Stuff It

Moral indignation is jealously with a halo.

-H.G. Wells

 

“I just think Selena Gomez could be a little edgier that’s all,” my office mate Brit explained to me as we sat in the conference room stuffing gift bags for one of Mr. G’s events last week.  I pretended to know who Selena Gomez was for the sake of the conversation.  When I googled her later that afternoon, I realized I graduated from high school the same year this girl was born.  

“She’s so boring. Her songs are just so Splenda to me,” Brit continued.  

“I’m sorry they’re what?” I asked.

“Splenda!” Brit purred.  Yeah, she purred.

“I think you mean saccharin.” I said and continued with the bags.

“Whatevs,” she said and looked at her Blackberry for the umpteenth time.  

“How old is this Selena woman?” I asked.

“I don’t know, maybe 15 or 16?” she said without taking her eyes off her phone.

She then suddenly looked up at me as if the knowledge gods had face-banged “the smart” into her.  

 

“I know!  Maybe a good old fashioned sex tape would get her into superstar status.  That’s how I’d play it if she were my client,” she proclaimed.

“With ideas like that, you’re going to have your own publicity empire Brit,” I said and actually meant it. 

“I see her as a plain Jane.  I think maybe she needs to go out more and wear less clothes,” she said. 

Oh my god, she’s actually serious. 

“I’m just saying…” she said and trailed off not finishing her thought.

“You’re just saying WHAT exactly?” I asked annoyed.  ”Nevermind,” I added in for posterity.

I think my ears are bleeding. 

 

I nearly completed all the gift bags and Brit continued to text and email.  Ugh.

I sighed loudly to let Brit know how completely annoyed by her I was.  Take that! 

“Seriously?” Brit said without lifting her eyes. 

“What?” I asked. 

“Come on, don’t play the passive- aggressive card with me.  I know that strategy better than anyone, and let me tell you it only gets you so far,” she snipped.

“Passive-aggressive?  I’m not being passive-aggressive.  I have plans later and I want to get the hell out of here.”

“Oh really? What gay bar are you going to tonight?” she said and rolled her eyes.  I secretly think Brit was jealous of my big gay boy posse.  She could use some gay boys in her life.

“Therapy, actually.”

“How appropriate,” she said. 

I shrugged and went back to stuffing the remaining bags. 

“That’s what I’m talking about right there. Passive! You could stand to learn a few things from me,” she yelped.

You?  ”Like what?”  

“Like how to grow a backbone for starters,” she said. 

“I think I’m doing just fine, thank you,” I said proudly. 

“Right, that’s why you’re stuffing bags with me.  I’m sorry, but how much longer have you been working here than me?” 

The next thing I knew, without warning, Brit violently SWEPT everything she owned off the conference table onto the floor in one fair swoop. 

“What the hell was that?” I gasped. Brit picked up a notebook, slammed it down on the table causing a giant BANG! 

“JESUS CHRIST!” she screamed. She reminded me of Anna Faris as the Samantha James character from the movie Just Friends at the exact moment.  She grabbed a cell phone from her bag and smashed it into pieces.  I literally stood up and was ready to make a break for the door.

Then she screamed:

 

“ARE YOU KIDDING ME?  It’s just so goddamn sad, I could take a gun to my head.” 

 

Had I been smart and been recording this via my cell phone, this could undoubtedly would have been the next YouTube sensation.

“What are you doing?” I shouted.   

 

“Did you forget to take your meds?” I continued. 

 

Brit recomposed herself and sat down gracefully. 

“What the hell was that?” I asked horrified at what had just occurred.  

And as if I was asking her the time, she simply said, “I was trying to show you how to win by completely losing it.  I took a course from the Learning Annex called ”The Successful Tantrum.” 

“Are you serious? You threw everything on the floor. You smashed your cell phone into bits, all to show me how to throw a tantrum? ”

Brit smirked and said, “Actually, I didn’t throw any of your stuff on the floor.  It was all mine.”  Then as if she was giving me a play by play, she continued: ”I had to hit something that would make a big splash without breaking anything.  Otherwise I’d be in the company’s debt or worse a physical confrontation. And let’s face it, you’re about twenty pounds larger than me and I don’t want to mess with that.”  Twenty? No way. Ten at the most.  Fine, maybe fifteen.

“And the cell phone?” I asked ignoring her bitchy comment. 

“I keep a spare deactivated one in my purse for these types of things.  When I get a new phone, I keep the old ones and save them for these types of occasions,” she said proudly. 

I was speechless until finally I blurted:

You’re a friggin’ nut job. 

 

“Thank you so much!” she said and packed up her purse.  ”And I do believe we are done here,” she said looking at the completed gift bags.  ”Now I’m off to get drunk, and have sex with my incredibly hot boyfriend.”

“Bye,” I said and opened the conference room door.

“Have fun with the gay guys,” she said and left the office.

I walked back to my desk and plopped down in my chair.  As much as I was loathe to admit it, she was right on a lot of levels.  I was passive with my feelings.  I don’t say how I truly feel to my friends or to anyone for that matter.  I’m quick with some banter, but when pushed I’m paralyzed when it comes to actual emotion.  I’m not saying that Brit’s suggestion of throwing a bitch-fit is the answer, but the way things were going in my life something had to change or I was destined to be the single friend in couplesland forever.

I thought about calling Ryan, Daniel, Michael or even Christopher. They would definitely be there for me and could offer the support I needed.  I grabbed a sample size of Absolut that sat on my desk, left over from yet another gift bag.  I downed it in one shot.  

I stared at my computer screen and then picked up the phone and dialed.

“Hello?” he said.  

I took a deep breath, not sure whether or not I was ready for this conversation.  Things had been awkward, to say the least, the last time we’d seen each other.

“Justin?  Hi. I’m not sure if you remember me or not, but we met on the subway a couple weeks ago…” 

My Bitch

I bought my female pug six months after I moved to Chelsea.  I bought her from a breeder in the Midwest who actually looked like a pug herself.  She came from a large litter and was quite rambunctious, often picking fights with her brothers and sisters. The breeder couldn’t rid of her fast enough.  

“She’s a real troublemaker,” the breeder said at the time.  Such a pain in the ass, in fact, that I even got her at a discounted rate if I agreed to take her sooner.  I’ve never been one to turn my back on a good sale. 

Three weeks later, I picked my new puppy up at the American Airlines cargo area of JFK.  I was so excited to welcome her into my life.  Unconditional love, a constant companion, I was absolutely certain that it was going to be bliss.  As the two of us rode in the back of a yellow cab headed into the city, I took her out of her travel crate and held her against my chest.

“Welcome to New York baby girl.  The most glamourous city in the world,” I said in between holding my breath from the stench of Curry and pine-scented air freshener courtesy of our taxi driver.

And then she peed on my shirt. 

My first night with the puppy was hellacious.  In fact, she didn’t want to sleep at all.  I tried the alarm clock wrapped in a blanket trick.  I tried covering her crate.  But she continued to whine and howl.  I brought her into bed with me and all she wanted to do was eat my hair.  I couldn’t take it anymore, and at three o’clock in the morning I took her outside onto the sidewalk of Eighteenth Street.  She was in heaven.  

It was like a totally different dog.  She hopped around playfully.  She rolled on her back for strangers as they walked by.  She didn’t bark once. She loved New York at night.  I, on the hand, was ready to head straight back to JFK and bid her adieu.  Fortunately for her, I brought her back upstairs, and took a Tylenol PM (this was before Ambien, thank you) and went to bed.  Fortunately, it was the weekend and I didn’t have to work.

The next morning I woke up a bit groggy from the Tylenol and the puppy was out cold.  Literally, I thought I’d rolled over and killed her in my sleep.  She didn’t move.  Then she farted.  She was definitely alive and well.

I decided to let her sleep as I got ready to meet Christopher for some Saturday afternoon shopping.  As I walked to the bathroom, I noticed my laundry bag on its side.  As I went in for a closer look, I noticed my most expensive bras and panties were strewn about my floor.  I looked at my couch and saw that the leg had been chewed, and my stack of old Vogue magazines were shredded.  My studio apartment looked like a crack house.

Who in the hell did she think she was staying up all night, making a mess of things and sleeping all day? Me?

I finally woke her highness up and took her for a walk on Eighth Avenue.  She wanted no part of it.  Every time I moved, she put on the brakes.  I think I literally dragged her for two blocks.  However the minute any gay man stopped to say hi to her, she was the life of the party–jumping around, shaking her little butt, and giving kisses at will.  The minute they would leave, I’d bend down to pet her.  She’d sit on the sidewalk and stare–no kisses, no jumping, no nothin’.  Even my own dog was indifferent towards me.

As we got closer to Twenty-third Street we were stopped by a lesbian couple.  Same drill as before with the gay boys, constant flirting, if not more with the lesbians.  I was beginning to get a complex.

By the time I reached Christopher, I was ready to stop at FedEx and send her back.  She hated me.  Of course, she LOVED him.  I explained to him what had happened over the last twenty-four hours, hoping for some sort of sympathy.  I got none.

“What did you expect? She’s a puppy for godssake.” He sniped.

“Some appreciation, maybe?  I don’t know.  Some love perhaps?” I said.

“What did you name her?” Christopher asked while holding her in his arms.  She laid it on extra thick with him; nuzzled his neck, let out an adorable bark, and then would occasionally lick him if he focused too much on me.  Attention whore.

“I don’t know.  I’m thinking of naming her Bitch.”  I said dead serious.

“You don’t have a name for her yet?” he asked horrified.

“No Queen, I don’t.  I thought I’d see what fit her personality.” 

He stared down at her wet nose and looked into her eyes.  ”Let’s see, she’s a Midwestern gal, she’s a night-owl that prefers to be out and about at 3AM, she has a private party in your apartment and you’re not invited, she likes to sleep all day, gay boys and lesbian women both seem to adore her, and she has no particular interest in straight people.  Well, we could call her Farrah but that might be weird.”

“Cute,” I said.

Christopher paced back and forth and then suddenly it hit me.

“Madonna!” I shouted.  ”It’s perfect.  It’s so her.”

Christopher grinned and then nodded in agreement.  ”Hello Madonna, I’m Christopher.”

“Give her to me. Give her over!” I said and reached for my little girl.

I grabbed her and raised her up to my chest again.  ”We’re going to rule this city, you and I, Madonna.”

Finally, I felt some sort of kinship to her.  It would be the closet I’d ever be to Madonna.  I gave her another little squeeze, and I could’ve swore I felt her lick my neck.

And then she peed on my shirt.

Piece of Brit

“You need some kind of stability in your life, and let’s face it you’re not some twenty-two year old who can land a sugar daddy for a husband.” 

That’s what my twenty-six year old co-worker, Brit, said to me after I told her about hot subway guy. Brit fit the stereotypical publicist mold:  skinny, whiny, and spoke with a severe affectation despite being from the middle of New Jersey.  

Brit was the type of girl who would do a handstand in the shower and tell people she owned a bidet. 

However, this is why she will probably be promoted over me.  

“I don’t know why you’d call this guy.  You don’t know anything about him.”  She was right. I didn’t.  Hell, I couldn’t even call him by his name, Justin.  I only referred to him as hot subway guy.  So lame.

“You don’t understand though, he’s so cute.  And he was interested in me,” I explained.  ”Do you know the last time a straight man, with the exception of one with an affinity for syringes, was interested in me?”

“But he rode the subway,” she argued.

“I ride the subway,” I shot back.

“Which is exactly my point, you get what you attract.  It’s the law of attraction,” she informed me.

“Um, okay.  First I’d like to congratulate you for actually finishing a book. So, good job.  But something tells me that The Secret doesn’t discriminate against subway riders.”

She completely ignored my comment and went on, “Wouldn’t you rather date someone that took a cab or better yet used a car service?”  She then got really excited. I’m talking orgasmic excited like on those Dannon Yogurt commercials.  ”Or even had their own car?!?” She squealed.

“No.  If he’s taking the subway it proves to me he’s incredibly intelligent, instead of wasting his time and money in traffic.”

“Whatever,” she said with the obligatory eye roll.  ”Besides, do you really think you should be focused on a guy at this point?  I’m not saying that the ship has sailed, but it’s harder and harder to see dry land from your vantage point.”

Why do you hate me God?

She continued with the dreaded, “Don’t you think it’s time to get focused with your life?”

“You’re right,” I said breezily.  ”I had a job before this and I did pretty well.”

“Didn’t you used to work in retail?” she sneered.  I nodded.

“That wasn’t a job.  No one ever chooses to work in retail.  It’s like penance for your past life sins.”  

If that was the case then,

I must have killed a basket of puppies in a past life to deserve this misery.

I did work in retail for a spell before getting into publicity, but really it was pretty much the same gig–sucking up to people, that in any other circumstance, you’d rather eat broken glass than speak to.

“Maybe Mr. G (our boss) has some friends he can introduce you to?” 

“One can always hope for miracles,” I said.  

Fortunately, Brit’s cell phone rang and I no longer had to continue with this round of questioning.  If I wanted to be tortured about the deplorable state that was my life I’d call my mother.  

Instead of picking up the phone and calling him, I taped hot subway guy’s card to my computer.  In keeping with Brit’s “secret” theme, I told myself I was creating my own version of a vision board.

The rest of the day I sent out pitch letters and worked on a press release, but my heart wasn’t in it.  I’m definitely going through something, but I’m too old for a quarter-life crisis and feel far too young to be considered going through a midlife crisis.

I went home and called the boys to see if they wanted to watch my newest obsession, Tabatha’s Salon Takeover, with me on TiVo.  This woman is incredible and so inspiring.  She doesn’t take any bullshit, knows what she wants, and looks fabulous.  

The boys all had something to do, so it was only me and my best friend Grey.  By the time I finished my second Martini, I was screaming at the TV.  

I woke up this morning and was horrified to find six messages in my inbox. Apparently in my woozy state I had emailed a slew of publicist acquaintances, not even friends, asking if they had contact information for Tabatha.  I also wrote in the email that:

My life was in desperate need of one of “Tabatha’s Takeovers.”

 

I’d like to think there’s some greater lesson in all of this, but I can’t think of one except for the obvious: don’t drink and email.

One, two, three…

“One martini is all right, two is two many, three is not enough.”

-James Thurber

 

Based on the above quote, I bet you can guess how my evening was last night.  I’ll explain later. Right now, I need Advil. Lots and lots of Advil.

Sorry for the small post. More to come later.  I promise.  

Don’t hate.

xoxo

Farrah

This One Takes The (Cup)Cake

“Once that thing does a facial too, it’s mine.” 
—Kathie Lee Gifford on a remote-control bidet.

(this has nothing to do with this post, but it’s just too borderline amazing to pass up.Just  put that visual in your mind.  See what I mean? source)

 

Saturday, I convinced Ryan to go with me to Bloomie Nails for a mani/pedi.  Ryan balked at the idea of getting a manicure.  His response, “It’s just so gay.”

My response to him:

“You like dick.  You ARE gay Ryan.”

He tried telling me he’d rather chill and watch the USC football game.  Sigh.  

“Why don’t you ask Daniel?  He likes that sorta thing.”

“I want to go with you.“

I didn’t want to be rude and tell Ryan that I had already texted Daniel before him.  Moreover what I couldn’t tell Ryan was that Daniel texted me back informing me that he had spent the night at the NYU dorms with the guy he met a few weeks ago.  

Again, let me remind you, like I did Daniel this morning–Daniel is thirty-four.  He has a GORGEOUS apartment, and he slept in a twin bed last night.  That better be some amazing sex because there’s no way in hell that you could get me to sleep in a twin bed with another human being. EVER.

“Michael?” he offered.

“You know what happened last time I went with him.”  

Michael and I were thrown out of the nail salon when the manicurist complained about his constant swearing, and asked him to stop.  He looked at her and smiled sweetly.  Then,

He told her to go fist herself.

“Oh.  Yeah.  Well, how about Christopher?”

I didn’t feel like explaining to Ryan that after Beige, I didn’t feel like hanging out with Christopher all that much.  Ever.  A shift had occurred. I felt horrible for thinking it.  And what I had been struggling with since Tuesday night was:

Can you ever come back to a friendship after a shift occurs?

“No. He’s probably busy with Alfredo doing wedding stuff,” I told Ryan.

Just when I thought I was going to have to make this trek alone, I heard a noise…

“Oh. My. God,” I said into the phone.

“What?” he asked, wondering what could possibly come out of my mouth next.

“Wait.  There it is again.  Do you hear that?” I said overly excited.

“Huh? What in the hell are you talking about?” he asked again.

“Right there. Do you hear that?” I shouted.

“JESUS CHRIST FARRAH! Are you drunk?” he said annoyed.

“Maybe, but what does that have to do with anything?” 

“For the last time, no, I will NOT go with you to some gay ass manicure,” he said even more irritated than before.

“Shhh,” I kept going.

“Farrah,” he said calmly.

“You know exactly what I’m about to say,” I scolded.

“What?  It was on the TV.”

“What channel are you watching?” I asked.  ”Go. Tell me.”  I didn’t to give him enough time to think of a better answer.

“MTV,” he said.  I quickly turned my TV to MTV.  

“Nice try.”

“The song just ended,” he said, this time sounding anxious.

“Ryan, I hate to break this to you.  MTV hasn’t played a video in probably about ten years, let alone a New Kids On The Block video for Step by Step.”  

“Fine.  It was on my iPod.”

“Of course, it was.”  ”Original Step by Step album or Greatest Hits?” I asked.

“Greatest Hits.”

“You’re not only gay.  You’re SUPER gay. I rest my case,” I said and gloated.

“But–” he began.

“I think I just found my mani/pedi partner for today unless you want this to be my status update on Facebook,” I interrupted.  

I’m not completely evil, I sweetened the deal, literally, and told him I’d treat to Billy’s Bakery afterwards.  He quickly agreed to my terms and an hour later we were on Eighth Avenue getting mani/pedis near the front window for all of Chelsea to see.  

Apparently, a vanilla cupcake and some blackmail was enough to forget the purported “gayness” of a manicure from even the “straightest” of gay men.

The ME in measels

“Love is like the measels; we all have to go through it.  Also like the measles, we take it only once.”

-Jerome K. Jerome

 

Beige is New York’s longest running and legendary gay night at B-Bar on Tuesday nights.  To call it a gay night per se, would be a misnomer.  To the casual observer, it’s a mix of gay and straight; Upper East Side and Alphabet City, club kid and wall street wunderkind, and everything in between.   But to those who went regularly, like me, beige had no hard, steadfast rule.  The beauty was in the ambiguity.  

After Sunday brunch, Christopher and I made plans to meet for drinks around 1030 Tuesday night.  He, of course, protested about the late hour.  I reminded him that we were getting older, not dying. 

As we walked up to the door, two young gay boys stood on the corner impatiently pacing back and forth. “Where is she?” the lanky one who was rocking a fedora asked.

“You should know.  She’s your hag!” the shorter one quipped.  I felt my fingers tighten, and my hand suddenly make a fist.  

As we waited for the doorman, Derek, to take care of some people ahead of us. I said:

“I resent the word “fag-hag.” 

“Then what would you classify yourself as?” Christopher asked as he pulled out his Blackberry to send a text message to Alfredo, who by my request, was asked to stay home in order for us to have a night out. If love was indeed like the measels, Christopher had the worst case that I’d ever seen.

“I don’t know. I like “fagnet,” I said pondering the newly coined phrase.

Christopher looked up from his phone utterly perplexed.  ”What the hell is a “fagnet?” 

I cleared my throat as if I were a professor about to give a lecture, “It’s a woman of any sexual persuasion whom gay men gravitate towards.” 

“And how is that different than a fag-hag?” he asked still unconvinced.

“A “fagnet” has gay guys obsessing over her. And a ”fag hag” obsesses over the gay.”

Christopher and I burst into laughter simultaneously. It felt like old times, familiar; like home.

“And who shared this pearl of wisdom with you?” he asked while still laughing.

“I don’t know. Some drag queen standing outside of BBQ on Eighth Avenue.” 

The line finally had opened up, and I was certain Christopher and I were set to hit our stride once again.  We immediately hit the bar and ordered a round of drinks and did a lap.  We found a perfect spot under a tree lit with Christmas lights in the patio/garden.

We sat and bullshitted for about twenty minutes and he intermittently texted with Alfred.  I did the best I could to ignore it and downed my vodka and soda.  I was ready to hit the bar for yet another round.  The night was just beginning and the music was getting better and the crowd cuter.  The lines of beige were beginning to fade, or at least so I had thought.

“Do you mind if I take off?” Christopher asked out of nowhere while staring down at his phone.

“We just got here less than an hour or go!” I said as I heard my voice raise.

“Farrah, I have work tomorrow,” he said.  I felt my face drop.

“But you always had work before.  You’ve pulled all nighters and shown up to the office drunk.  What’s the problem now?” I said irritated. 

“The problem is that I’m not twenty-five anymore and I’ve moved on from this.” 

“This?  You mean our friendship?” I asked, afraid to hear the answer. The blurry lines of beige suddenly had become more rigid.

“No. Not at all.  But our friendship doesn’t have to be all about being fabulous and social,” he said.

“Wow.  That’s never how I’d describe us.”

“Look, I’m tired. It’s been a long day.  I love you, but I just want nothing more than to go home and lay in bed with Alfredo, and pass out.”

 As Christopher spoke, I saw the two guys that were standing outside an hour earlier with their girlfriend.  I stared at her.  She laughed.  She looked at them with so much joy and pride.  I felt like going up to her and telling her to run, she’ll only be heartbroken in the end.  But I didn’t, because that was my journey, not hers.

“Okay,” I said trying to sound a bit more civil.

“I’ll talk to you on i.m. tomorrow,” he said and kissed me on the cheek.  ”Are you staying?” he asked.

“Yeah, I think maybe just a bit longer.  I’m sure I’ll end up seeing Daniel here,” I said and faked a laugh. “Bye honey.  Tell Alfredo hi.”  And off he went.  I never saw Daniel.  And I didn’t order another drink.  I just sat there under a September Christmas tree, alone.

If love made you leave your friends, I never wanted any part of it. I loved them too much.

Maybe I didn’t totally mean it.  But it’s not like you can only get a little bit of the measels, you either get it or you don’t– much like love.

I walked out onto East Fourth and Bowery and hailed a cab.  As if it were fate, when I sat in the back of the cab, Sade’s “By Your Side” was playing.  It was enough to send me into tears. And it did.  God, I hate being such a baby sometimes.

As I dug into my purse looking for a kleenex, I found something that I hadn’t seen before.  It was a business card that read, *Justin Holcomb.  Damn.  Even I was impressed that the hot guy from the subway had managed to slip his number into my purse in between picking up my tampons and me ready to dial 911 on him.  This was certainly interesting and unexpected to say the least.

I sure hope I’m not coming down with something…like the MEasels.

(*name has been changed*).

Breakfast Alfredo (Part II)

Ryan, Michael and Daniel were already seated at the very back of Norma’s with their backs to the wall, and facing the entrance.  This was prime real estate.  We could sit and watch (and more likely) judge everyone that walked into the restaurant.  The diners were primarily tourists that were staying in the adjoining hotel which made it even more deliciously fun.  We made up bizarre sexual fetishes for elderly couples, played “guess the addiction,” and of course “spot the gay.”  It was cheap entertainment.  Brunch at Norma’s, on the other hand, was not.

“Where’s Christopher?” I asked to no one in particular.

“He’s running late,” Ryan said.  ”How was your date on Saturday?” he asked.

I shot Daniel a look before he could answer for me.  Daniel, who was with the same twenty-two year old from Thursday night, spotted me at the bar sipping a blueberry-infused vodka.

“Don’t ask,” I said and took a sip of the complimentary watermelon smoothie.

“Oh, I won’t. I could’ve told you how that date was going to end before you left your apartment,” Michael said in between sips of his cappuccino.

“Um, hello? You’re actually saying that OUT LOUD.  Not nice,” I said.  Ryan, being the good friend that he is, smacked Michael on his shoulder.  

Michael may have been telling the truth, but…

I actually prefer my friends to lie to me in cases that may cause me emotional distress-which is ninety-five percent of time. 

“Besides, you’re the one who said just last week I needed to put myself out there more,” I snipped.

“Pretend to care…Pretend to care…Pretend to care,” Michael said with his eyes closed as if this were some new mantra he picked up during a yoga class at Jivamutki.  As if on cue, Ryan threw a piece of his scone at Michael’s forehead.  

“Sorry honey, was I using my outside voice? I need to work on that,” Michael said and then finally smiled.  As bitchy as Michael was pretending to be, I knew he was only kidding.  That was just typical snarky Michael, and that’s why I loved him.

“Cute,” I said.  Unlike the shirt you’re wearing.” 

“Here comes Christopher,” I heard Daniel say as I stared at the menu debating between the crunchy french toast and the super blueberry pancakes.

“Thank God. I’m starving,” I said.  I could hear Michael opening his mouth to say something and without taking my eyes off the menu I raised my hand to quash that idea and simply said, “Don’t.”

“He’s not alone,” Daniel said.

“Ugh. I thought we had a strict rule of no accessories at brunch,” Michael quipped.

“That’s not an accessory.  It’s his fiance,” Ryan said.  Even though I’d known Christopher’s fiance, Alfredo, for a little over a year and a half, a huge part of me sided with Michael.  

We had a strict “no accessory” rule.  That meant no tricks, no boyfriends, no husbands, no friends from work, and no other “girlfriends”–there was only one hag at this party thank you very much.  

Okay, I admit, it’s a bit extreme.  But with everything constantly changing, it was kind of nice to keep this one thing the same.  We had a flow.  Everything changes, I suppose.

This was the first time I’d seen Christopher since he sprung the engagement on us.  I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel awkward.  It was an awkwardness that I admittedly have created in my own head.  I’m not perfect. I looked up from my menu (I decided on the crunchy french toast) and our eyes met.  He looked as great as ever.  

At 5′11 he was slightly shorter than Alfredo, but the presence Christopher has when walking into a room towers above us all.  It’s not because he’s unusually handsome, although he is rather cute.  He has an electricity about him that draws everyone in. 

Now before you start sending me emails telling me that I’m in love with Christopher, don’t.  I have no romantic attraction to him whatsoever.  He’s seriously like my brother.  

If you’re looking for Will & Grace, turn Lifetime on because this is not it.

These are my own issues–hence the need to write this blog.  As Christopher and Alfredo approached the table, I smiled as best as I could.  Daniel would tell me later that I looked more constipated than happy.

I stared at the two of them and I don’t know what was brewing inside my head but suddenly an epiphany. I felt like my emotions had been crystalized in one single thought:

What if all of your dreams came true…for your best friend?

Jealousy?  Possibly.  But it felt different from jealousy.  I still can’t quite put my finger on it.  Christopher said his hellos to the boys, and then finally it was just him and I standing in front of another.  A moment, that as much as I tried to prepare for since hearing about his pending nuptials, I still wasn’t ready for.

“Hi babe,” he said with a giant smile.

“Hi.”

Breakfast Alfredo (Part I)

Sunday morning I hopped on the uptown E train at Eighth Avenue in Chelsea towards Seventh Avenue in Midtown.  I was meeting the boys at Norma’s at the Meridien Hotel on Fifty-Seventh Street. 

As I sat on the nearly empty train, I noticed an impossibly good-looking guy sitting across from me.  He looked to be in his thirties and despite his conservative attire of khakis and a navy polo shirt (ICK!) he had that confident borderline cocky air about him that reminded me of Bill Clinton.  I have a thing for Bill Clinton.  His physical appearance read more John Kennedy Jr– especially with his deep brown eyes and wavy chestnut hair.  Come on, tell me you wouldn’t be salivating?!?

It is yet another reason why I both love and loathe New York.  I love it because of an opportunity like this that presents itself.  Where else could a chance meeting like this happen?   I loathe it because I NEVER do anything about said opportunities.

My first thoughts:  

I look and smell like I was thrown in a blender full of vodka on puree, courtesy of my night before at Vlada.

One thing you must know about me is that when I’m around anything that I’m attracted to I lose my shit. Both figuratively and literally.  (No, not actual shit.)  While staring at this superhuman man, I inadvertently knocked over my open purse.

“Shit!” I said and stared at the entire contents of my purse emptied onto the grimy subway floor.  

“Damn it!” I threw this in simply for extra dramatic effect.   

I scooped up what I could and out of nowhere the hot guy bent down to help. Yes, I was totally DYING.

“Let me get that for you,” hot guy said. He reached for a pile of my crap also known as “my life” and instead of picking up my iPhone, notepad, or my make-up, what does he latch onto?  My travel pack of tampons.  Of course, he did.  Why wouldn’t he?

The contents of my purse much like my life should come with a warning label: Enter at your own risk.

I casually snatched the tampons out of his hand and threw them back in my purse. 

“Sorry,” he said uncomfortably. 

I laughed nervously for no other reason but to break the tension. I felt my face turning crimson.  I could only imagine how pretty I must have looked.

Then what happened next, could only happen in New York, or in a horror movie.

“Could somebody help me find my marbles? I’ve lost my marbles,” he said with a THICK british accent while feeling around the ground for some imaginary glass beads.  

What the Madonna just happened?  Did he just cop a British accent? 

I looked around PAINFULLY embarrassed, praying that no one had seen what had happened. Also I wanted to be certain there were witnesses around so they could identify him in the event he tried slitting my throat.

“Yeah okay, I knew you had to be some sort of freak. I’ll get the rest, thank you,” I said sternly and scooped the rest of my stuff up and jammed it into my purse. 

“What?” he asked as if I was the crazy one. His accent disappeared as quickly as it had emerged.

I ignored him and frantically checked under the seat for anything else, getting as far away as possible so I couldn’t catch “crazy” from him in the off chance it was contagious.  

“It’s from Peter Pan. Didn’t you ever read the book?” he asked.  I stared at him blankly.  ”See the movie at least?” 

“Seventh Avenue, next stop,” the man over the loud speaker said.

A lady standing near us tried to push her way to get closer to the doors. Apparently, there was someone who wanted off the train even more than me.

“Hey Toodles, can ya move it along?”  Hot guy moved to the side.  

“I’m Justin,” he said to me and extended his hand.

I looked him over and studied him cautiously.  And then finally said, “I’m sorry. I’m bitter. I’m just used to so many of the freaks in the city. Anyway, I’m Farrah.”

He smiled with a real warmth and sincerity.  ”Oh like Farrah Fa–”

“Don’t.” 

He cocked his head back.  Now suddenly I was the freak.  

“It looks like we got everything. It could’ve been worse I suppose,” he added. 

“Oh, you have no idea. I once left my Louis on a train to Pittsburgh for the Blue Ball.” 

“Is that a person? Or a dog, maybe?” he asked curiously. 

“It’s a handbag.”  

“Oh,” he said.  ”That’s a relief at least.”  

“Thank God you didn’t ask me about the Blue Ball,” I said and sighed.

With that, I arrived at Seventh Avenue and Fifty-Sixth Street and exited the subway car.  ”Bye, and thanks again,” I said and smiled.  He shot me yet another confused look.  I’m fairly certain most women in my position would’ve stayed to exchange numbers or at least email addresses. But not me.  

Who knows? Perhaps he could’ve been a future ex-boyfriend.  

 

However, I left my future ex behind and headed to brunch to meet-up with the four boyfriends I already had. 

For The Love Of Anna

Anna Wintour, I love you.  Your crazy bob hair.  Your bug like sunglasses.  Your no bs attitude. And despite what most would say, I’d argue that you’re also a feminist.  I often pretend to be you while sitting at my desk. I tuck my hair into my shirt so it looks like I have that blunt haircut.  I wear those Ashley Olsen homeless sunglasses, and I even get bitchy with my co-workers all while donning this get-up.

In fact, I was wearing that exact look two and a half weeks ago (right around the time Christopher announced his engagement) when a client of the pr firm I work at came into the office to meet with my boss.  Her name is “Katrine” and she insists on only dealing with my boss.  When I’ve approached her in the past, she dismisses me.  Once time she even asked if I could run to Starbucks to “fetch her a soy latte.”  Yes, she used the word “fetch” as if I were a German Shepherd.  I would only “fetch” for Anna.

Little did Katrine know, I was the one that was writing her bio, pitching her shitty product (and getting great placements I might add) and placing it among celebrities and socialites–thanks to the my relationships with their publicists.  

While waiting for my boss, let’s call him Mr. G, to get off the phone, she awkwardly stood in front of my desk as I pretended to be working on a press release.  Mind you, I still had my hair tucked in and my sunglasses on.  I probably looked like a cross between a hooker and drag queen.  Was there much of a difference?

“No sleep?” she said in a thick Russian accent.

“Oh.  I guess not,” I replied.  I began to type faster in hopes that she would catch on that I didn’t feel like sharing my personal life with her.  

“Ah, I get it. Some fun with boyfriend, eh?”  she asked.  I was skeeved out the minute it left her lips.

“Um, no.  Not so much.  But thanks for asking,” I said and smiled the most plastic smile imaginable. 

“No boyfriend?”

“No,” I said still trying to remain calm.

“Oh.  I see.  Girlfriend.”

“No, no girlfriend. No boyfriend.  I’m single.”  

I wanted to punch her in her vagina.  

Hey, it was the closet thing to me as it seemed to be hovering on the edge of my desk.

“I’ve got just the man for you!” she said as a strange glee washed over her face. Run. Run away from the office now.

“Oh. I don’t do setups.  I just don’t–yeah, hmm–I just don’t.”

Katrine inched even closer and looked at me like a mother who was about to tell her daughter that she really wasn’t a size ten, but a size fourteen, and had been removing her daughter’s tags and sewing new ones in.  (Or so I’ve heard of this type of glare.)  

“You need to lower the bar.  Lots of nice men out there, you shouldn’t be so picky,” she said.  Wow.  Really?  I need to lower the bar?  Basically she was telling me I overvalued myself.  Damn all those self-help books.  Fuck you Deepak!

“I’m good, but thanks,” I said, but this time without a smile.

“How old are you? Forty?” she asked.   Fire me now because I’m going to pluck her eyes out, client or not.

“She’s thirty…” I heard a male voice call out.  I interrupted him before he could get the rest out of his mouth.  It was Mr. G.

“Thirty something,” I said and lowered my sunglasses to my nose so that he could fully appreciate my sneer.  I was feeling very un-Anna.

“Come on Farrah, you should go out with Katrine’s friend.  Why not?” he asked.

“You’re never going to meet any guys if you’re only hanging out with gay men,” he said.

Mr. G held my stare for an extra thirty seconds.  Those thirty seconds were enough to imply, if you want to keep your junior level job you’ll go out with the clients friend, no matter how horrifying he may be.

“Okay,” I said and all of the sudden I burst into a coughing fit.  I’d literally choked on my words.

I gave Katrine my email me address and cell number and within a few days I received a nice enough email from a man named Louis who worked on Wall Street.  He chose the date (last Saturday) and I chose the location. 

One of the only perks about working at a boutique pr agency in New York (it’s certainly not the pay) is that you have access to reservations at some of the most sought after restaurants in the city. (It was my inner Anna shining through I tell you!)  A friend so graciously got me a table at Delicatessen, a brand spanking new restaurant on Prince Street.  I thought it would be a fun atmosphere especially since it’s fashion week and word on the street is that this joint packs in a very fashionable crowd.  It was dating risk, yes I know. But I was willing to give it a try.

Since it was a fashiony-type eatery, I appropriately arrived fashionably late.  The vibe of the restaurant is a mixture of stainless steel and glass and a ton of pop art everywhere.  Lounge music played.  I think I recognized one of Hotel Costes CDs that I owned.  There were bursts of color and seductive lighting. Fashionistas (I hate that word too but it’s appropriate in this case) and party people sipped mojitos and cosmos by the gallon. The restaurant clearly is the creme of New York City nightlife.  My date Louis seated at a table in the center of the restaurant, on the other hand, was not.

Dressed in a gorgeous black dress that I’d picked up at Ina and a pair of fab high heels that were given to me as a gift, I was feeling pretty great making my entrance.  I felt like all eyes were on me.  Yes, I’ll admit it. I felt a little like Anna Wintour.  Until I felt a tug at my back and then a SNAP.  The waitress ripped off the tag from Ina that still hung from the back of the dress.  I was M-O-R-T-I-F-I-E-D.  I smiled at the hostess as a silent thank-you and then followed her to Louis’ table. I flashed Louis a smile, ready to run for the door.  Keep an open mind.  I told myself.  Maybe he was equally nervous and insecure.  

He appeared to be in his mid-forties, Mediterranean, and seemed to be relatively fit. Maybe not so bad. Until he opened his mouth.  His teeth had caps so large that I thought he was going to gnaw off a piece of my cheek.  I did the best I could not to stare.

“So sorry I’m late. I hope you haven’t been waiting long,” I said in a girly way–a way that I was neither comfortable or familiar with.

“I have actually,” he said.  No smile. No, don’t worry about it.

This was uncomfortable. 

“I’ve surveyed the menu, and I’m deathly allergic to ninety percent of the food here,” he said monotone. 

I immediately scoured the room for a waiter. I was going to need a stiff drink.  ”I’m sorry to hear that. Do you like break out into hives or get itchy?” I asked, trying to make light of the situation.  

“I could go into full cardiac arrest.” 

Where the HELL is that waiter? Louis reached into his blazer jacket and pulled out a small cigarette style box. He set it on the table and opened it to reveal a syringe and a vial. I panicked.

“Oh I stopped injecting meth years ago,” I joked.

 

He rolled his eyes at me and then said, “I don’t want to alarm you, but if I should bite into anything with garlic, I’ll have to jam this needle into my leg and be rushed to the emergency room immediately. Otherwise my internal organs will shut down.

A nearby waiter passed and I yanked him down to the table and in my best Anna Wintour demanded, “I’m going to need a martini…NOW!”  I looked back at Louis and tried to smile. 

After about thirty minutes of even more awkward conversation and two dirty martini’s later, the waiter arrived with the entrees. 

Louis was silent and picked at his food with his fork. I took a bite of my salad.  After a few more minutes of inspecting, Louis finally took a few meticulous bites. 

“So Louis tell me what it’s like working on Wall Street?” I asked. 

Louis didn’t say anything. He cleared his throat, then once again– getting louder with each time. Really? This was a bad ninety-minute comedy playing out in front of me at Delicatessen, no less.  Fuck.  

“Louis?” Louis put his hand up to say don’t come near me.  As the throat clearing got louder, I downed my drink faster. Out of panic, I reached for the syringe. Louis put his hand on it to block mine. He cleared his throat in one loud moan causing the Manhattan scenesters to stare even more.  I’m never coming back here. EVER. 

“Are you okay?” I asked generally worried.  Finally, it was over. He suddenly stopped chewing, and then pushed back his food.  

“You mind if I skip this meal?” he asked.

I nodded and quickly motioned for the waiter.

This shit doesn’t happen to Anna.

As I waited for a taxi on Prince Street, I reached into my purse and pulled out my dark sunglasses and put them on. Nobody else seemed to get my homage to the Vogue editrix.  But I knew there was someone who would.  A cab finally pulled up and I got in.

“Fifty-first between Eighth and Ninth, please.”  Within minutes, I was at Hell’s Kitchen’s newest and gorgeous gay lounge Vlada.

The doorperson, appropriately enough a drag queen, said to me as I walked by her, “Work it out Miss Anna.”

And work it out, Miss Anna did.

The American Spirit

Last night Daniel and I went to Splash, because I felt like dancing and he felt like picking up young college boys.  It was their Campus Thursday night.  Mind you, Daniel’s thirty-four.  

Daniel’s Italian-American and has that whole macho Italian vibe to him–even though he’s a big queen. He’s not out to his family, and despite the boys and I pushing him to do it, he refuses.  Daniel’s a “landscape architect.”  When I first met him and said “Oh, so like a gardner?”  I thought he was going to punch me in the face, seriously.  He clarified that he designs people’s gardens in the Hamptons, and other areas of Long Island.  He went on to say that he also works on terraces in Manhattan for the Park Avenue set.  I yawned in his face to let him know that I wasn’t impressed.  We were kindred spirits ever since.

Three go-go boys danced on the bar in front of us wearing red, white, and blue g-strings.  

“How patriotic!” I said nodding at the extra-large one wearing the red banana hammock.

“I’d love to show him just how proud to be an American I am,” Daniel said as his eyes widened.  He’d finally noticed the enormous thing that “mr. red” was packing.

“God, you really are showing your age by saying such douche bag things,” I sneered.

“I’m gay.  I’m forever young,” he said and laughed.

“Is that what you tell yourself before they stick the poison in your forehead?”

 

Daniel shrugged and sucked down his Ketel One and soda.  I skipped the soda and went straight for the Ketel One.  Soda was for sissies.  

“Shall we?” he said and nodded towards the semi-crowded dance floor.

I hesitated.

“What?” he asked.

“Are we going to dance or are you going to leave me on the dance floor the minute some kid with bigger boobs than me dances by?” I asked.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said.

“Uh huh,” I snickered.  I continued,

“What starts as a nice night of “let’s hang out and catch up” turns into “if that guy  comes over pretend you don’t know me, and can I get money for a cab to his place in the Bronx?”

 

“I paid you back,” he said and walked to the dance floor.  I begrudgingly followed.

After a countless number of tribal beats with a few divas wailing over them, I’d burned enough calories for the day.  Besides, by that point Daniel was occupied with a twenty-three year old NYU grad student.  I didn’t bother to say good night.  Instead, I walked from Splash to my nearby apartment, but decided to stop in at the bodega across from my place to grab a pack of smokes.  Shut up. I don’t want to hear about it. It’s a disgusting habit. I get it.

“How you doin’ tonight?” I asked eyeing a pack of peppermint Chicklets, paying no particular attention to the cashier.  He gave me a strange glance. ”Okay, then. A pack of American Spirits, please.” 

The cashier turned, grabbed the cigarettes and set them and a pack of matches on the counter. With a heavy accent, he barked, “Eight Fifty.”  It’s just that I don’t hear EIGHT and FIFTY.  All I can make out is “MATE TITTY.”

“What?” 

“Mate. Titty,” he repeated.

“I’m sorry. I don’t understand you,” I said. 

“Eight.”  He then paused for dramatic effect and continued, “Fifty.” 

 

I threw a twenty on the counter and hoped for the best.

 

He rang me up, and as he counted my change, he said, “Too late for you to be out.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“It’s two thirty. Lady shouldn’t be out so late.” 

I wanted to say, “Look buddy, this is AMERICA and it’s my god-given American right to stay out all night and dance at gay bars if I should damn well please.”  Instead, I ended up saying something more like, ”Can I just get my change?” 

“You don’t think I see. I see you for seven years. Only with gay.” 

“Only with gay? What does that even mean?” I asked.

“You know what that mean. It mean you come in and out of here only with gay people.  Where are they tonight?  Or they leave you?” 

This hits me like a ton of bricks. I’m silent. 

“Maybe you a gay?” 

“No, I’m not “a gay.” I said through gritted teeth.

“Why you have no boyfriend?” 

“Who are you the Korean Dr. Phil?” 

 

He puts my change on the counter. I quickly snatched it. 

“You waste your time with men who no love you back.” 

I’d had it. Call me a super bitch, but I had to say something.  So in my toughest, most brutal voice that I could muster, I said, “Oh shut up.” 

“Shut up? You shut up!” He said shocked as if I’d just called him a dog-licking cocksucker.

“Shut up!” I said again.

“You shut up!” he shouted, his eyes nearly about fell out of his head. 

“Sh-” I tried to get out.  

“You shut up!” he repeated, interrupting my verbal jab.  I grabbed my smokes and walked across the street to my apartment. I sat on the steps of my building and lit a cigarette. I took a deep drag and exhaled  What a day.

I grabbed my cell phone out of my purse and scrolled down to the name “CHRISTOPHER” and stared at it.  He would’ve cracked up if he had been there.  But maybe the crazy deli guy was right.  Where had all my friends gone?  Was the I only one who hadn’t grown up?  Had I lost out on realizing the American dream? 

I clicked the phone shut, stood up and faced the front door, dreading the six flights I had to walk up. Had I quit smoking and drinking the steps wouldn’t have seemed so daunting, but I will crawl on my hands and knees before that happens.  I started up the steps, and then saw the cashier sweeping outside the deli out of the corner of my eye.  He looked sweet and delicate. Maybe I had been bitch.  I could’ve been more understanding with the language barrier.  He probably hated working at that deli.  It wasn’t the reason he moved to this country.  I should apologize.  I turned to head down the stoop.  Then suddenly he shouted,

“You shut up!” 

 

To break this endless cycle, I finally burst out, “FUCK YOU!” and darted up my steps like a naughty schoolgirl.

In my tiny studio, I poured myself another drink and collapsed onto the couch. I put my iPod on shuffle. Feeling nostalgic, I grabbed a photo album from under my TV cabinet and flipped through the pages for what seemed like hours.  I saw a picture of all of us from 1999–almost ten years ago.  I stared at the younger version of me.  My life was full of promise, I had more friends than I knew what to do with, and new beginnings happened everyday. At that moment, I felt none of that.

I felt so alone that I actually felt a physical pain in my chest.  It was weird because for the first time, I finally felt heartache, literally. 

The next thing I know it was morning and I was nearly late for work. The soundtrack from the Broadway musical Rent was playing in the background.  I’d put it on repeat during my “sad sally” moment.

I raced out of my apartment like a bad out of hell, headed for the subway to avoid being late for work.  In my mind, I sang, “Five hundred twenty-five thousand six hundred minutes…How do you measure a year in the life?”

Measure in love.