I’m not sure whether to tell you that you rock the camel’s ass, or host an intervention. But I think I’d rather be an enabler in this case. My site stats love you. And so do I.

On a completely un-related note:

If I survive today at work, someone should totally buy me a drink. Or the Joss Stone CD. Or maybe just some cough drops.

A real post coming later. I promise.

It’s not just Cinderella Steve. It’s the epidemic he represents.

You do realize that you come here, I tell the same story with roughly the same ending, and I still act shocked and dismayed. Why? I mean, nothing changes!

Well, I can’t say that nothing changes, because there are a few variances: The date on the calendar, the time on the clock. The length of my skirt and the amount of peroxide in my hair. His name. How long it takes him to say, “Oh, the things I would do to you…”. The brand of beer on his breath at the time he says it. The excuses he makes.

I find myself giving credit to Cinderella Steve for even apologizing! It certainly saved me time getting all worked up delivering the You Insulting Little Prick speech.

It all just makes me so tired. Tired of being naive and disappointed. Of constantly choosing between bristling at attention or clinging to false compliments. Of deciding not to trust them anymore. And doing it anyway. Tired of thinking it’s going to be different this time. But being pretty sure it won’t.

Basically, just tired of being me.

Because this is MY fairy tale….

Cinderella Steve has a girlfriend. Isn’t that just precious? Don’t worry, it gets better. He was out that night looking to cheat.

How handy that I was there, no?

Word travels fast in magical kingdoms, and before he could say oh fuck, I had the little bastard on the phone. Cornered.

He denied it.

Only to call back fifteen minutes ago to apologize. Yes, he has a girlfriend. Yes, he’s horribly sorry because (get this) I’m just so amazing and attractive that… well, you get the picture.

Cinderella Steve actually thanked me for being so “easy.”

“Do you mean, thank you for being a whore? Or do you mean, thank you for being so understanding?”
“I meant, thank you for being understanding.”
“You shouldn’t have lied when I called you on it.”
“I know.”
“Fine then. Take care of yourself.”

What is it with me?

Do I emit some sort of magnetic field that disables men and makes them forget significant factors like… they’re already seeing someone? And it takes them several hours (during which they’ve attempted to go down my throat and up my skirt) to remember??

Let this be clear: I am no man’s other woman. And what’s more, I’m done with this. Done. You stupid lying bastards. My fairy tales do not end in “happily ever after.” They end in, “what the fuck.”

I totally hope he caught my cold.

or, J’s house party

It had been almost a year since I spent any time with the old gang.

gang n. Informal. A group of people who associate regularly on a social basis: The whole gang from the office went to a clambake. And in this case, J’s friends, roommates (and respective girlfriends) who, for a substantial amount of time, were my confidantes, co-conspirators and Trivial Pursuit team partners.

Arriving late to the party (with the Original Big City Galpal in tow), was like walking into a big hug, what with all the “my god, it’s so great to see you“s and the “girl, I’ve missed you“s. I mean, any entrance you make that erupts in a handful of people telling you how great you look is pretty phenomenal.

After all the build-up (I can’t wait for you to meet Tricia!) and though I saw her among the other guests, I was never introduced to J’s new girlfriend. Hmmm. Riddle me that. Maybe it was the quarter keg that J had already consumed. Who knows.

I couldn’t have been less concerned.

Sometime after midnight, the second living room turned into a dance floor. J’s ex-roommate W and I tore it up. W and I had always been very fond of each other. He spent hours teaching me the finer points to Grand Theft Auto IV: Vice City, and probably just as many consoling me when J was on his not-so-best behavior. Between he and B, they seemed to make up for the zillion ways in which I felt completely under-appreciated by their roommate. In short, I adore him.

At last night’s party, after his girlfriend had departed and the drink had made him especially candid, W made my night. Though I am not quite sure how she interpreted his candor, she must have found it amusing, because it was Big City Galpal who decided that today’s post should be titled as it is. W was in hilarious form and I had a tremendous night dancing and being silly.

W: H, being around you makes me horny.
H: HA! Rarrr. Thanks!
W: (to GalPal) Isn’t she sexy?
GP: I’ve always thought so.
W: Um, H… your tummy is showing.
H: Yeah, I know. It’s gotten a bit bigger since you saw me last.
W: I think it’s beeeee-yutiful.
H: W, I think you’re beautiful.

We promised to email and have drinks soon, hugged and kissed good-bye. It’s never going to be like old times, but after seeing J drunk and disorderly at his party, I am ever-so-glad that’s the case.

So, once upon a time…

We met at a party. He came as the guest of his roommate and when he walked in all tall dark and handsome, I amped up the flirt. We left the party together, headed to a dance club. Things heated up. But somewhere between the coat check and the street, we got separated in the mass exodus of club goers. He had disappeared without a trace. I was perplexed.

I mean, even Cinderella was kind enough to leave behind a shoe. Couldn’t he have at least spared his phone number? I waited the appropriate number of days before asking about him. He never tried to contact me.

And then last night, at a different club in a different part of town, over a year later, there he was. Cinderella Steve. We moved in different circles for most of the night, watching out of corners of eyes, doing the Bar and Lounge Mating Dance. He not-so casually bumped into me and next thing you know, we were shooting Kamikazes.

You know, the stuff fairy tales are made of.

Several shots later, his hand resting on my elbow, he brought up our first meeting.

H: Mmm hmm… you mean when you disappeared?
CS: I did?
H: Yes. I asked your roommate about you. He said you weren’t interested.
CS: WHAT?! He told me to back off because HE liked you!
H: Yeah, I sorta figured he did, but…
CS: Wait, you asked about me?
H: Yes. I mean, I wondered what happened.
CS: I didn’t know you cared at all.
H: I did. Back then.
CS: But now?

He leaned in before I could answer.

CS: I want to kiss you. Really badly.
H: That’d be pretty bold.
CS: Are you playing games with me? God, you smell really good.
H: No. No games. Let’s go to the dance floor.

And we did.

So, twice upon a time, Cinderella Steve and I steamed up a crowded dance floor. Only this time, he left with my phone number.

And he called.

I walked to work today.

My eyes kept tearing from the wind and the tears froze right to my little eyelashes. And the best part of it all is that the heat is broken at our office.

Tonight is drink, dance and be merry, complete with out of town guests, provactive behavior and… curly hair. All I need is a pair of really great shoes and I’ll be a new woman for the night. It is pay day…
J is throwing a party tomorrow night. I said I’d go. The party is basically a coming out event to announce he and New Girl as an official couple. It’ll be a scream. Funny thing is, I actually can’t wait to meet this girl. He’s so crazy about her.

I don’t feel much like me today. Maybe it’s the cold. Maybe it’s this not-sleeping thing. Maybe it’s that I have a whole bunch of thoughts in my head, and can’t focus enough to write them. Last night, I came home, and took some Godiva ice cream and my cell phone into the tub. I sat in the steamy water, eating some really rich chocolate, and made a phone call.

G: Wow, my horoscope didn’t predict this.
H: (laughing) Hi. Where are you?
G: Baltimore. You know, saving the world. How you doin’?
H: Cold. And tired. I wish you were here to take a nap with me.
G: Here I fantasize about getting a booty call from you for YEARS and now, when I’m a zillion miles away…
H: HA! And if you knew I was callin’ you from the tub…
G: Sweet Lord.
H: Besides, I’d wouldn’t be using you for your body so much as your body HEAT.
G: Hmm… you do have the coldest fingers known to man.
H: Remember how I used to stick them in your arm pits? You loved that.
G: (laughing) You’re such a weird girl. (long silence) I miss you being weird.
H: I miss you, too. Sounds busy there. Maybe I should let you get back to saving the world, Governor?
G: (chuckle) Remember how you said you wanted to marry me so you could wear little white gloves and have tea time with ladies with big hair?
H: Hell yes. One of the few good things about being a politician’s wife, right?
G: There are at least ten women in gloves and big hair in this room right now. You’d be in heaven.
H: Call one of them Buffy for me, will you?
G: Will do. Be good. Love you.
H: Love you, too.

Hot bath, cold ice cream and an old flame. I suspect that there’s no greater therapy. Well, sex might be nice, but it’s really too cold to shave my legs.

You should have warned us it gets so cold here
And the night can freeze before you set a fire
And our flames go unnoticed, diminished
Faded just as soon as they are fired

I crawled into bed at a decent hour, determined to defeat this latest bout of brutal insomnia. In bed, tucked under two layers of down comforters, head buried in the half dozen pillows, I encountered two obstacles. Neither of which were insomnia related.

Kitten

At first, it was such a happy, cozy scene, her snuggled against my chest, occasionally leaning back to lick me on the eyebrow (I’m assuming by how often she does this that either it’s a sign of affection or that she’s not satisfied with my own eyebrow grooming efforts). And then, in her own kitten fashion, 1 AM hit and it was play time.

Pounce!
Cut it out. Must sleep.
Pounce harder!
Kitten! If you make me move from this warm spot… I swear!

Now, Kitten (isn’t she damn cute?) responds to one command. One. And she does it without fail (okay, for the most part). This is how it works: I say “kiss!” and she jumps up on the bed, in instantaneous purr mode, and puts her head down. And I kiss her little forehead. Simple enough. So, between pounces, I pulled my face out from under the pillows, gave the command, a kiss and settled her back into purr and cuddle mode. Success!

Obstacle two was not met with as much success.

The cold

I could not get warm. The Kitten Furnace did its job, but come on, she’s not that big. My feet were freezing. I’m starting to believe that getting married, just to have someone to warm your cold feet against, is as good of a reason as any (better than some I’ve heard, anyway). Someone legally obligated to keep your feet warm, to make the other half of the bed and to give you a reason to stay in bed on cold mornings.

Insert seductive tiger growl here

H: Would you think I was crazy if…
R: I already think you’re crazy.

He makes a move to put Tea Kettle of Happiness on the wrong burner.

H: For the love of God! Put it on the right burner!!
R: (laughing hysterically) You just turned into the devil from Legend! I swear, your eyes were glowing!
H: Can we pretend that didn’t happen?
R: Hell no! That was sweet. Here, does this make you feel better? (places Tea Kettle on correct burner)
H: *sigh* yes, yes it does.

Roommate leaves the room, and I stealthily move to the stove where I turn the Kettle to face the right direction.

Oh yeah, I’ve got issues.

I may have to divorce Roommate.

I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this, but either we seek immediate therapy or it’s over.

It’s no secret that I’m… well, nutty about some things. Like the closet. It’s a neurotic, aesthetic thing. I get that.

And I try not to push off my “everything has its place” fanaticism on Roommate, because generally, Roommate (being the very tidy kid that he is) is very good with noticing where there is an existing H System. (He follows the color-coded sponge rule very well.)

But we have come to an impasse. Our first. An irreconcilable difference.

My beautiful kettle, provider of tea-time happiness, sits on the back, right burner. It just DOES. That’s where it belongs.

Well, now Roommate, who used to make his coffee in the nice little coffee maker that I bought him, has found a new, ghetto way to get his morning jolt. And it involves using the Tea Kettle of Happiness.

Today marks morning five that I have come out of my room to find my world turned upside down, Kettle on the front LEFT burner. WHAT? Is he crazy?? Front, left burner?? No, no, no. Everyone knows that’s not where it GOES.

Tea Time is ruined.

And I can’t just say, “Hey, Roommate, could you put the Tea Kettle of Happiness back on the correct burner?” Because, dude, that just makes me look crazy.

We were high school sweethearts.

You know, in the way that only exists today in very small towns. (High school sweethearts, in that sense, seem to have gone out of style.)

I wore his letter jacket; we passed notes, left trinkets in each other’s lockers. I used to turn all the house phones off so my parents wouldn’t wake up when he got home from practice and called to say good night. We had a song.

We met when I was 14. He was a year older. And being the daughter of an over-protective father, I wasn’t allowed to date until I was 16. House rules. But at 15 ½, the law was bent and we had our first date. Both sets of parents agreed that it wasn’t in our best interest to form any serious ties. So, there were rules. So many rules. And we kept them all. I remember that he couldn’t take me to the winter formal one year. I had to go with another boy.

His mother died when I was 16. And not suddenly. Because of treatments and surgeries and transplants, her death (of a rare blood cancer) dragged out. It held everyone hostage, in a way. It pulled at some strings, tightened others. I remember when they crowned him Homecoming King, his mother standing by him on the windy football field, one arm linked through his, and the other holding down her strawberry-blond wig. And I remember sitting at her funeral, not too many months later, watching him carry her casket away. And I remember thinking that I hoped I never loved anyone as much as I loved him. Because it was unbelievably painful to watch him cry.

I went away to college when I was 17. We wrote. But over the moths, we wrote less and less frequently and eventually went the way of all high school sweethearts (at least those who leave their small towns). And there I was at 17, in possession of years of letters signed, Always, Chris, and absolutely certain I didn’t want to love anyone as much as I loved him. Because it was unbelievably painful to watch him leave.

He married when I was twenty-something. I don’t even remember the year. Because, of course, by then, I was completely recovered. Because at 17, we don’t know anything about our own resilience. And at twenty-five, I rarely think about him, except as an entry in my dating resume.

I do keep all of his love letters, though. Mostly because I’ve never gotten another.

They seem to have gone out of style.

We started out as four that night — three guys and me, drinking, dancing, playing, “Would you go home with…” and hypothetically setting each other up with the club’s troglodytes.

It’s not a very nice game, really.

I was throwing back the vodka tonics, begging them to take me onto the dance floor. They did. And then suddenly, we were two. I remember being confused when I was handed my wallet and the other two left. But we kept dancing. I was being flirtatious. A kiss here and there. I wasn’t being coy. Just having fun and not altogether sure I wanted to head in any particular direction. He was the smooth-talking kind, clearly, having already smooth-talked his friends into leaving the bar before I knew what was going on.

I didn’t want to be talked into anything.

“You’re a line a minute, you know.”
“Why do you say that? You’ve been blowing me off since the 4th of July. And I like you! That’s not a line.”
“You don’t know me. How do you know you like me?” Again, I wasn’t being coy. Defensive, for whatever reason — but not coy.
“Well, A, you’re sexy as hell. B, you’re a good dancer…”
“You’d better be able to go all the way to Z.” I laughed.
“C, you snort when you laugh.”
“And that’s likeable?!”
”Yes. It means you’re low maintenance — not too prissy. D, you’re really considerate of your roommate. I like that.”
“Hmmm, alright. You can have that one.”
“E, you can quote Zoolander. F, great kisser. G, you’re amazingly soft.”
“Is that a euphemism for fat?”
“You’re insane. Are you going to argue with me all the way back to your place?”
“You think that’s where you’re going?”

By the time he made it all the way to Z, that’s exactly where we were. I put a movie on; we didn’t watch it. I don’t think I have to tell you to curb your imagination as to what happened. I’m a good girl.

And I’m a cagey girl.

Because when he came by the next afternoon, he got something of a cold shoulder. I knew I was doing it… but defense systems were engaged and I couldn’t help it. See, the worst part is, had you seen this guy’s face, you might have believed he meant that list. Maybe even down to the letter. And I? Well, I remember having to stop myself from calling him by another man’s name.

Seriously, I should come with some sort of warning stapled to my face. (I’ll leave it to you to work out the exact wording.)

The girls came bearing dessert and Jose Cuervo.

I made tacos, strawberry margaritas and ice cream sundaes. We played tipsy Scrabble. (Though, I gave up after round 5, when thanks to the Cuervo, all of the letters became as difficult to place as Q.) We watched Law and Order SVU.

And we curled my hair.

It’s the greatest temptation. There’s not a Barbie-ownin’ girlfriend out there who hasn’t, at one point, wanted to make this stick straight mop into a mass of curls. So my girl came armed with a new ceramic curling iron, and an iron will to make me look less Stephen King’s Carrie, and more Carrie Bradshaw, Season II. She was a success. Even Roommate did a double take.

The new “do” debuts Friday night at Soho.

I know, I know. I had you at Cuervo and lost you at curling iron. And I know that Friday night’s hook-up story is much more interesting, but I haven’t quite figured out which gory details to omit, yet. But if you show up on Friday night, the likelihood that I’ll be blitzed enough to tell the whole, uncensored tale, is very high.

As for tonight, I’m staying in, ruminating, chowing on some homemade chicken fried rice, and about to settle into a hot bath. Bills are paid, the Q1-04 budget squared away, and I intend to start of my new year (which incidentally gets underway tomorrow) residue free.

At 5:30 AM, we discover he is allergic to cats.

At 5:42 AM, I send him home.

***edit***

1:34 PM

The REAL issue is not whether I can find a suitable curse word for the events that transpired but rather, what the hell was I doing bringing him back to my apartment in the FIRST place?!

I’m going to go shower now and find something to kill this hangover. And when I emerge, I hope to have the answer to that.

Oh, hi 2004. Were you supposed to be different? My bad.

Or, how I spent the last twenty-four hours

BosNyp

I brought Ayn Rand along because it’s a long trip and Atlas Shrugged is a long, long read. I fell asleep after 20 pages. When I woke up, face smooshed against the glass, the train was dark. I blinked a couple of times to focus and when I did, I caught the reflection of HeMan, several rows up, staring at my reflection in the glass. (Okay, so maybe more Prince Adam than HeMan, but decidedly quite nordic, blond and brawny. SO VERY Flash Gordon). I did the polite thing, and looked away. You know, to give him a chance to do the same? He didn’t. After a while, it started to make me nervous. And fidgety. Stop. Looking. At. Me. He didn’t, so I looked back as if to ask, “What do you want?” He smiled. After the train ride we exchanged Happy New Years and I ducked into the subway.

NYC for NYE

“It’s so good to see you! I have M&Ms. Peanut and plain. I know who I’m dealing with!”
If you know Ari, you probably understand that all of that came in one breath in the middle of a very big hug. I had some M&Ms (it would have been rude not to!), we got ready and then headed to the party, tottering in too high, too narrow heels, and amusing some fellas on the street with our,
“Sweet Jesus, how does Jessica Simpson do this ALL the time?”
“Too dumb to feel.”
“Ah. Say no more.”
Times Square area, or the festive recreation of 1949 War-torn Europe, was quite the experience. Every intersection down Broadway was another border (complete with half a dozen snarky cops). Us and our Evite passports. Well, really, more like, Us and our Evite passports and powers of flirtation. (Some of New York’s finest really are some of New York’s finest. Yowza.)

As for the party, a few items:
- Sam, wicked sorry for monopolizing your date. And those are some mad sneak attack camera skillz.
- Dahlia, girl, what a pleasure!
- Doug, there’s an unopened bottle of vodka hiding somewhere in your apartment. Don’t say I never gave you anything.
- Anyone who saw me open the bottle of champagne and hit myself in the face with the cork, yeah, it left a bruise, okay?

I know that by the time we left the party, I told someone I was pleasantly tipsy. LIAR. I was rocked. The original Big City GalPal mixes a strong drink! We three gals made it a few blocks (thank you for holding my hand, Ari) for post-party drinks, and I was really in a state. Shoes, booze and tongue all working against one another in a bizarre fashion. I was talking faster than my brain would keep up. And I’m fairly certain I told a story I have never told anyone since I left Dallas. Let’s keep that one under wraps, okay?
Home around what, 4:30? Awake around 2 PM and back at Penn Station at 4 PM. And happily, no hangover in between.

NypBos

Well, that’s where I am writing this. So, let’s talk New Year’s Resolutions. This year’s theme is, Live Deliberately, and my goals are two-fold.

Debt No More, 2004
On June 1st, I intend to be finished with Visa and their interest rate rape. I should be living within my means. Ten thousand dollars in raises in one year and I have debt? That’s ridiculous.

Do something well
I play the piano. I play the guitar (I do a mean version of Smelly Cat). I paint. All only marginally well. You know, party-trick talents. So, starting in two weeks, I’m taking of of my marginally practiced talents to school. Latin Ballroom classes.

Last year’s resolution was to drink more water. Which I totally accomplished. Let’s hope this year is as… successful.

Dear Everyone I Talked To Last Night in my Intoxicated State,

I do not think I have ever run my mouth like that in my life. My sincerest apologies for being that drunk girl. I do come with an off button, I swear.

Love,

H

(I wrote a whole post about New Year’s Eve on the train home this evening. But, I’m tired. Bone tired. So I’ll get to that tomorrow. Love and hugs and stuff.)