping?
I was clearly born in the wrong zip code, but at age fifteen I didn’t have the financial backing to move to New York. Making hot fudge sundaes at the local Dairy Queen on the weekends didn’t exactly cover rent, or even a square foot of a Manhattan apartment. Slowly my dreams of moving to the Big Apple were placed on the back burner as I prepared for the SAT’s and applied to college. But my New York dream wouldn’t fade. The freedom and binge drinking that came with my college years wasn’t enough to satisfy my cravings for crazy taxi drivers and bagels made by real Jewish people—there were about seven Jewish people in my hometown, none of whom made bagels.
After interning at a law firm for two summers in college to test drive my pre-law political science degree, I realized what a miserable field law really was. Going to law school would not only entail spending tens of thousands of dollars, countless hours of studying, and far too few happy hours, but would end in a graduation that segued into months of studying for the Bar Exam. This tedious journey would ultimately finish by entering into a workplace full of slightly overweight, middle-aged men and bitter women who wished they would have had more promiscuous sex in college. Faced with these realizations, I decided to put my poli-sci degree to absolutely no use and make a very blasé decision—after graduation I would simply move to New York and find a job in fashion. How could an industry full of gay men, anorexic women, fabulous parties and various narcotic addictions be anything but a road to success?
After obsessively watching any and all New York-based television shows and doing some light Internet browsing, the UES was the clearly the place for a nice, Midwestern girl like me. While my mother was very supportive (she too loved Carrie Bradshaw and a good bagel), my father, John Wayne’s lost son, was more than wary of my Ohio exit strategy. However, as an Aquarius with a primary concern to first and foremost always please myself, I sold my car, packed my bags and headed east.
After a few weeks in New York, I soon realized that there was a reason six-floor walk-ups nowhere near a subway were cheaper and that gay men were more often than not bitter and bitchy. Despite these trivial quandaries, I couldn’t have been more in love with an inanimate object, let alone a neighborhood within an inanimate object. Four years and far too many dirty martinis later, I am still in love with the Upper East Side—and since it can’t break up with or cheat on me, I see us being happy together for a very long time.
While my fellow junior high cohorts were trying out for the cheerleading squad and going to the roller-skating rink to meet pimple-faced boys, I was home secretly reading my older sister’s Seventeen and Cosmo magazines. I was constantly wondering why K-Mart didn’t carry any brand of eye shadow other than Wet ‘N Wild and why every sweater in the mall (which was a 45 minute drive away) was cable knit and pastel? And, perhaps most importantly, why was I the only one who noticed that 85% of the boys in the drama club were flirting with each other and had absolutely no interest in football or bra snapping?
I was clearly born in the wrong zip code, but at age fifteen I didn’t have the financial backing to move to New York. Making hot fudge sundaes at the local Dairy Queen on the weekends didn’t exactly cover rent, or even a square foot of a Manhattan apartment. Slowly my dreams of moving to the Big Apple were placed on the back burner as I prepared for the SAT’s and applied to college. But my New York dream wouldn’t fade. The freedom and binge drinking that came with my college years wasn’t enough to satisfy my cravings for crazy taxi drivers and bagels made by real Jewish people—there were about seven Jewish people in my hometown, none of whom made bagels.
After interning at a law firm for two summers in college to test drive my pre-law political science degree, I realized what a miserable field law really was. Going to law school would not only entail spending tens of thousands of dollars, countless hours of studying, and far too few happy hours, but would end in a graduation that segued into months of studying for the Bar Exam. This tedious journey would ultimately finish by entering into a workplace full of slightly overweight, middle-aged men and bitter women who wished they would have had more promiscuous sex in college. Faced with these realizations, I decided to put my poli-sci degree to absolutely no use and make a very blasé decision—after graduation I would simply move to New York and find a job in fashion. How could an industry full of gay men, anorexic women, fabulous parties and various narcotic addictions be anything but a road to success?
After obsessively watching any and all New York-based television shows and doing some light Internet browsing, the UES was the clearly the place for a nice, Midwestern girl like me. While my mother was very supportive (she too loved Carrie Bradshaw and a good bagel), my father, John Wayne’s lost son, was more than wary of my Ohio exit strategy. However, as an Aquarius with a primary concern to first and foremost always please myself, I sold my car, packed my bags and headed east.
After a few weeks in New York, I soon realized that there was a reason six-floor walk-ups nowhere near a subway were cheaper and that gay men were more often than not bitter and bitchy. Despite these trivial quandaries, I couldn’t have been more in love with an inanimate object, let alone a neighborhood within an inanimate object. Four years and far too many dirty martinis later, I am still in love with the Upper East Side—and since it can’t break up with or cheat on me, I see us being happy together for a very long time.
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