So What!

In the words of that big gayboy, PINK,

“I’m not dead, just floating.”

As much as I love a rainy NYC, I’ve loved it a little too much and have been fighting a cold. So I’ve been in a bit of a haze the last forty-eight hours….

…And not the good kind of haze.  😉

 

More tomorrow. I’m off to lay next to my snoring bitch, Madonna.

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Last Stop, Single-town

“Do you ever read The Times?”  I asked.

“Um, yeah of course,” my quasi-date answered.

“Which section?” I asked cautiously.

“Yeah, their news stories. Sometimes their sports section, but I like the Post better for sports.  Oh, and obviously the Sunday Real Estate Section.”

“And The Arts?” I said.

“Hmm. Yeah,” he said and paused.  “Well…” he started.

“Uh huh,” I said and looked him over from head to toe.  I didn’t think he was a gay boy, but my gaydar had been seriously off as of late.  He wore a white v-neck t-shirt with an Adidas track jacket over it; his jeans were normal, nothing crazy designer and his shoes were plain white Converse–but John Varvatos for Converse.  Hmmm.  He was either a butch gay boy or from Westchester.

“Okay, I lied.  I just said that to make myself look cool,” he said and grinned.  He sipped on his pumpkin spice latte and looked at me. Did straight guys drink such a fussy coffee drink? It’d been too long since I’d be around any.

“I have one final question.  And you must answer me honestly–no matter what you might think I will say or do,” I instructed.

He cocked his had back and his eyes narrowed.  “Wow. This is pretty heavy for ‘just a coffee,'” he said.  

An almost date.  Ugh.  I hated myself for calling it that when he suggested we get together.  I’d already put restrictions on it before I left my apartment.  I even suggested Starbucks–how very unorginal–but safe.  

I didn’t know him, and furthermore I didn’t want to end up in someone’s freezer.  

But sitting here looking at him– THE HOT SUBWAY GUY— with the rain pounding down on the glass outside and sipping on my latte–it felt almost too good.

“Do you read The Style Section?”

He stared at me long and hard.  “Why do I get the feeling that this is a loaded question?” he asked.

“Because it is.  Now, answer me. And remember, TELL THE TRUTH.” 

“You’re quite a character Farrah,” he said.

“And you’re stalling,” I said.

“No, I don’t read The Style Section.  Has that taken me out of contention?” he asked and laughed.

Thank God.  

Had he said yes, I would’ve known I was dealing with a closet case, and frankly that role has already been filled by many a wife and girlfriend.  Paging Dina McGreevy?   

“You’re still in the running to become America’s Next Top Model,” I said in my best Tyra.

“Huh?”

“Oh my God.  You really are straight!” I blurted out.  Foot, meet my mouth.  I’m sure you two will be fast friends.

“The last time I checked I wasn’t into man-ass, but that could change at any minute.”

“It’s just that had you known that was a line from America’s Next Top Model I would have doubted your heterosexuality and frankly I’ve dated enough gay boys to last me a lifetime, and as lovely as you may be I’m not taking any applications for my gay posse.”

“I’m sorry, your what?” he asked.

Before I could answer him, my phone rang.  “Oh. I’m sorry. I normally wouldn’t answer that, but maybe something bad happened.”  Hot Subway Guy shot me yet another peculiar look.  “Hi Carrie.  Something bad happened?” I said in my most worried voice.  Hot Subway Guy’s eyes widened.  “I’ll be there in twenty minutes,” I said before hanging up.

“Is everything okay?”  he asked in a tone mixed with apprehension and fear.  “Is your friend alright?”  

“You’re three for three!” I said excitedly and smiled from ear to ear.

“What?”

“That was from Sex and The City,” I said.

“Another one of your tests?” he said this time sounding more irritated than anything else.

“Well, I should get going,” I said and latched my purse.

“I thought you said that I passed your test,” Hot Subway Guy said even more confused than before.

“Oh. You did! Yay!” I said and buttoned my jacket.

“Okay…” he said.

“It’s my friend Christopher.  I told him I’d run to Barney’s with him to pick out something for his NY Times wedding photo.  He and his boyfriend are getting married in about eight months.”  I stood up and grabbed my umbrella.

“Very cool,” he said a little dumbfounded.  “Wait, so that’s it?” he asked and stood up.

“Well goodbye,” I said.  “Thanks. It was fun.”

He stared at me in stunned silence before he said, “That was definitely…  Yeah, that was definitely something.”

“We should do this again sometime,” I said and walked toward the glass door.  

Before we could have that awkward, should we or shouldn’t we kiss goodbye, I leaned in and kissed him on the cheek. It was safe.  Oh screw it. Who am I bullshitting? 

It was lame.

 

“You’re quite a character,” he said and lifted his jacket over his head to block the rain.  He darted out of the Starbucks before I could say another word.

I’m going to be single for the rest of my life.

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Work. It. Out.

“…I simply don’t understand his need to constantly respond with ‘work’ after every sentence that comes out of his mouth.  It’s insane.  Utterly.  Insane.” Michael said while at lunch with Ryan and I.

“You didn’t notice it at the bar?” I asked.

“No, that’s the thing.  I don’t remember him saying it there,” Michael explained.

“Are you sure he didn’t?  Or were you just too drunk to notice or too horny to care?” I asked. 

“Probably a little bit of both, I suppose,” he said.  “I noticed it when I got in the cab.  I told the driver to go to Sixty-Eighth between Columbus and Amsterdam and that’s when I first heard it; a faint ‘work’ almost like a creepy whisper.  I thought I had imagined it.”

“And it continued?” I asked.

“Well, I brought him a glass of Merlot while he was sitting on my couch.  When I handed it to him, I said some cheesy line like, “I’m so glad I ran into you tonight.”

“I’m truly amazed and stunned you even have sex with lines like that.  If it were only that easy for straight women,” I said.

“ANYWAY, as I was saying, after I said that I expected him to return the complement or at the very least kiss me.  But all I got was a “work.”

“You certainly know how to pick ’em my dear,” I said.

“Did you at least get laid?” Ryan asked ignoring the prior mention of the word “work.”

“Almost,” Michael said.

“ALMOST?” Ryan said exasperated.  

“When I said to him let’s go into the bedroom, he smiled seductively at me and said, ‘Let’s do this.’  I’m thinking thank-fucking-god finally.”

“Honestly, the two of you are a match made in heaven with these skills,” I laughed and took another bite of my veggie burger.

Yes, I’m a vegetarian.  Or as Daniel likes to refer to me as “a VAGetarian.”

“But just before we got into my bedroom, he said it again!”

“No!” I gasped.

“Yup, and that was the last I saw of my hard-on for the rest of the night,” Michael said.

“Okay, don’t ever say that to me again. EVER.”

“I still don’t get what you mean,” Ryan said while chewing on an air-baked french fry.  Oh Ryan, so pretty, so successful, but oh so not versed in gay vernacular.

“Let me demonstrate,” I said.  “Ryan, tell me what you’re doing right now.”

“Eating lunch,” he said looking at me as though I’m wearing an “I’m with stupid t-shirt” look.

“Work” I said with a certain flair that was usually reserved for the most flamboyant gay guy.

“Huh?” Ryan said.

“Actually, I think you mean ‘WERK’,” Michael explained.  I rolled my eyes as if to tell him to shut the hell up.

“What are you guys talking about?” Ryan asked, still not getting it.

“I’m going to go get a refill of on my lemonade,” Michael said getting up from the table.

“WORK!” I shout to him as he walks to the counter.

“You guys are weird,” Ryan said and shakes his head.

“Were you depraved of all things gay in your twenties?” I asked Ryan.

“Well, not all things…” Ryan began.

“Work!” Michael interrupted and sat back down at the table.  Ryan flashed him a cold stare and I laughed.

“Definitely not all things gay because I’ve seen his closets.  It looks like Abercrombie and 2Xist threw up in there.”

“And let’s face it, you don’t get much gayer than Abercrombie and 2xist,” I chimed in.

“I’m sure their marketing departments will be thrilled,” Ryan said sarcastically.  Michael and I looked at each not sure what to say.  Ryan added, “No really, profoundly thrilled.”  

Seeing the perfect opportunity, I said, “Work.”

Ryan threw down his French Fry on his plate and stood up and looked at Michael and I long and hard.  “I’m gonna go to the gym.  You guys have given me the worst headache.”  

Then he took a long, dramatic drawn-out pause– otherwise known as “gay pause.”  

 

Then he said, “And you wonder why you’re both single,” and headed toward the door.

Michael and I looked at one another like scolded children, and then turned back to Ryan who had just pushed open the door.

“Ryan?” I called.

Ryan turned over his shoulder and looked at us.

And in unison, Michael and I shouted,

“WORK!”

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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…” 

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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.

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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.

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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

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