Greek Tragedyhi

too much

Turner told me I was adorable and had great boobs. This made me like him more. Too much more.

We went to brunch at Balthazar on a summer afternoon, and with mild food coma, we slugged our way out its doors, stalling outside the entranceway. We had to choose a direction. I stood looking at the small shop next door, a window of confections and crusty breads with white powdered tops. I was sated, but it didn't stop me from looking. I suppose it's the way we all feel sometimes, just not only about food.

In the reflection of the window, I saw him checking out my ass. I liked that he did. Behind both our behinds were the tourists, running their fingers along tables of knock-off sunglasses and plastic beaded jewelry. Something about the light that day felt more like winter. I expected gloves and ski caps. I heard one woman ask her companion what she thought and assumed she was holding up a necklace of buttons or wire-backed earrings made of stones she took to be semi-precious instead of wholly-horrendous. But when I turned around, I realized the voice was coming from another table.

The vendor beside the knock-off jokes was selling artistic prints, Polaroids, smeared and exposed onto watercolor paper. The woman who ran the booth, mid-thirty with brown hair mid-way down her back, had a foreign flat look to her. German, I thought. Hungarian, maybe. Pretty, certainly, especially in that boho, I like to drink tea and wear things braided and made of wool, kind of way. She was posing tourists in the street, directing three brothers to look at their mother, while the mother looked straight into the lens. The young woman took four shots with an old-school Polaroid camera that resembled a miniature accordion, then hurried to her station.

As she ripped the Polaroids apart, before they had time to develop, I pulled Turner to the table with me. "Let's see," I said. We fingered through boxes of $5 prints: window sills, flowers, a blue bowl filled with pomegranates. "Aren't these beautiful?" They really are he said. I'd never heard Turner say anything disagreeable, and despite this, I'd never describe him as kind or boring. We stood, just watching, as she ran a q-tip along the edges of a print, smearing it.

"I want one," I said, jerking his hand.
"I'm not photogenic," he said, resisting, giving me that half-laugh that begged to be begged.
"You're beautiful," I said without looking at him. And he really was. Oh, come on, he said. "And, you're easy," I said, luring him into the street, signaling to the photographer that we were ready.

Personality and sweet palatable neurosis aside, some men are cute. They don't want to be, but they'll take it. It's the dimples or the eyelashes. The coy smile that creeps wider, and you feel they're letting you in by letting it slip. Keeping mannerisms, intelligence, and humor out of this, others are just plain manly, and even if they're ugly, they're sexy. It's the intensity of their gaze. You're always the first to look away or blink. And they'll continue to stare even after you've asked them not to. "I enjoy you," he says without ever saying so. Some are sexually attractive in the way they wear themselves, in a lean, their gait, or signaling for the check. Turner wasn't any of these things.

But he was beautiful. Beautiful without being effeminate, cute, or cliche. I could stare at his face for hours, for so long it stopped looking like a face. I studied his nose, the dip beneath it, his freckles, and strong chin. I never wanted to stop touching his hair. And he liked how affectionate and clingy I could be. "Don't stop," he'd say if I let my hand drop. I liked how much he liked me. Too much.

First she had us look at each other, and I worried it would be this awkward bridal pose. Something befitting a field with long grass and yellow flowers. As bad as those school portraits where I was instructed to rest my chin in the bowl of my hands. "This is weird, huh?" I said as we looked at each other. Everyone's looking at you, he said, not me, so I don't feel weird. But I didn't believe him. It must've been a line he heard in a movie trailer. His eyes were like the lake your parents take you to when you're young, at the house of some relative you didn't know you had. He reminded me of a cabin with worn floorboards and Irish sweaters. He was safe, and I couldn't do anything wrong.

"How many?" The photographer asked us.
"Two," I said at the same time as he said, one. "One?"
Well, yeah, you can have it, he said. And then, even though I was still smiling, I felt something inside me fall.

He doesn't want to keep it in his apartment, I thought. In case it kills his game with another woman he brings home. He'll have to remember to take it out of a drawer when he knows I'm coming over.

"Okay," the photographer said, "now you, you look here--no, there, at that sign, okay?"

Let it go, I thought. Don't ruin the day. But it was too late. He could tell.

Okay, two, he shouted to her. But I knew he'd only said it to please me. He didn't think of us like that, of two people who wanted a beginning they could point to someday. He didn't think of anyone like that. I'm a guy, he would've said had I brought it up. And guys don't think like that. You don't want a guy who thinks like that,do you? That's not the point, I thought in response to all my other thoughts.

We waited for our prints to dry. What's wrong, he said. "I just wonder how they turned out," I said. But I already had my answer.

Click to read the continuation...

not a euphemism

I can't have an orgasm unless I'm able to point my toes.  The whole sex railed up against a wall bit is a total ruse.  It might make for some nice foreplay, but eventually, I halt all action and demand we find the bed.  I've also never understood sex in the pool or shower or bathtub.  Basically, I'm anti-water-sex, though I'm pretty sure that's where I experimented when I was younger, using the power of a faucet.

This past weekend, I was up early, getting my cook on (not a euphemism).  I made beef bourguignon, farfalle in a saffron cream sauce, split pea soup, and a perfectly seared piece of Chilean sea bass, all from scratch.  I love my kitchen, and make no mistake, it's my kitchen even though Phil does his share of cooking *though mostly he grills outside.  But come Saturday morning--or was it Sunday?  My weeks and days are a blur now--Phil walked through my kitchen holding a bathrobe.  He was making his way to our fancy shmancy spa room. 

"I'm going to take a steam," he said the way someone says, "I'm going to take a steam."  "And then maybe hop into the sauna." 

"Oooh, can I come?"  (Also not a euphemism).  Usually Phil refuses to share a shower with me, which has been hard for me not to take personally.  I mean, that's what couples do, at least in the beginning.  They shower together, washing each other,with some wet kissing maybe.  And then always there's the slippery soap, and soaping up certain obvious parts. A caboose grab here and there for good measure, certainly.  But he's never allowed for it (I take longer; someone always ends up cold, water always ends up in your eyes, then you need to wipe them but fear your hands have shampoo on them).  But our spa bathroom really does have a steam room in it, complete with two shower heads and a bench, so I was hoping he'd reconsider.

"Sure, you can come."  I was excited.

I turned my burner flame to low and joined him for a steam, where one of us got off, and the other of us got an IOU while my pot of soup burned.  And that's what it's become.  A bedroom, or shower, full of burnt-out IOUs.  "And it's not fair," he says, "the way you keep count."  He now owes me three orgasms.  I can name each and every time he has and I haven't.  There was no point in his trying, and he did make some effort (effort meaning he put his hand on it).  Don't men realize that women need mental stimulation?  I mean, drum up some scenario, some role-playing or something.  "What scenario do you need to drum up?  We're in a steam room as it is."  Then talk to me, tell me you saw me over by the pool and got hard and followed me into the steam room.  Pretend. 

A man can get excited from visual stimulation, from my shaking hands with it.  I need more.  I can't climax unless I'm horizontal, but why rob him of a steamy thrill?  It wasn't about me, in that moment, and I was absolutely fine with that.  But I still absolutely do keep count.  I guess part of me wishes I didn't have to, that he'd come to me the way I come to him, and he'd just want to please me without anything in return. Which would mean more than just rubbing me to climax.  It would mean role-playing or some kind of verbal stimulation where he's active, commanding me what to do, like in the movie Secretary. 

I have a few books on my bookshelf, books with "activity suggestions" that I sometimes wish he'd pick up and try.  And truth be told, it wouldn't kill me to try to spice things up either.  I mean, you really have no place in complaining unless you yourself are trying.  But... I'm lazy and just wish he'd do it first.  I know our sex life might come to a complete halt once the babies are in our home, but it doesn't have to.  I hate thinking that he's off in some room masturbating when he can be with me, instead.  And I know it shouldn't be an "instead" kind of thing, but in my head, the idea that he's off "wasting it" when I'm so in want of it... makes me think in a series of "insteads."  And maybe he prefers it that way, alone, so he doesn't live in fear of tallying up a higher score on my list of "you owe me."    

at bat

"I bet you a one hour blowjob that not one woman in this bar knows the Casey At Bat story of which you speak."  He raised an eyebrow, realizing now that I've brought up blowjobs I must be drunk.  "You know for a man who was just bet an hour blowjob, you're not too quick on your feet there, pal." 

He began to look around, surveying the bar for women to ask.   "Everyone knows this story, Stephanie." 
Everyone, I argue, who's old.  "Because when you're as old as you are Phil, there were fewer 'musts' to cover in class, so they had time to devote to your clever baseball poems originating in the 1800's."  Except I don't say "poems originating in the 1800's" because I don't know it's a poem until I get home to google it.  And I'm sure there are exceptions to the rule.  I'm sure there are women out there who of course know it, and I'm even more sure that they'll chime in, in the comments section, declaring they'd committed it to memory in second grade, patting themselves on the back.  That's not the point.

"Believe me, everyone knows this story, Stephanie."
"Well I don't, and I'm a pretty educated woman.  An English major, even.  But still, take my target audience Phil, and most American females, as much as they 'should,' don't know who your Casey is."

So he asks someone, and she doesn't know.  She also doesn't know that softball pitches have to be thrown underhand.  Even I know this.  Surely every woman knows there are nine players out on the field at once.  Actually, no, no we don't.  If we stop to count on our fingers,  under pressure to give you an answer, maybe we'll figure it out, but we don't all know that shit off-hand. "My friends don't.  Maybe the one who works for MLB, or maybe some chick with a hoard of brothers, or some mom who attends her son's games. Or some really desperate chick so eager for men to like her that she plays the, 'I'm so so cool, just like one of the guys, so marry me already' kind of girls.  Oooh, or some chick on TBS who's so into baseball analogies and having too many guy friends that she can't also have a boyfriend.  But most American women don't know this."  And I realize of course that some women do love sports just for sports, not for the men they hope to attract.  They like them because they grew up with them, because it's nostalgia, because it's simple when everything else seems complicated, maybe.  I wouldn't know.  And then he says the shit that makes me wish I weren't drunk.

"Don't play the dumb card Stephanie because it's ugly on you."  And I want to club him with a wooden bat.  Old school.  Heavy.  Not some flighty aluminum deal.  Something that can splinter.  Something grown men keep beneath their side of the bed just in case.  I'm not "playing," and certainly not playing cards of all things.  And I hate that.  I hate when he insults my intelligence, preys on my intellect like it's arm cellulite.  I hate it.  And I wish I weren't drunk because it's too easy for him to blame it on that, my belligerence and my seeming lack of intelligence , to chalk it up to the neat little okay's-it-all word, "drunk." 

"I would absolutely not know who your Casey is even if I were sober."   And right then I felt a need to prove myself, the way a lot of drunks do.  When asked if they're drunk, they deny it.  Vehemently.  I am NOT drunk.  Usually it translates to: you so are; lady that doeth protest too much.  And when she finally admits, "I feel a bit buzzed," she's just shy of pulling her hair into a knot, anticipating the arrival of a bout of projectile vomiting.  And I am drunk, but not drunk enough to make what he's doing okay.  And it's hurtful when he goes there, knowingly, after I've shared with him how sensitive I am to it.

Because when you're a fat kid like I was, you hold onto smart (or funny, or talented) as your saving grace.  It is the piece of your identity that pulls you afloat and lets your esteem somehow disconnect from your form, and you're literally able to rise above it.  I might have been fat, but I was smart.  I got good grades.  Kids asked for my notes, wanted to study with me.  And when he questions my intelligence, my Achilles heel, a part of me curls in and cowers like a kicked terrier.  "Why do you have to go there?  Why do you have to say the word, 'dumb?'"  I wonder if I'm so sensitive to it because of my mother.

She didn't graduate college and always felt inferior to someone, namely my father, because of it.  And I'm her in that moment, on that bar stool, despite graduating magna cume laude, or however it goes.  Because what it says, that list of accomplishments, isn't the dialog I have with myself.  It's not what I feel.  It's a list of facts, so far removed from who I am and what I feel, so incongruent with who I believe I am, at the heart of things.  And along with wishing I knew these things about myself--no, felt, believed, lived! these things about myself, I wish I were with someone kinder, someone who grew up fat or chastised who'd be more sensitive and less...

And that's where words fail me.  Because I want to default to"cruel" as the word to cap off the sentence.  But he's not cruel.  He's just insensitive and easily frustrated.  Angry.  And when I say this, he tells me it's my fault.  I make him angry.  I don't do enough.  He always shoulders burdens, picks up slack, and wants a partner, not another child.  I've told him so many times not to do that, not to say, "I know you're smart, so stop acting so stupid."  Because I'm sensitive to it, maybe overly sensitive, but please don't do that because when you do it makes me feel small.  It makes me feel bruised and hurt, like I should just stop talking because anything I could add wouldn't carry any value.  I feel inconsequential, like I don't matter.  That I'm worthless.  A cipher.  All with the word, "stupid."  Or "dumb."  Or "retarded."

In his frustration he relies on little words, clings to them.  I think it's his brand of lazy.  "Lazy Beer."  It's the #2 Beer of Jamaica.  And when I bring it up to him, sighting that his words were hurtful, he doesn't acknowledge it but instead turns it around, turns it into a game of, "Want to talk about inappropriate?" And then rattles off a list of my inappropriate.  And I can be.  And I freely admit it.  "You're right," I say, "I was inappropriate, but what can I do about it now? It's done. There's nothing more I can do but to move on."  And he continues to hammer on, insisting I "play stupid as some form of manipulation," as my form of lazy.  He analyzes my "I don't understand"s as some strategic move, when simply, I'm a girl, talking to a boy, across a bar.  I'm just being me.  And he throws up his hands and changes the subject, focusing on the wrong in my actions, even in my admittance that I'm imperfect.

"Stephanie, saying 'I was inappropriate, BUT' isn't what I'm looking to hear.  The minute you bring 'but' into your sentence it negates everything that came before it."  Yes, I know.  I saw that episode of Dr. Phil, too.   And he'll spend the night refusing to discuss my issue with him and instead make the focus his issue with me.  How inappropriate I was, to reiterate this story to others, to use the word "blowjob," in front of others.  And it's something I cannot explain via the blog, something you won't get the whole story on.  Because that's not the way blogs other than those titled "he said; she said" work.  It's not about fair, of who's right or wrong, and I'm never looking for that, "leave him" or "let him be" advice.  I'm just looking to capture it, that moment, that feeling, when you're drunk, clinging in that bar, to the grain of the wood, and in your alcohol, wondering how your life could be different, what brought you here and what you can learn while you're here.  And that you're not so alone in it, any of it.  Even the feelings of mistakes, of regrets, of "how could my life be different?" 

Because when you're a fat kid, you eventually grow up and realize maybe we've all of us always felt alone, or wronged, or misunderstood.  And most certainly felt like we just wanted someone else to admit they were wrong.  Wrong to hurt us, wrong to be insensitive, wrong to judge, and wrong to think they were something so different from who we were. 

Because Phil and I want the same things, to be heard.  To have the other person really understand how we feel. And my "There's nothing more I can do about it, so let's move on," isn't good enough.  It's not the same as, "I'm sorry if my behavior hurt you.  I don't want to hurt you.  I love you and think you're the greatest.  And sometimes I'm inappropriate, and that kinda sucks.  But for you I will work on it."  Or at least I'll water down my adult beverages.

now with 100% more bullshit--FREE! act fast, only while supplies last!

The image below is a new business pitch idea I had for The Shops at Columbus Circle, when they were first opening in The Time Warner Center.  I didn't only design web sites.  I was eventually invited to come up with creative campaign ideas, umbrella concepts, which could be executed across channels.  My idea was to show all the things one could do, any time, at the shops.  My idea worked for subways, taxicabs, and booklet covers. The focus is time...saving time by shopping at The Circle...just in time.  I figured they could run with the tag of "just in time" during their initial launch.  I didn't have a copywriter assigned to work with me, so I wrote all the copy and chose all the artwork.  No, I did not draw those illustrations.  I also made each of the copy points specific to New York, considering "New Yorkers who are accustomed to getting the best" was our target audience.  And I wanted to steer away from "shopping" because they didn't want to be seen as "a mall," which is exactly what it is.  So I focused on experiences, and the fact that you could do so much, save so much time, by doing it all in one place.  Our creative director never showed this to the client... he said because he, um, couldn't open it on his computer.  WTF?  I've seen the actual advertising the client has gone with, and it's not nearly as hip, fun, or I'm sure, effective.  And this happens all the time in advertising.  The good ideas never get a chance.  But you know that going in.

Advertising was easy for me, in part, because no one ever gave me grief if I rolled into work at 11:15, or even 11:30 am.  I'd watch Regis & Kelly, then half of Ellen, sometimes the whole thing.  Then I'd grab a cab, knowing I should have motivated earlier for the subway.  Occasionally, but not enough to ever make a difference, some higher-up would tap his watch and shoot me a disapproving glance, but on the whole, as long as everyone was satisfied with my work, and I didn't miss any meetings, it was all good.  Advertising was picnic because a lot of the time it consisted of image searches, just combing through photography in search of a gesture or color to make something feel finished.  It was art, really, finding balance and paying attention to the edges and negative space of things.  It wasn't always glamorous, designing buttons and tabs, working with information architects to resolve problems.  But it was a hell of a lot easier than standing on my feet all day, greeting customers as they passed through the glass doors of Banana Republic.  That was work.  Retail sucks if you're fat.  Not only do you have zero desire to spend your day imagining how you'll spend your next paycheck as you sort through the newest arrivals, but you can only listen to size six women complain about how the flat-front trousers make her crotch look "bulky."  And even when the store is barren of customers, you're still not permitted to sit, even if you're in the dressing room, folding rejected merino blends. And there were always the really nice, but still kinda sketchy, dudes who worked in the stock room, who because you were fat, seemed to think you'd want to date them and their chains, pagers, and goatees.

What I loved most about working at Wunderman, the direct marketing subsidiary of Young & Rubicam, was the people. I am still in touch with many of them.  Well, twelve of them, really.  Maybe more.  It was also easy because there was a Fourbucks downstairs.  And my job consisted of searching the internet for clean designs, keeping up with the new technologies.  There were uninspired status meetings, sure, but even then, it was a chance not only to learn what everyone else was up to, but it was an opportunity to get the hell out of my chair.  It forced me to socialize.

I loved listening to music all day, singing.  One night,quite late--there were perhaps six people left in the building--I decided to listen to R.E.M through my headphones to keep me company as I finished my design.  I'd regularly bust into song without really knowing it.  Dave would sometimes tap me on the shoulder and start to laugh, but he'd gone home hours earlier.  When "Everybody Hurts" chimed in, I raised the volume.  Before long, I began to belt it.  "NO, NO, NO, YOU'RE NOT ALONE!" 

"NEITHER ARE YOU!" someone in a cubicle outside my office yelled back.  And instead of being dreadfully embarrassed, I thought, "That's exactly why I work here.  I love this shit."

And now I miss it, some of it anyway, listening to David say, "Hey, check it out," as he encouraged me to look as his latest design, or photo, or some crank calls web site he found.  Or when I shared an office with Steve Henderson, and we quoted lines from movies all day.  Or when I bunked with Kerri in another office, the two of us laughing and wheeling in late.  We had fun. And work, while it was just that, never felt like it really.  Even when we had to work on the weekends, or stay until midnight, even then, I liked what I was doing, so it was never that bad.  But deep down, I didn't feel like I belonged.  I didn't feel completely fulfilled.  I sometimes cried in the bathroom (I love how this post ends... that it was written when I started this blog.  Gives me chills).

When I'd first started in advertising, back in 1997, I mostly designed banners and insufferable interstitials and pop-ups.  Then I'd work on campaigns, got involved with testing and focus groups.  Switched over to marketing for a while, performing competitive audits for my clients, studied click-through rates, and learned what worked and what didn't.  Tested copy, offer, and creative.  Put together  Powerpoint decks.  Then I switched back to creative, with a firm grasp on what Forrester/Jupiter Research had to say about web performance, driving traffic, etc.  I always wore both hats and was easily able to balance design with what had to get done from a marketing perspective.  Actually, it wasn't exactly always "easily." 

At a certain point my boss called me into her office and said, "This ain't gonna cut it."  She meant my straddling both worlds.  I had to choose, and if I was going to design, I had to make shit look good.  I couldn't walk into a meeting with a piece of creative and support it with research.  I saw it as an opportunity to grow.  Others might have dug their heels in and argued that what I did was what more designers should have.  Know the research, know what works.  But what would have been the point? 

In the weeks that followed, I worked on new business campaigns while also attending to my regulars.  And my boss pulled me aside and said, "Stephanie, these are just beautiful.  I can tell you took what I said seriously.  Really, just lovely."  And they were smart, too.  And she was a good boos.  Because it seems we don't hear enough of that these days.  Both of us, the talkers and the listeners.  The talkers tend to focus on what we're doing wrong, and as a listener, as much as they might include something positive, we cling to the negative.  But my boss paid attention and didn't have to tell me that she noticed a drastic change.  But she did, and it was encouraging.  It made me want to take it further.  To do better.  I work very well under direction, especially when it's laced with encouragement.

I loved the energy there, even when the most creative ideas weren't given a chance to breathe.  I loved David and his sweet nature, how he'd try to keep up with Gary when we made a run at night to Trailer Park for Patron shots.  Loved Gary and the way he'd strut through the office, one clip of his shirt hanging beneath the excess leather of his belt.  He'd ask me to whisper because it was too early for "a Klein story... but later, Sweetpea, once I get my coffee going."  Then he'd return later in the afternoon.  He wouldn't say a word, just pulled up a chair and waited with his hands in his lap.

"What?"

"Come on, Steph, spill it."  He's the only one who I never corrected when he'd call me "Steph."  I don't know why; it was the way he said it.  I miss our small tribe, our brainstorms, and drawings, and the jokes, and the Thursday nights, where we'd stay late drinking in the office, playing Cranium in Joani's office.  And when we moved to the Madison Avenue location, and I began to report to Jane Walsh, I was even happier.  I was given more responsibility, and I remember her instructing others to look at my work, "keep it in her style.  Have Stephanie show you."  And I felt proud.

And that's what made it so hard for me to leave.  I really did like my job, and saw it as that, a job.  Not a career.  A job.  But once the NBC deal went through, on top of the books, I felt in over my head, like I was straddling again.  So I didn't see it as quitting my job as much as starting my writing career. 

While in advertising, I began this blog.  I posted to it almost daily from my office, never writing about work or co-workers in fear of losing my job.  I posted between meetings, during a bit of downtime.  And then I wrote my book proposal during working hours.  Because I could.  It was the kind of job that allowed for it.  As long as I handed in a design the client loved by our scheduled meeting time, no one cared when I'd done it.  Only that I had. 

I sometimes think of returning to the world of advertising, wondering which side I'd end up on, copy or design.  But in reality, I've got a whole lot more writing to do before I can think about that.  But if I had to, it would be design.  I do miss it.  But that's what scrapbooking is for.

two

When Lauren* and I got together for half-price sushi, she asked me how things were going.  Of course, when women ask one another how things are, what they really mean is Are you happier than I am?  “Really great.”  It was suddenly absurd as soon as I heard myself say it.  It was like using the word “nice” to describe something.  “How are things with you and Dylan?”  I was being polite.

“Stephanie, he is so incredible.  You know how I’ve always dated jerks, well, he’s like the first guy who really treats me right.  I mean, I know we have our share of differences and all, but for the first time I have found someone who puts me first.  I sound queer don’t I?”

I thought about how when Gabe was younger, he brought his pillow outside with him to cool it on his balcony in the middle of the night.  Lauren sipped at her green tea, thumbed her pink napkin and divulged Dylan’s aversion to reproduction.  All I could think was that I love Gabe because he appreciates cold sheets.

At times I wish I could have really known him when he was that young.  I wish I could have been at his soccer and baseball games.  I can’t help think about all the time we’ve been connected, in one form or another.  Whether we were down the hall from one another at Northside School with our small bodies sprawled out on the cold green tiled floors drawing the solar system or the human nervous system or when we were connected through our sisters.  From those few times when he dropped his sister Jolene off at our house to the time when he invited me to some party, that never happened, at his house in California.  Then, the fated Spanish trip, where I remember our flirting.  It was never mentioned; we continued separately.  Then, when Papoo died, my family stayed in his house.  I slept in his empty bed.  Finally, the day arrived when I blew off Jeff for a ride with Gabe and his girlfriend out to the Hampton’s the day after the family barbecue.  I figure that the chance of my ending up with anyone from my childhood is none, not even slim to none, just none, and the fact that I was connected to Gabe, somehow, all this time serves as a very distant second to knowing him in his youth.

When I go home to Long Island and I lie on the green leather couch, I stare out the side window.  I see the tree I used to climb when I was younger.  I remember looking at that same tree when I was really young, ten years old, and even back then, I thought about how amazing it would be if there was someone out there who was maybe thinking about having someone thinking about a future with him.  Now, granted, I was always a bit of a romantic, even from the ripe age of ten.  Who would have thought that Gabe was there all along?

Sometimes I watch him when he doesn’t know that I am.  I watch his reflection in the bathroom mirror when he is shaving, and I think about how alike we are.  All that time I spent in the mirror growing up, playing dress-up, and practicing monologues, and now Gabe tries to perfect his one-eyebrow-raise.  When we’re in his car, with the windows down and the radio blaring, and he lets me give him singing lessons, I think, “My God, this is it.  This is really it.  I want to be with this man for the rest of my life.”  That’s why I feel inadequate when Lauren asks me how things are.  Anything I can offer in way of an explanation will fall flat because I love him for myriad reasons.

I love him because when I am sad he surprises me with Baskin' Robins’ Mint Chocolate Chip.  He corrects my spelling and lets me correct his grammar.  I love him because when we’re getting into a car, he opens my door for me.  He crouches down on my kitchen floor, sits beside me and rubs my leg when he sees me sitting there sad.  He likes naps.  He carries my bags for me, makes my bed (even does the pillows right), and he sends me cards even though he sees me every day.  He uses Silk Groom with me, and as much as he loves it, he is willing to stop for a while to ensure that my red allergic bumps disappear.  He doesn’t drink coffee in the morning, and doesn’t mind that I nag him about his addiction to Coca-Cola products.  I love that he will stay in on a Saturday night—even when I make him watch “My Fair Lady.”  I love that if I told anyone that, he’d roll his eyes, smile, jokingly deny it, and pull me to him and whisper to me that he is going to kill me.  I find his use of the words tremendous and ludicrous indispensable.  I adore that he tries to tempt me with Chicken Selects.  I love walking into a room with him holding his hand.  When I am ill, from drinking too much, he stays up late with me so I don’t have to be sick alone.  He calls me his girl. 

I love that he looks up grammar rules like lay/lie and even goes as far to research the past tense—lain.  He loves horseradish, q tipping, Williams—Sonoma gadgets, and high fives at the table.  He thinks farts are funny.  As great as he is for buying me tampons—which is immense—and video cord with a two-way splitter, I revere him because he told me that if I ever feel lonely, I am always included in whatever he does.  For no reason at all he brought me Beluga Caviar and champagne.  My god, he could do nothing else, but he does.  He roams around in a sweltering museum in search of the perfect animal to draw.  He is patient with me when I get upset.  He rolls his eyes at Debra, and he makes jokes about her toaster.  He rented Drunks for me three nights in a row.  He reassures me that I don’t ever have to be alone again if I don’t want to.  He brings me sweaters when I am cold and undresses me when I am too warm.  He has a framed picture of Kramer on his wall.  Enough said.  More than any other reason, and all the reasons combined, I love him because he is my very best friend.   

*Lauren isn't her real name.  And this "Lauren" is friend #3.  Friend #2 turned into husband #1, Gabe, who was ultimately a person I cut out of my life, for good.  Straight Up and Dirty, my first memoir, explores, in much greater detail WHY I cut him out of my life.  And of course, I wrote this post many years ago, hence, the whole "past tense" category. I chose to post this now because when we're this far removed, and once we really have moved on, it's amazing how we forget that once upon a time we had a completely different life, with different characters, and we were just as in love.  Gabe, was, as hard as it is for me to believe, my best friend at one point, and in remembering all the friends who are no longer in my life, it would be an error not to include him, despite the fact that our "exes" aren't really in the same category as our ex-friends.

barfly

I thought an engagement ring was some form of deterrent.  Usually when a random man at a random bar began to make small talk with me, he’d make a big face upon seeing my engagement ring.  I was wasting his time and should have been holding my wine goblet with my left hand, so it was all the more obvious that he should talk to someone else.  No single guy at a bar wants to talk to the married chic.  And part of me, the insecure part, found it a bit unfair that I wore this symbol of promise and commitment but my fiancée did not. Because as much as an engagement ring is about love and a future, on some level it also says off limits almost as efficiently as museum glass.  That’s what I thought.

Some married women take comfort, thinking their husband’s band of platinum is a sign to the single indicating, “keep off my grass,” but it’s not.  If someone wants attention, they don’t always care about the source, or whom the source is married to.  I know women who date married men, and I judge them.  Harshly.  I exhale bits about karma and some part of me, the once betrayed part, wishes them a life where the same thing will happen to them.  That they’ll eventually marry, maybe this same married man, maybe another one, and it will come back to haunt them.  He’ll now tell another woman how his marriage is on the rocks, how it’s only “technical at this point.”  I want her to know the hurt she’s causing.  I feel guilty for wanting these things.  Judgmental, yet justified. 

Being married or engaged, wearing that symbol, not wearing it, in a bar, it means nothing to the people who see it, and that sucks. Yes, it means the world to the wearer, who would never cheat, but they would flirt, just to see.  Harmless, right?  Without an exchange of numbers or fluids, no one has done anything wrong.  I have another theory on this, but for now, we'll keep things tidy, to the facts, to what happened.

“I don’t care if you’re married,” he says.  “One better, you’re only engaged, which means you’re still fair game.”  Now I’m game.  I see, like deer or pheasant. 
“Hunt this,” I want to say, but I don’t because I’m eating at the bar, and my food has just arrived. 
“But you’re so hot and tight and young; how can you be settling down now?”  Because.  “Because I know when he rubs you through your bed routine later tonight, you’re going to think of this conversation, think of the span of your entire life, and you’re going to come to one conclusion: that it’s short, too short, and you’ll remember this conversation as he touches you.  The way I touch your arm ‘innocently enough’ right here, in the inside of your elbow, and you’ll wonder why you didn’t pull away at my touch, and then you’ll wonder why he never bothers to touch you here.”  And when he says, “here,” he presses his thumb into my pulse.  I’ve had too much wine and can almost forget or forgive the fact that he actually said "young and tight."  If he were sober and I told him he'd said it, he'd knit his brow and smile, denying it.  "You must have me confused with an infomercial," he'd say, and it wouldn't make sense, but it would.  This is what a mistake feels like.  This is what alive feels like.  “And you’ll get off on this, and I can tell from your face you think I’m cheesy or cocky, or whatever you want to tell yourself to make you feel better, slime, even, but tonight, I’ll go to bed thinking of him touching you, knowing you’re thinking of this, these words, my hand on your pulse.”  And he’ll be right.  Because when someone slaps that down, when they ride that confidence, they’re in there, on the brain, and all you remember is the glance across the bar, the way he made you feel.  The attention and the idea that he could really know you.

And then you remember He, your He.  He’s getting the same talk from the other line, the opposition line, the female bartender who likes his dimples or his jokes or the way he’ll tip.  Or the girl with the back tattoo who smokes clove cigarettes and drinks Irish whiskey and wears too much coal eyeliner.  And if you were there, you’d think, but I’m much prettier.  Looks have nothing to do with any of this.  It’s attention mingled with confidence.  He sees it in her cleavage, the way she presses herself off the bar, and walks toward the bathroom, aware that he’s watching.  He’s sure he could if he wanted to, and it excites him, watching her eyebrow and hemline, the way other men watch her. Knowing if could turn to yes, without the words, if he wanted, if he allowed for it.  He's still got what it takes, and that makes him feel good.

Maybe you’re wrong, though.  Maybe this shit only happens to you.  He just talks about whatever sport it is and whichever players.  But you get jealous when he says he’s going out because you know exactly what happens to you when you go out, and you’re the one with the ring, with the symbol, with the sign saying, “nah uh, no way.”  If he knew, really knew, the things men said to us, the way they made us feel and want, he’d never let you leave the house alone.  If he was a fly on the bar wall, he’d shake his head, tighten his lips and be pissed off in that way that’s not overt, in that “everything’s fine” way.  But she wasn’t doing anything wrong.  She was eating a meal.  And she did pull her arm away; you weren’t watching closely enough.

"When you finish your meal... Stephanie? Was it?  Come have a drink with us.  Our table back there is now ready."  And so many women say okay, then get stuck having to hear about his townhouse and how he's friends with Kate Spade, as if that's some grand selling point.  "Do you know who I am?" gets spit out too often without those exact words, in the way he stands or pushes up a sleeve to not quite check the time, but hopes you'll notice his brand of watch.  And in my head I think, "Yeah, I know who you are; you're human, just like I am.  Except you're sucking at it."  You're insecure and worried and trying to impress your friends at that table, and you're older and have more to learn.  I wonder when you'll realize it's not all about your client Tony or the blond with the fake fur and lips.  It's about integrity. 

And it would be so much easier if this were the case, if he turned out to be a Mister.  But instead, the man who touched your arm at the bar while you were eating, paid for your bill when you weren't paying attention.  And he was a good guy you could have spent your life with, speaking in coincidences and shared interests.  He was only provoking you that night because he could tell you were like him, with your need to think and feel.  And now you still think about him, the one you hardly knew, the idea of the other, who for a night, saw you in a perfect way.

*As an aside, today I found Married To It, written Sept. 12, 2005, and found it ironic and heartwarming.  Especially Phil's comment.  I also suspect the idea of monogamy might be called "unnatural" in the comment section.  And it really might be, in fact, it probably is.  But we make our choices and we live with them, moving and looking forward, even if we sometimes stagger and breathe in a little too much nostalgia.  There's also something natural about life-long partnership, growing with--even though it sometimes will feel like away from--your beloved wife.

found letter

I’m at your apartment without you, but I’m too drunk to spy, to care about photo albums of your past, to search for love letters, and sad coupons with penned promises.  I’m in your bed, waiting for your return, listening to Damien Rice, and for the first time in my life, I’m not wondering who has been through this bed, as you’re on your way home to me.  “In a cab,” you texted.  I know you’re on your way, but even if you were gone for longer, for hours, days, months… we’d be okay.  I’d never do years, knowing neither of us would do well trying to do alone together.  I’m not built that way, to do alone together.  I wasn’t built for long distance.  I can do sprints, short term, or long term together, but expecting long distance is expecting too much.  Life’s too short for it.  I live mine in a series of moments.  I can do month to month, like a lease, but a long-term commitment when “next” means “months from now”… I’ll never be able to do it. 

“Then it’s not love.  If it were, you’d wait.”  Sorry, no.  I just don’t buy that.  I wasn’t built that way, to sustain on promises of sometime.  I need now, a pacifier, a life for now that will lead into then and them.  I won’t live in sorrow, based on borrowed words for our tomorrow.  I need now, and if you can’t give it, I’m gone, not to punish but to live.  I need to live, and that means now, not tomorrow. 

I spend too much time worrying you’ll die, or I’ll die.  I want you to know, if I never get to say goodbye, that you’re my dreams.  You’re my future.  You’re my family.  And a part of me worries I’ll die before I get to say those words.  That people won’t know how important you are to me, because we didn’t get there yet.  I worry the world won’t know, that you won’t know, that you’re all I’ll ever need.  I want that chance to tell you, to show you, what you are to me, my family in months. 

When we fight, I worry the time is being thrown in balls that hit the plate.  I worry we’ll run out of time, and no matter how right I ever feel in our arguments, feeling adrift always feels wrong.  I need you to know that you’re my equal, and that I want to give you the world.  What scares me most, is not death, it’s dying without your knowing what you mean to me, without everyone knowing that they should love you just as they love me.  I want to spend my life with you, what I’ve left of it.  Philip Steven Beer.  I want whatever I have left, to give and share with you.  But I won’t share this with you because you’ll think they’re words, drunken letters. 

This, however, is everything I feel but won’t say because life is too short, or too long.  As life would have it, I’ll outlive this, these moments of apologies, of declarations, and it won’t matter.  I’ll be the only one to read this.  It would be found; it will be re-revealed.  A love of mine, that perhaps lasted longer than it ought to have, or not long enough.  Either way, the love part is honest.  And it will always be home.

making room for ugly

I brushed my teeth, but not my hair.  I've been wearing the same clothes, exactly, for the past two days, and I have left the apartment! No make up.  Threw on a bra, just to show I care, then we went lamp shade shopping.  The Suitor has an antique set of lamps (which were originally vases, turned into lamps, and as he reminds me continually, "they were very expensive") he cannot live without, yet somehow has lived without using, ever, since they have no shades since he bought them with his ex-wife.  He was married, too.  She picked these up for them.  I don't want them in our home.  It's much less to do with the fact that they're her taste and more to do with "they're not my taste."  They belong in a sitting room, at The Breakers in Newport, where visitors pass through, catching glimpses of rooms behind velvet ropes.  They don't belong in a home, where people actually fart. 

On our ride to the lamp shop, he asked, "So, like, what's a lamp shade go for these days? Twenty, fifty bucks?"  I had no idea but suspected it was closer to the latter guess.  We carried the lamp inside, leaving its twin home.  Then we paced the store, holding up different shades to see what suited the lamp best.  My eye was drawn to the more contemporary lines, while he chose more traditional, bell-type shades.  Everything looked fucking ugly, and I wanted to leave.  "I'd never even pick this lamp," I said aloud to the saleswoman.  I hate having to compromise.  When I don't get my way, all I really feel like doing is pouting until I do, but it never works, so I just become silent, and mostly agreeable, hoping my miserable mood will pass.  Ugly lamps.  So not my taste.  And don't talk to me about that show "Design For The Sexes" where they merge his candle collection antique look with her West Elm nightmare (I love some of West Elm's stuff, I must admit, but my true favorite mailer is William-Sonoma Home).  My ideal decoration style appears in the movie "Something's Gotta Give."  It's Erica Jane Barry's house in the Hamptons.  Each room looks comfortable, elegant, like a brand new cashmere turtleneck.  I want that.  But I won't say so again. 

I'm a traditional girl, yet I'm not.  I have no problem trying to get pregnant before getting married, yet I believe the woman should get to choose whichever china pattern she'd like.  I mostly prefer Anna Weatherly or Bernardaud's "Constance" designs.  He wants all white square plates in funky shapes.  Minimalist.  I want what he calls "too busy."  I understand, believe me I do, food is its own design, so save the white funky shapes for our casual everyday china, where there's time to assemble each plate.  With formal family dinners, like thanksgiving, it's all about the spread of the table, not what each plate looks like once there's food upon it.  What's so hard to understand?

I like ribbons; he wants no part of it.  He already knows I hate the color pink, but I do want some things to be girly.  Not our bedspread or living room, but our china pattern, well, yes.  Guys just shouldn't care and should defer to what she prefers, because it should matter to her more.  Call me sexist.  It's what I know.  That's my modeling.  My father didn't care how my mother decorated the house.  "Whatever you want," he'd say.  And she'd pass things by him before purchasing, just to be sure she wasn't spending too much.  He'd then chime in with a "how much are you paying for that plate?!"  Then she'd roll her eyes and tell him that's what fine china goes for.  "If you love it," he'd say most of the time.  But overall, he let her choose.  He didn't fight her and make her compromise on every room of the house.  "Just let me do my own desk," he complained after she purchased an antique French desk with two small drawers.  The china, bedding, living room... it was all up to her.  As long as the den had a big enough television, he was content.  I wish I had that, a man who deferred to my taste and simply said, "I'll look at what you'd like me to, but I trust your taste, so whatever you want."  It's the girl's job.  Men just shouldn't care. 

It's hard having to merge, to make room for what he loves, despite it not feeling "like me."  "It should feel like us," he would say if I told him this.  But it doesn't.  Maybe it's not the lamps.  We've only had sex once since we've been here, though that might have a little something to do with my showering, or lack thereof.  It's a symptom, though, this lack.  Stress.  Sure.  But it seems lately all our power struggles are being emphasized.  He tries to be helpful, which reads to me like condescending. "If I want your help, I'll ask for it," I've said.  And when I do ask for it, when I plead with him, "I need your help with this," he becomes stubborn and retorts, "I'm not your father.  I have needs too, and my needs are not to do things your way.  So figure something else out.  I do enough around here."  And he does.  He absolutely does.  "But buying a car is a major decision," I plead, "and I don't want to go alone to test-drive one.  Can you please come with me?" 
"No, I've already made up my mind.  If you want to go test-drive something, and you love it, I'll come back to see it." 
"I don't want to go alone.  I get shy, and you ask better questions than I do.  I need your help with this." 
"You're a big girl.  You do not."  This is usually when I cry and prove that I am not at all a big girl.  Then he starts in, but I cut him off. "Can I finish speaking?" he says.  But I speak over him, knowing the next words he'll say.  "Why don't you just speak with yourself, if you always know what I'm going to say?  I don't even need to be here."  But I know him that well.  I know what he'll say.  I don't need to hear it.  But when he feels like he's not being heard, he gets louder.  Or frustrated.  Or fed up.  And I feel it.  So I have to work on not interrupting him, and trying to make room for an us.  He has to work on realizing it's never okay to take his frustration out on me with sarcasm or yelling. 

It's just a pair of ugly lamps.  I have an ugly drawing of Barbara Streisand on my desk, a line drawing that resembles a tulip.  I guess that's what you do in real relationships, you make room for each other's ugly. When I get upset like this, in my "everything is ugly and why am I with you anyway?" mood, I think back to when I first fell in love with him.  It makes me easier on him.  Puts things into perspective and makes me remember that I love him.  Even with his uglyass lamps that everyone else seems to think are beautiful.  "Yeah, that's because you don't have to look at them each day," I think but do not say to these people.  I'm doing a lot more of that, thinking without speaking.  You wouldn't know it though, listening to me go on.

i can't make you love me, if you don't?

I just get so crazy when he isn’t giving me what he used to.  His emails used to be about how he thought of me constantly and looked forward to being with me at the end of his day… how sexed up he was at the idea of being with me—how much he really deeply loved me. I’d show up at his apartment in garters and stockings, hid away beneath my casual jeans.  When he undressed me, his heart began to race.  “Dear God, Stephanie,” he’d say eying me as if he didn’t know where to begin.  He would always express how happy and satisfied he felt in the relationship.  I did the same thing. 

I was excited to see him and do fun things with him. And when that stopped, when there was a fight, and then no email about how great he felt about us... as soon as I knew he was questioning us and he was no longer secure and certain, I became extraordinarily anxious.  Any time we spent together I spent worried; how could I get him to feel that way again for me?  “But you can’t make someone love you.”  Bullshit.  You actually can.  Bonnie Rait is wrong.  If you can get someone to orgasm, or feel like shit, or feel invincible in that pair of new jeans, you can get them to love you.  Or at least, get them to want to love you.  Maybe Bonnie’s right.  Can you, forget about what old wise people say, get someone to love you?  Manipulate it right if you know just what to say or do?  Well, then they might fall in love with who you’re trying to be, not who you are, then you’re back to the “me” bit.  We all want to be loved for who we are, just as we are, but when we’re our most loving, nurturing, patient and forgiving selves, when we’re complimentary and generous, giving our partner exactly what they need, can’t we make them love us?  I think you can.  I think all the books are wrong.

I’d just have to be the girl he fell in love with, be loving to him, because men like how women make them feel.  They spend their lives wishing we were just as we’d been at the beginning.  “Be yourself,” bullshit landed on my door in one neat advice pellet.  But how can I when I’m this anxious?  “You act,” I was told.  “Play it cool, like you don’t care.”  But I’m supposed to make him feel good, not like he has to chase me, not now; it’s too late for that.  And this is the dizzy mess I danced, in my head, thinking too much.  But really, only men told me I was thinking too much.  Women understood and helped me strategize. 

When you’re buried in emotion and decision, everything seems messy and unclear.  It’s obvious to outsiders who give the advice, capping it with “easier said then done,” because they know it sounds easy, even though it will feel hard.  Here’s something I wrote to myself in my journal to help me tread and navigate through it: “Talking about it doesn’t make me feel any better. Hearing that it will be okay, that neither of us wants it to end only makes me feel better temporarily. ‘Cause he knows just what to tell me, so he’s giving me just enough, without giving me everything.  The truth is that there is nothing, NOTHING, that is going to make me feel better other than hearing from him that he wants me and that he is sorry for having to have put me through this.  The only thing that will make me feel normal again is if he’s so in love, so determined to have me as his wife that he declares it outright. God, it’s what I deserve.  And staying and working things through will not bring him to this revelation. It won’t. It will be bending over backwards, walking on shells, worrying about what he tells his friends that he’s not telling me, all for him to maybe say that he’s still unsure.  I don’t want to live a lifetime waiting in his doubts.  For his epiphanies.  In a world of his.  It’s not a time to be patient; it’s a time to move on and live your life, not bound up in one person who doesn’t know.  Life, as cliche as it is, is too damn short.”

Here’s the thing I didn’t realize when I was deep in it.  When I wrote about having to not give him a hard time when he wants to hang with the guys, etc. When I tried to talk myself into being better for him, better about his parents, etc… here’s what I didn’t realize.  OH MY GOD, there ARE men out there who WANT me around almost all the time, who would insist I join them at the game, men who can communicate, who don’t give a shit what their parents think, who put me first, who are so excited about being near me and doing things for me to show me this.  I didn’t want to realize that maybe he wasn’t a good match for me, that maybe what I needed was someone who felt things more deeply, someone who wanted to be in a communicative important relationship, someone who honestly would rather be at a cafe with me, sipping wine than with his pals on the course—um, I’m not kidding (there are men out there who don't care about golf).  And yes, now that I'm in a relationship like that, I don't care if he wants to spend time with others.  I know we both want to be together, so when we're not, we communicate in sweet texts, eager to see each other soon.  It's not the end of the world.  But then, I didn’t want to realize that really we were mismatched.  Instead I was dead set on making it work, trying to change, to bite my tongue and be a good partner.  It was work, and sometimes work is too hard.  So you need to make the even harder choice and leave.  Which feels like quitting, like failing at another relationship, but really, you’re quitting a bad habit, the need to hold on when it’s time to let go.  The need to make someone love you.  Maybe you can do it, but it's too much work, and you'll only always question if he's there for the right reasons.  It's no way to live or to love.

oh baby you, you got what I need

This is my first weekend alone, with The Suitor gone for a camp reunion weekend in Boston.  It’s Friday night, St. Patrick’s Day, and he returns Monday night.  Ten minutes before leaving he tells me his friend Adam (with whom he’d planned to stay the entire time) is up in Vermont one of the weekend nights and suggested my suitor stay with their mutual friend Annika. The Suitor has had sex with Annika.  We have a rule of not speaking with our exes, especially those with whom we’ve slept.  Annika has a boyfriend now.  This means nothing to me.

“You had sex with her, didn’t you?”
“Oh, come on.”
“Well didn’t you?”
“Yes, yes I did,” he says in a non-confrontational tone that surprises me.
“So don’t we have an agreement?”
“Tell me what you want me to do.”

We have an agreement.  We no longer speak with or see our exes.  Period.  We certainly don’t stay at their houses.

“Do whatever you think is right.”  I mean this.
“What does that mean?”
“It means do whatever you’d want me to do.  Do what you think is right.”
“Do you mean that?”
“Yes.”  And I did.

Of course he’s not staying with her, but he will spend time with her because she is a mutual friend, and it’s silly for him not to spend time with a group of his friends just because she will be there.  I am actually okay with this.  I’m still breathing, alive, and quite fine, actually.  Though I'm less so when I recall the last time they were alone together. He was at a bar with her and had to get one of his friends to pull her off of him.  She asked him to mercy-fuck her.  She felt lonesome and sorry for herself.  She used the word “please.”  I know all of this because it was from a time when we were first dating, a time when you share it all before thinking the better of it.  He was at his vacation home, where she stayed as a guest.  They were drunk.  He texts me something, "ha ha ha, my friends had to pull her off me."  Not those words, but the stupid sentiment was there.  I've done it too.  You share these things, in part, because you want to remind the other person that you’re desirable to others.  This basically means you're insecure.  But fine.  You also share it because you really don’t care and think it’s mildly interesting.  But mostly we do this when we have no idea where things will lead, and most importantly, what kind of neurosis we’re up against.  Oh, how very little he knew. If neurosis were rain, I'd be Meghalaya.

We share the things we shouldn’t at the onset, like which of our current friends used to be ex-lovers.  Big mistake.  Huge.  "Oh, yeah, we once fucked until we broke the bed."  Hee. Hee.  No.  Don't do that.  The seed is planted and grows with the relationship, so each time that friend’s name is subsequently mentioned, quiet, seemingly innocent, questions follow.  “Oh really?  You two are hanging out again?”  Suspicion sets in, despite the whole, “but we’re just friends now.”  Biz Markie is ruining relationships, decades later. 

It feels strange being here without him, knowing he won’t be coming home.  It feels a bit like middle school.  A Friday night when I wasn’t in the mood to be out with friends.  Facial masks.  Magazines.  FED UP nail polish.  Cuticle cream.  Girl movies on TV, commercials and all.  And he's out with a woman he used to be intimate with.  And quite honestly, I don't even care.  But I think I might if she were pretty or successful.  Horrible to say or think, but I will anyway.  I'm insecure.  We know.  I could write an entire television series about it. 

I rented the first season of Felicity, and after watching the pilot I realized any show has to succeed with that Scent of a Woman music.  It made me realize Straight Up & Dirty will work as a series, as long as it captures how neurotic I am.  We love the neurotic; we relate to it.  Or we know someone who does.  That Felicity chick was scary psycho stalker there for a while.  I have no doubt, though, that I must have seemed like that at that age.  I think we forget that time in our lives, how unsure we were, when we didn’t realize, even, how insane we were.  Now, at least when I’m being insane, I know it.  Until years from now when I look back at this age, shaking my head, wondering how I could have thought the way I did. 

on bended knee

You inspire me
You calm me
You create with me
I'm a better person because of you
You challenge me
You give me strength
You allow me to be me with you
I can/want to and will share everything with you
I love you with all my heart

I vow to be the best husband and father I can.

To love you and show you through hardships and conflicts as well as joy.

To be supportive.  To listen.  To build an "us" based on commitment, trust, compromise.

Stephanie Klein, will you marry me?

the fabric of my life

There comes a point where you just want to exhale, with the belly roll and boobs.  You just want to be yourself, to have fries with that and finish them.  That sometimes is now for me.  I just want out.  Of New York.  The thing is, I love New York, and New Yorkers.  I really do, but I want to escape my own for a while, to just be, living in tennis lessons and t-shirts, a simple life in bed with my dog and my man.  Living simply with grilled fish, olive martinis, and a horizon.  That's what I want in my life right now.  Covers.  Bedding.  White and clean, manicured.  I want a neat private life right now, something filled with bedtime stories and lazy mornings filled with myPod and an open road.  Something to do with a sheet for a blanket, awaking in a stretch, not a startle.  I want to yawn more, to nap, to wear more cotton.

Here's the problem.  I'm moving to Texas in days.  I can count them on my fingers.  Nine days if you count today.  I'm still in bed, so I guess I should count today.  It feels like spring through the windows, but yesterday it was snowing.  I don't know what I'm waking up to.  The problem is, I've made Texas into my "when" day.  You know the "I'll be more fit and thin when..."  I'll be happy when... It's the Soon Syndrome.  Someday.  Why isn't "someday" today?  If you were to stop me on the street and ask what I was up to, I'd say, "I'm on my way to dinner or to drinks or to Fourbucks."  I'm on my way somewhere.  Why wouldn't I respond, "I'm walking"?  We always value what's in the future instead of being fully in the moment. 

When I'm in hot-o-balls Texas, I'll exercise every day.  I'll sweat and the heat with kill my appetite.   We'll play tennis, and I'll swim laps with goggles.  I'll take kick-boxing classes.  But why aren't I at least going to the gym here?

I feel full, even when I wake up lately.  Because I've been eating too much food at night.  Drinking too much.  Halving my way through diets.  Half in, when it's easier.  Ribs are fine as long as I don't eat the cornbread or starches.  No they're not!  You don't get thin on laquered ribs coated in sugary thick sauces.  Or chunks of lamb in yogurt sauce over cubes of handmade bread.  You get thin on cottage cheese.  Drinking your water.  Not seeing how much you can get away with eating but seeing how little you can eat.  Shrink your stomach.  Drop a banana in a blender with skim milk and ice.  Then it's a diet.  Everything else is excuses.

But it seems like it will be easier in Texas.  Because in Manhattan, seeing your friends means meeting for drinks, which turns into fries.  In Austin, maybe I'll meet friends for tennis, or live music and seltzer water.  Or maybe I'll settle into domestic life and draw and write at night.  Maybe I'll be so busy that I'll be able to sleep through the night again.  Lately, I haven't been able to sleep.  I awake in the middle of the night, ripping off my clothes, covering myself only with a sheet.  Then I turn from one side to the next, on my stomach, hoping for the involuntary take-over, when I am no longer in my head.  When my body jerks asleep.  I miss being that tired.  Maybe Texas will tire me.  This city keeps me.  Awake.  With a cotton sheet and little else.  I miss sleeping through the night, awaking in a stretch.  Blender drinks.

before

This was me, before, hating and hostile.  Holding on.  Hurting.  Before.  This is "past tense," so pay attention.

I don’t want to be with you because of where you’ve been.  You’ve made us common by including me in all that you shared with her.  I cannot be with someone who tells me to give him the benefit of the doubt then sneaks off to support her.  I don’t want to be with you.  I want to make a hundred excuses why.  The real reason is you chose me in the end, but the choice wasn’t clear for you.  Your not knowing makes me feel uncertain about us.

I have trust issues.  I comb through your cell phone looking for evidence, to find something that will set me off.  And I always find something.  A diary entry where you keep a record of wrongs.  That’s not love; it’s right.  And I'll call you on it, and you'll claim, "so I'm more aware of why we fight."  You'll claim, "to improve."  I'll see it as the anti-Corinthians.  It’s your “see, I’m right" memo, the one you'll whip out next time to prove something. It’s right beside the phone photo you took of the McCormick's board saying she drinks free.  You arranged for her to drink free, just as you'd done for me.  You took her there, and probably to your vacation home, and probably anywhere else you’ve taken me.  The Tasting Room for her birthday.  When we'd gone you introduced me to the owner as the love of your life.  I wonder if he remembered the time you took her there.  I wonder who else has been where I have.  You’ve made us common, which makes me not want you.  Knowing you wanted someone else when you could have had me makes me not want to be with you.  Knowing she was in your calendar, that while you were with me, you were making plans to see her shows… it all makes me not want to have anything to do with you. 

They say there’s a danger in writing it all down.  One day someone can find it, there’s proof to be used against you.  I don’t care if you find this.  Then you’ll know how much it still hurts me.  How unfair you think I’m being, how it’s unrealistic to think you didn’t have a past before me… I know all of that.  I didn’t know, however, that you brought her into your life the way you did with me.  That you hold onto her still.  You say you don’t, that I should give you the benefit of the doubt, but you do.  You hold on.  I hold on harder.

I don’t want to be with you because of her.  What more can you do, so I don’t feel this way?  I don’t have an answer.  I don’t like what you’ve shared with her, that while you were with me, you chose to continue to see her.  I don’t like your choices.  I don’t like that even when we were an US, you still saw her and kept her in your life.  I don’t like that NOW, even after everything we’ve been through, I still don’t trust that you’ll never speak with her again.  I don’t trust.  How can we be an US if I don’t trust you?  And if I can’t trust you, YOU, then I can’t trust anyone.   

ours

I’m at MercBar, sitting exactly where you sat the last time we were here, except now you’re across from me in streets, towns, cities, countries, continents.  Across the world with someone else, eating authentic foods with your hands, slurping noodles, sitting on floors, riding in buses.  We were here.  I was across from you talking to Tali on her birthday.  You were across from me, near the window, talking with new friends, listening to their story.  They’d been apart for a year.  When you heard about their circumstances, you touched me and said, Ya see?  One year is nothing.  You’ll visit.  Yes, I said, I will.  But I didn’t. 

Now, a year later, I’m sitting here in MercBar, on your stool, speaking to strangers.  I’m here alone.  No.  My friends are over there, across the way.  I came here to be alone, in this corner of ours, even though nothing is ours anymore.  Even our memories are mine because you can’t share the way you remember.  The strangers are asking me if I’ve heard of Sex & The City, say I look like Carrie Bradshaw.  What? I ask as if I’ve never heard the name.  Who? 

It feels like yesterday, but it was last year, being here with you, hearing you tell your less than new strangers, Yeah, I’m traveling the world for a year. But we’ll visit.  You thought it could work.  Us.  Like that.  But you had to know it couldn’t, had to know I couldn’t experience new without someone else to share it with me.  When I told you so, you said you knew it would come to this, knew I couldn’t.  You chose.  I chose.

The next time we went out together, when we were alone and not surrounded by couples who didn’t know what a key party was, we walked home thirty blocks.  I was wearing thumb-thong flip-flops; my feet blistered.  I was wearing all white.  We said our goodbyes on the street.  You left me at my door.   I couldn’t believe it was over.  I cried on the street, moved down the block and sat on brownstone steps, crying into my phone, into Smelly’s ear.  How could he?  Does he really love me if he can leave like this?  I did but didn’t understand.  I still wouldn’t have chosen the way you did, but you couldn’t have felt as I did.  Because even our feelings aren’t ours. 

I realize now you were honoring your spirit, and I hate that honor and spirit crap, but you were following what you knew you had to, right?  No, you said, this wasn’t some dream of yours.  I just planned all this before you, you said.  Plans can be rearranged, but you chose to keep to yours.  If you’d felt as I did, you’d never have gone, never have let me have the opportunity to be here, sitting here, where you sat, on the stool against the curtain, the one that kept us together, joined us in more than words, between friends, across the street from where we met. 

all that has come before

You’ve stopped needing me. I think you’d be relieved, at first, if I left, but after a while, you’d miss the idea of me.  The me you knew in summer, but then you’ll remember the me of the fall and shrug.  I don’t know how to excite you anymore, to hold your interest, to have you find me desirable.  You’ve stopped.  You pretend you haven’t when you kiss me goodbye in the morning, but the whisper of a thrill is gone.  We moved beyond initials, now we’re knee-deep in power struggle. Each day, I worry that I fail you.  I’m growing more insecure, in me.  In us.

I’m not afraid you’ll leave or awake to find you’re not happy.  I’m afraid we fight too much because we both have strong stubborn personalities and butt heads too often.  I feel tumult when it happens this often, the discord.  While you are a safe place for me, I’m still unhappy being so off balanced, so off sides with the one I love.  I need time to myself, to be a girl, to cook for you, to have you over for wine and dim lighting, for music and making out.  I miss making out.  I want to kiss you more.  To build to something, toward something. 

I talked last night about roasting you a chicken.  Polenta.  Mushroom and leek stuffing.  Maybe apple and sausage.  Root vegetables.  It sounds nice, coming home to that.  I don’t want to become her again, the one who tries and ends up looking like the chump.  The one left standing, wondering how she got there, with an oven mitt.  I don’t want to be nice to you, to give to you, because it prevents me from giving to myself.  And it scares me because if I break down and really give to you, it means you can take from me.  It means getting hurt.  I know I cannot prevent.  I know the wall won’t help, but I shouldn’t be this scared.  I shouldn’t be checking your web history wondering how many email accounts you have, wondering what you’re hiding, which thoughts you’re too scared to say.  A guy in a committed relationship who is pressed for a step forward will lob the excuse, “scared of marriage,” because you say, “he’s not very well going to say, ‘I’m really scared of having to start over, of the online dating, and the moving out thing, much more than I’m afraid of losing you.”  And I hear you say it of the men you know, tell me how they won’t reveal these things, and I wonder what it is you won’t reveal to me.  What are you hiding?  How many email accounts are there?  Do you have a dating profile up on an online dating service site, or do you just window shop it when you’re bored to see what’s out there?  It makes me not want to shop for you, for clothing, for more shampoo, for chicken.  It makes me want to withdraw, these thoughts of what you keep for yourself.  Makes me want to run away, leave, and find an apartment of my own instead of a house for us.  Because I don’t trust.  Why?  Because.  I can’t even come up with a reason.  I know I’m wonderful, pretty, smart, talented, and expressive.  Why would you ever risk losing us?  I need to hear that though.  I need to hear that you wouldn’t, without just the actions.  I need to hear the words without having to ask for them.  To hear, “I want you to know I know just how lucky I am.  Thank you for choosing me.  I will never do anything to fuck this up.  Ever.”  So instead of complain, I’ll say it to you, say it because I mean it and I need it back.  And you’ll respond: “nor will I.  I won’t fuck it up.”  And that will be good enough.  I’m so scared you will do something to dissolve things, but I have to trust that you won’t.  I have to remind myself that you’re not him.  At all.  And wouldn’t be because you have integrity, because you’d know and wouldn’t like yourself.  I have to hold onto that instead of what has come before.

small in a big way

There comes a moment when you become disgusted with yourself.  For me, it was beyond clothes not fitting anymore.  I could afford new ones.  It was autumn; everyone makes new purchases come fall.  Name-calling used to do it for me when I was younger, but now I hear less of it.  I read plenty of it, but I shrug my shoulders and cough out “small.”  The people who play the "I know you are" game are small.  I'm not.  In fact, I’ve begun to notice that my double chin isn’t just happening due to a bad camera angle; they’re all bad camera angles lately.  I have enough to worry about in my life.  Weight shouldn’t be a worry for me anymore.  I’ve been worrying about it since I was twelve.  I should have this down.  I will struggle with my weight for as long as I live.  Sometimes it will feel easier than it does now.  My first moment of disgust didn’t come while shopping for bathing suits; it came while trying on ski jackets.  Unusual.  My boyfriend watched as I zipped my way into a black puffer coat.  I smoothed the fabric over and looked to him for a thumbs up or down, thinking maybe it was too informal of a coat to wear out at night.  He didn’t know what to say.  “Well, do you think it was, I don’t know, hard to zipper?  I mean it looks like you could use one size bigger.”  I felt small.

It was worse when I came home to a photograph of myself in New York Magazine where it looked like I ate Jenny Craig.  I went to sleep that night dreaming of a personal trainer.  I didn’t want my boyfriend to see me the way I see me.  I bit my nails and wondered if I should go back to the weight nazi.  Clearly, I need to be held accountable.  I need to pay someone to make me afraid.  I am miserable like this; it’s no way to live during a time in my life where I should be my happiest.

I got on the scale today.  I didn’t want to.  136 lbs.  That’s not even funny.  I’m ashamed.  I feel like a failure.  I’m afraid to go back to the nazi, that he’ll judge me and say, “I told you so.  How could you even think of not continuing to see me all this time?”  It’s exactly why I need to go back.  Being afraid is no way to live.  I will stick with this, for my health, for my happiness.  I want this.  I know how to do it.  Today is my new beginning. 

from the heart

When I was born, you started writing in a black book you kept in your armoire.  I think it had gold-rimmed pages.  When I grew old enough to know you had the book, I wondered what you’d written in it.  I was an embarrassed teenager and worried you were writing about my getting my period.  I probably threw a fit and demanded you show it to me.  Because that’s what I did when I didn’t get my way.  Okay, so it’s what I still do today, but Phil’s helping me work on that.  Which is nice, having someone who helps me to learn to grow into a better person. 

Life is so short, Dad.  I stood graveside near you and Carol recently, and I came home that night and wrote the following in my black book, the one I keep in my armoire (like father, like daughter):

Today I stopped worrying about my life.   I heard about the life Carol’s father lived, about the life he lead in a quiet witty way, and the people he left behind, people who know how much he cherished and honored them.  I stopped worrying if I was doing things right or by the book.  Who cares?  We have so little time here.

I remember putting a pebble up my nose and having to go to the ER the day we moved into East Williston.  It seems like yesterday.  I remember Grandma and Grandpa taking me to The Straton for onion bread the day Lea was born.  Grandma trying to split my cake slice with me.  “Stephanie, you can’t eat all that.  We’ll split it, and keep our girlish figures.”  I wanted to yank the plate back and to tell her to get her own. 

I wish she were alive for this joy.  I miss her so much.  I’m thankful I can share this with you, with Grandpa, with my family.  This is the happiest I’ve ever been in my life.  All my dreams are coming true.  The writing, the love, the family.  This is everything I’ve hoped for.  I just never imagined it would come, really truly arrive, the way it has, by just doing what I love.  I am so very blessed.

I hear so many older people say they can remember when I was a child like it was yesterday.  Time goes by so fast, and this is mine.  It’s up to me how I fill it.  I choose to fill it with Phil.  He’s my family, too.  And now, it’s not just you, Phil, and me.  Now there’s more to consider.

You always cursed me with, “I hope you have a kid just like you.”  Well you know what?  While that might be a big pain in the ass, I couldn’t wish for anything more.  A stubborn petulant child with a huge heart and the best dad ever?  I’ll take it.  I don’t think I’ve ever been this happy in my entire life.  Because with Phil, I KNOW it’s right because he’s just as big of a pain in the ass as I am… but we love each other.  And in all honesty, he’s felt like family long before we discovered we were blessed with this pregnancy.   So now, in just one day, you’re learning that you’re gaining a son and will soon gain the title of Grandpa.  I love you with all my heart Dad. 

sexomfortable

"[Stephanie] please arrive hair and make up ready as there will be no hair and makeup artist on the shoot. Please wear something you feel sexy and comfortable in." –New York Magazine

Fuckity fuck!

Sexy and comfortable?  Is there such a thing?  Yes, yes, we know, when a woman is comfortable, she is sexy.  Whatever, I assure you my Tide with Downy oversized pajamas are not recherché.  And, I have a hint of a feeling that me in a wifebeater, no bra, won’t photograph as well as one would hope. 

Will they be photographing my entire body?  I mean will my shoes matter?  Maybe they’ll matter only so far as how I’ll project sexy in them.  What a hoax.

I know I have hundreds of photographs of myself on this site, mostly posed, but none were taken in a studio beneath lights, and certainly none were taken of me standing beside women who write about sex.  Noon, today, I'm showing up for the New York Magazine photo shoot, only this time, I'll be in front of the camera.  So now the question is, what will I wear, and how will I wear it?  I thought about this yesterday, when I was in the Time Warner Center, on my way up the escalator.  I watched the women as they came down the escalator, hearing strings of their conversations.  "I'm a shopping madwoman," one girl said, dramatically lifting her shopping bags as proof to her friend.  I'm not.  I go in spurts where I won't buy a thing for close to five months, but then on a random day with no plans of shopping, I will buy in bulk.  I have other friends who shop every weekend, scouring the 23rd street flea market.  I don't do this.  I have no patience for shopping.  Some women can walk into a store, know they have no money to spend, yet still need to touch nearly every item of clothing.  They open up sweaters, then makeshift fold them, unaware of how long it took the sales associate to align the pile.

What I do know:
I have a kickass bra.  I will get my eyebrows threaded now.  I will swing into the Soho Bloomingdales and force a Smashbox lady to do my makeup. I will probably be late... as I always am.

what lies beneath

I didn’t know people still came here, to Pravda.  The last time I was here, I was married and drunk on dirty martinis.  Except I don't know if they were martinis at all.  I don't think I'd go to a vodka bar and not drink vodka.  Maybe I just ate crumbled egg and red onion; I don't remember.  I do remember the couple sitting within earshot of our table, remember hearing them talk about me as if I weren't there to hear for myself the things they said.  It happens a lot lately, people back talking.  "She lost all her magic," one woman said to the other, "when she put her hair back.  In that move, she withdrew."  I don't know if he heard them.  I never told him about what I'd overheard.  Back then I cared a bit more than I do now, but maybe that's not true.  I might have waited a beat, then pulled the band from my hair as if it were the subconscious language of my body.  I might have kept it up.  I don't remember.  What I do is that I’d made my way up the spiral staircase into the ladies room, returning to our table, my panties moist in my fist.  I nearly missed a step, which would have been more of a story, but I didn’t.  Instead I pottered back to the table, smiling, and handed them to him beneath our table.  He asked for the check.  The ladies didn't see my bare subtext.

Tonight I didn’t bother with underwear.  He went down on me at 7:30, just when I should have been arriving at my friend’s flat for twisted cheese straws and a board of bacterial bliss by way of cows, sheep, and goats.  Arriving for Rioja and where’d you get that top, lipstick, bracelet.  I decided not to put my underwear back on, wiggling as I checked my lipstick in our mirror.  This way, I said, you’ll still be with me.  But when it came time to hail a cab to Pravda in the cold, that’s all I felt.  The perfect destination in the biting cold of winder (it should be called winder instead of winter): an underground Russian vodka bar and the mystery of night.

but we're not

If we were on speaking terms, I’d call you to tell you another weird thing.

Writing class just ended, and I came home to try to find my married life.  Well, shit.  It used to be in a box beneath my bed, beside my Dewalt drill, but it’s not there.  I need the journal I kept when I was married to help me remember.  “Linus, where is my married life?”  I wonder if he can smell it, the married smells of our old apartment trapped in boxes beneath my single bed.  Linus ignores my question and turns onto his back in my lap.  He looks like a stuffed Cornish hen.  It’s just as you’d say.  I wish we were on speaking terms.  I’d tell you I miss you.  No I wouldn’t.  I'd let you say it, then I'd smile.

As I search for my old journal filled with pages using phrases like, “He did it, again,” I stumbled upon Schott’s Food & Drink Miscellany.  It’s like the generic one on your shelf, but mine is better because we don’t like anything as much as food.  Not even each other.  You’d be jealous of my book, but you wouldn’t say so.  Instead you’d just say, “See, Klein, we’re so alike.”  We are alike in many ways, but I take the miscellany in life to mean more than you do.  I find detail and meaning in things because it gives me an excuse to say, “see, this is why we should be talking.”  If we were on speaking terms, I’d tell you that, and you’d smile.

relationship capsule

We laid out towels to play Spit, but you never tried. I like card games; they remind me of summer and playing jacks on wooden cabin floors.  Make me remember the sound of a broom on wet cement, the smell of baby powder, how hard it was to lift myself onto the top bunk. I used to hide things in the rafters, a box of "I was here, but now I'm gone.  I've left this stuff to carry on..."  I don't remember what I put in the time capsule.  If I had one with you, what would we put in it to show what we were? 

My memories of us mostly happened at bars and restaurants where we ate off each other's plates.  When my phone rang, I refused to answer it.  "Wow," you had said, "I can't believe you didn't pick up for me."  You thought it was consideration.  Really, I couldn't imagine anyone interrupting us.  Ever.  Perhaps I could put bar napkins in the box, but years later, when I plucked them from our box, I wouldn't remember the coy smile you make right before you let out a peal of laughter. I wouldn't remember how stubborn you are, or how you're just like me.  You complained that you had to work to find my softer side, got annoyed that I shared it with the world here, when it took you so long to find.  Underbelly.  I've seen yours too, when you talk about your father.  I can't put that in the box.

I remember you most when you haven't been there.  On the train to Coney Island for the parade I knew you'd love.  I tried to take a photo on the beach, but my batteries died.  I'd have put that photo in our box because I'd remember there, in a moment where you weren't, I missed you.  Just one photograph, of neither of us, would remind me of my life without you, with you.  We live that way now.

I wanted to make you candied meat, to lay on the floor with you and make funny faces, but my living room carpet isn't conducive to anything on the floor. You hate hot beverages and anonymous inconsideration. You want to move someplace warm, but once you do, you won't know how to live without your boots, so you'll talk of inventing open-toed boots, sturdy enough for a fight, but the sand can pass through, and at your will, they'll slide off like your slick leather superhero cape. But you won't invent them, despite your drawings. Instead you'll lay on your floor and google search the idea.  Then you'll call me to say you know EXACTLY what should go in our box, but when I ask, you'll say you're writing it in a letter to me.  It will be a surprise, you'll say, and I'll never know what you'd planned.

sunday blues

“You know who I think is a slut?”
“Who?”  My cab driver, I am certain, is Martin Landau's beatnik twin.
“Paris Hilton.”
“Yeah, that's news.  Can you turn on 1010 Wins?”
“I just had two ladies in my cab who told me she wears blue contact lenses.  She has brown eyes, but she wears those contact lenses because she’s jealous of her sister who has naturally blue eyes.”  I own blue contact lenses.  Actually, mine are turquoise.  I should wear mine today.
“And you believe that?”
“Yes, those women were southern," he says as if "southern" means "scholar."  "They told me they have Poland Spring water in Georgia.  You’re drinking city water with 80% profit.  That water comes from Maine.  How can they have it in Georgia?  What they want is the little guy.  Always after the little guy.  And in the subway, you can eat there, but now you get a $50 dollar fine if you drink and eat.  Bringing more men, servicemen underground.  They fined you this way, and that way.  So I work on Sunday because there’s no limousine commission working on Sunday, and I don’t want to get fined.  My brother told me to get a haircut.  But I won’t do it.  This is me.”
“I hear ya!”  I'm a big believer in, "this is who I am.  Deal."  Even if he does have facial hair that resembles something you can purchase from your butcher.
“Yeah?”
“You gotta be you.” 
“Paris Hilton has to be a slut then.”
“All righty then.”
“Football and hockey are too violent for me.  I’m glad the Astros won.  They’re in it now, you know.”  I didn’t know.  “Now they have a chance at the series."  Clearly, now they're in it, but taxi day is past tense.  "Golf," he continued,  "you put a little ball and you chase it.  What a silly game.”
“What about boxing?”
“Oh, that’s fixed.  Totally arranged.  I don’t bother.”
“Nascar?”
“Dangerous sport.  Dangerous sport.  It’s all who’s going to put up the money for a $50k car.  It’s all games.  Baseball must be alright, bet wise, because they eliminated Pete Rose.  He was almost as slutty as that Paris Hilton broad."

vacation

I used the razor, the one when you’re at someone’s beach house you’re supposed to ignore.  I used it, taking care to remember its last position on the shower shelf, to remember how to return it.  I shaved my legs, wondering who would use it next and if they’d notice things were less sharp now; wonder if a guest took advantage of more than hospitality.  Then I showered for longer than I should, using hot water, not ever thinking if there would be enough for others.  Selfish.  Vacation.

You never noticed my legs, that they were smoother.  You didn’t notice me, in the corner, anything, until another man did.  Then suddenly, it was back to love, back to attentive, back to the words I wanted to hear.  Back to jealous, which meant loving me.  You still didn’t notice my legs.  Or anything beyond your own boundaries.  Beyond you.  Vacation.

Then we had sex, hoping no one would hear, wondering how loud we were being, if things were louder in our space, the way I imagined you could hear me swallow back tears.  Our silent sex should have been hot, trying to be quiet, trying to go unnoticed.  It wasn’t.  It was trying.

It was work that I felt I was failing at.  You seemed distracted and to be performing favors.  To be a part of silent sex just to say you were, like saying you visited a tourist attraction to prove you’d been somewhere.  I’m not a lighthouse or ham museum.

Even when no one is keeping count, when there’s no time clock to punch, even on vacation, I feel like I’m doing something wrong.  And if I ever express it, you shake your head, and hold mine in your hands, telling me to look at you, asking me how I don’t know how much you love me.  You might believe in your eyes and hands, but I don’t.  I don’t believe eyes or hands or promises, and that was before you.  And any chance you get, you say just that.  How I’m broken, how it’s not yours.  You’re on vacation, even from me. 

And when I ask you about your day, during the week, you give one word answers because you don’t like to burden, because you want to give me a vacation from what burdens you.  And by doing that, you’ll get just that, a vacation from me because I’ll stop asking, caring, wanting.  You.  I’ll want a vacation from your sarcasm, your want, and complaints about my being me.  And you’ll get your free paid vacation from me.  And you’ll pay for it for the rest of your life.  So enjoy it, the sun, the space, and the solitude.  It’s yours, my gift to you.

Maybe we were that couple, in that house, visiting, stealing soap, ignoring the hair that isn’t ours, but maybe we are as temporary as our visit.  Maybe we’re as new as that first sound, the yellow dog outside the house, the yelp, the crickets by the ocean.  Maybe that’s us, there, in that moment.  And as real as it might feel, maybe that’s all we are, a morning.  A wakening, a couple who is courteous, who asks if you’ve had enough fish and would you like more rice, but really, that’s all you are.  This couple that won’t be there tomorrow, for the bacon that he likes a little chewy.  You won’t really be there for more than eggs, despite knowing how she likes hers.  That’s just information; it’s not glue.  It’s not an anniversary.  And despite how quiet the sex is, how often someone tells you, “God, I love you,” it’s not, and it never will be.  Because when it’s done, when the seal and crest and intimacy stops being so, he leaves the room and talks about things as if he was never there.  You were fooled, really, because despite how he pitched it, despite the words and the eyes, he was thinking only of the moment, not of the now, or the later. 

gay endings

I remember reading a break-up book for lesbians in a taxicab. It was my book, not something I found near the rubber floor matting.  It was raining.  I pulled my knees to my chest as we drove down fifth avenue.  We was me, alone in the back seat, a cab driver taking me to work.  We were stopped at a red light in front of The MET.  It was too early for lines, just staff sweeping in yellow ponchos, a man pushing a pretzel cart opening his red umbrella.  Pigeons hiding under benches.  I was so numb, I could feel everything. I wanted to ditch work and sit at The Stanhope to drink tea and half-sleep it, upright.  Maybe I'd meet a foreigner who'd offer me a tissue or a tea sandwich.  Maybe I'd meet a mother who'd offer me her son.  I wanted to heal; if a new prospect was in the picture, I was certain I'd heal faster.  I know better now.  Now, I just stick to the tea.

I bought the book because surviving a break-up as a lesbian is the same as enduring the ending of any serious relationship.  Despite the years we'd been together, as man and woman, because we weren't married, it somehow counted less to everyone else.  It shouldn't have. When it's divorce, people pay attention and know it's a big deal.  But when you're gay, too many people diminish the severity of what you're dealing with.  They don't understand your partnership was as profound as any marriage.  Even without the burden of children to consider, it's still an ending.  The book understood how hard this was for me, how acute my pain was. 

"It's a break-up; they happen all the time."  With a trivial flip of the hand, your reality is fanned aside as you're told, "you'll be back at it in no time," as if that's the good, healthy thing to do.  It made me feel like a lesbian and anything but gay. 

the 'beeties

When I worked in advertising, I was regularly educated on the diseases for which my client provided medicines.  One afternoon, while learning of an inhaled form of insulin, I became lightheaded.  I needed to leave the meeting, felt the sweats coming on, and excused myself promptly.  It had nothing to do with the drug education and everything to do with my slightly psycho brain. 

Like a medical student, every month I was convinced I was carrying a different disease, or hosting a dormant condition.  That month, I was quite certain, I’d be diagnosed with type II diabetes… someday.  I got the sweats and felt shortness of breath, right there in the meeting. I was convinced I had the 'beeties.  So I encourage Linus to lick my toes, ya know, while I've still got 'em.

I don't care if

mid-life crisis

My friends and I sometimes share our number with one another.  I'm not talking lbs., our Purity Test scores, or the number of things we wanted to accomplish by 30 years old.  I'm talking sexual partners.  Sometimes she'll recruit an ex for the job to keep her numbers down.  She'd sooner sleep with habit than sleep with new.  Sex seems not to count as much if it's with someone we've already spent days in bed with.  What's one more night?  I don't care about my numbers, and I certainly wouldn't care about his.  I have crawled into bed with men I've dated from the past, thinking it was safe without regard to how he felt about it.  It was never done under false pretense, and I'm certain those MIDs (men I dated) wouldn't trade the moments, but it still seems wrong. 

I've had a number of ex's, and as such, going forward, instead of referring to them all by number (wait, which one was #12 again?), all of my ex's will be forever referred to as a MID (man I dated).  Mostly because so many of these MIDs are still my friends, and I'm tired of answering their emails, "Wait, is that post about me?  I thought you liked that gift!"  I'm no Carly Simon, but now is not the time for the pain that comes with the Beatty's thinking they're the Taylor's. 

dookie

    “Men with receding hairlines shave themselves bald just so women will rub their heads,” my ex-co-worker Phil said as he palmed his bald head.
    “Yeah, that’s the same reason women get pregnant, so someone will rub them again.”
    “That’s so true.  When my wife was pregnant, everyone touched her.  I didn’t mind when other women did it, but when men did it, I was like, ‘Hello!  That’s my wife!  You might as well cop a feel of the breast and finger her.”  Oh my God.  “Oh, don’t go feeling sorry for me just yet; my six year old daughter made a dookie in her hand yesterday.”  Yes, that's the very same co-worker who chose the ‘rhea scene from Dumb and Dumber at the Interactive Inning.
    “Phil, I don’t feel sorry that she took a shit; I feel sorry that you now use the word dookie.”
    “There’s backstory, you know.”
    “Pun intended?”
    “A few weeks ago, she was playing at the neighbor’s house, and she held it in too long.  So she went to their bathroom, and, and she…”  A group of us were now leaning in.  “Well, she made in her underpants, scooped it out, and smeared it along the neighbor’s bathroom wall.  So we get a call later that night.  ‘There’s something you should know.’”
    "Wait, forget the call.  Why did she--"
    "I don't know, she didn't know where to put it."
    “The writing was on the wall.  Maybe she’ll be an artist.  You know, sublimation, Freud.” 
    “Yeah, okay, have some more crack, Stephanie.  As I was saying, the other day, she was playing with her friends, and I told her not to make a dookie in her underpants just because she’s having fun with her friends because if she holds it too long, then we’ll have to leave, and then she won’t have any more fun.  So instead, she followed the letter of my law and shoved her finger-painting hand down her pants to protect her underpants.  She was a human shield.  That’s right, my daughter shit her hand, and what’s worse—“
    “It gets worse?”
    “When she got to the bathroom, she wiped her hand--"
    "On the wall?"
    "No, she says, 'Daddy, you should use the other bathroom.'  Why sweetie? 'Because this one is messy now.' So I go in there, shaking my head.  My daughter smeared her dookie along the entire roll of public bathroom paper.  I couldn’t get out of there fast enough."  He swigged his beer and looked at us for a reaction, but before any of us could say anything he took the lead with, "What can I say, she is her father’s daughter, and in a perverse way, I am proud.”

interactive inning

MORALE WAS LOW AT WORK, so I wanted to do something fun.  The company encouraged us to be creative, which really meant cheap.  I cleared my idea with HR.  Our “interactive inning because this place is too cheap for an outing” was on.   I booked the conference room and made an announcement.
    “Everyone gets five minutes only, but what you do with your five minutes is entirely up to you.  So you can bring in five minutes of your favorite movie scene, or you can use the studio and create a five minute short, clipping together your favorite movies based on a theme.”
    “Awesome, so I can do a tribute to Ron Jeremy then?”  Of course Chris had to go there.
    “But don’t tell anyone what you’re doing because part of the activity is guessing whose movie clip goes with whom.”

    Two weeks later, I’d gone to Price Club and loaded up on movie candy, popcorn, and hotdogs.  The conference room was set up like a theatre.  A guy in the studio assembled a dvd with everyone’s clips.  I handed out ballots. 
    One of the most conservative women of the group, an oversized woman who has been described as a large fraggle with nine hairs sprouting from the top of her head, who regularly trashed her gravy-soaked chicken in the clearly-labeled recycling bin, brought in a sexual scene from the musical Pippin.   The room became quiet.  Eyes darted, looking for similar reactions.  We began to fidget, as if we were forced to watch a love scene with our parents in the room.  Men in tights thrust calves between legs, pointing feet, erect.  There might have been a horse.  In one even beat, the room flooded with laughter.  Fraggle Lady laughed along with us thinking she’d hit it big, a real crowd pleaser.  We weren’t laughing near her; we were laughing at her.  She was a humorless woman and saw her selection as entertaining art instead of a really twisted choice.  “What in the hell was that?” could be heard in cubicles in weeks to follow.  "I guess that's why there are 31 flavors."
    Gary did a montage of gore.  Massacre scenes.  Machine gun slaughters.  Westerns.  Dirty Harry.
    David stripped sound from his selections and piped in his own background music to his travel and chase scenes.  North by Northwest.  Planes, Trains, and Automobiles.  It was seamless and inspired. 
    Phil clipped together bathroom humor scenes.  “Whew!  You don’t want to go in there.”  “Charlie, light a match!”
    Among some of the other choices: Run Lola Run, Office Space, and Claymation.

Then it was my turn… The lamb fries scene with Chevy Chase in Funny Farm.  He spits the testicle out.  It lands in a bowl of spaghetti, prepared for Elizabeth by Diane Keaton (who sprays Fantastik on the baby) in Baby Boom.  Then more spaghetti in Defending Your Life, with one of my favorite comedians, Albert Brooks.  The scene turns sober when Sarah Jessica Parker answers Eric Schaffer’s probing questions about last night’s date in If Lucy Fell.  “You mean to tell me that guy took you out for all that cappuccino, was a perfect gentleman, walks you home, then takes some stanky shit in our bathroom?”  Before SJP has a chance to answer, Meg Ryan enters the scene, complaining of her lactose intolerance with, “I just ate that cow,” to one obnoxious yet delicious Kevin Kline in French Kiss.  “Stop the rocking!”  Her finicky nature is underscored with the When Harry Met Sally (no not the orgasm scene), “I’d like the pie heated, and I don’t want the ice cream on top.  I want it on the side, and I’d like strawberry instead of vanilla if you have it.  If not, then no ice cream, just whipped cream, but only if it’s real.  If it’s out of the can, then nothing.”  Not even the pie?  “No, just the pie, but then not heated.”  I told you; I know all the words.  While I was then tempted to do the Caddyshack Baby Ruth pool scene, instead, I used The Goonies Baby Ruth scene coupled with Chunk’s truffle shuffle and freezer full of ice cream scene.  It flowed better from the ice cream a la mode bit.  Then I finished things off with two more Albert Brooks tributes.  In The Muse, Andy McDownsyndrome is following her dream of being a baker.  She has smears of dough on her face, flour on her collarbones; she just got to second base with Famous Amos.  Her husband, Brooks, walks in and asks what’s for dinner.  “Have a cookie,” she urges.
    “I’m not three.  I’d like a meal.”   This leads me to the finale of my five-minute food tribute: Albert Brooks at Wolfgang Puck’s Spago restaurant in celebration of his wife’s success.  It takes too long to explain.  You need to rent this movie, The Muse.  It’s damn funny.

Perhaps my choice in movies says as much about me as my life's soundtrack, or bedside table.  I'm going to throw another make your own movie night come time for the oscars.  Hmmm.  I wonder what my new theme will be.  What would yours be? 

dumb reade

It doesn't matter what time you go; there is always a string of people, exhaling audibly, deep in wait.  I'm not talking about the DMV.  It's worse: Duane Reade's prescription counter.   "What's the name?  Stein?"  Klein.  "C-L-I-N-E?"  Oh God, why is this happening?  They dally and potter around looking for my birth control prescription in the JA-JE bin.  OH MY GOD!  I could scream.  "Are you allergic to any medications?"  Sulfa.  "Sulfur?"  Yes, lady, I'm allergic to sulfur from the periodic table.  When I touch it, I get hives.  No, Sulfa, the stuff they put in some pink bubble gum medicine when I was young.  Hives happen.  "Can you just write it down here?"  HOLY MOTHERFCUKER!  I already wrote it down, along with my social security and my automatic refill slip.  You have got to be kidding me.  "That will be about 10 minutes Miss Clean."  But NO!  I filled out the refill slip.  I shouldn't have to wait.  I did it last week, so this wouldn't happen.  "You wanna fill out another one?"  I hate you.  "I just talked to the pharmacist, Ma'am.  We didn't get no call from this here doctor."  Die.  Just go die.

So I sit in a blue chair, coated in a layer of bacteria and staph cells, where sick people wait and tap their feet for half hour increments after the promise of a few minutes.  There's a wall covered in Ace wrist bandages.  This makes sense.  Plant the seed.

I wonder if anyone ever just screams, rip roaring, throat throttling yelping.  I want to pelt the ladies behind the counter in their heads with soft-baked Entenmanns cookies.  Gotcha.  Take that, lady.  Right in the forehead, knocking those three-inch thick classes off your Ernie Muppet head.  Now ya think you can speed things up?  "Miss Clean, it's ready."  She swipes my card.  "Do you have another one?  This dumb register."  Stab her.  I'm going to stab her with the fake, sign on the LCD screen, pen.  I don't have one more thing to give her except an insult.  This isn't her fault.  This is training.  Habit.  Something I never want to catch because I don't think they make prescriptions for it.

club wed

Turks & Caicos Club Med is for singles—very single, singles.  But, when I was in a commited relationship, I decided to plan a trip there for my MID to congratulate him for working so hard on studying for his Series 7 exam.  I figured we’d have more fun there, with the active nightlife, than we would at a boring couples retreat.  Non refundable.  Everything.

He postponed taking the test, and really needed to study, and really needed to pretend he wasn’t engaged by taking a German medical student to dinner.  When I found out, I confronted the girl, who said he would do it to me again.  “Nothing happened,” she said.  “Except for the fact that he pretended he was available.”  It would happen again, but according to everyone I spoke with at the time, he was just testing boundaries, needed to stroke his ego, needed to see that he still had what it took.  It was only flirting, they argued.  It’s not like he did anything.  I moved out and went to Club Med with my mother.

While there, MID called everyday, leaving phone messages that were delivered to me at the dinner table on small yellow sheets of paper.  “Please, I made a mistake.  Call me.  I love you.”  I didn’t call.  I slept in a small room, on a small bed next to my mother, and when I awoke, I’d sometimes forget where I was and imagine I still had a life with him.  I hated how he could creep into my head at night when my defenses were sleeping.  I hate how my body forgot and reached for him out of kinetics.  I’d awake with diarrhea.  I lost eight pounds on that vacation, even with the all you can eat buffets.

The worst thing anyone can say to me when I tell this story up until this point is, a breathy, “God, and you still stayed with him?”  ASSHOLE, I FUCKING KNOW.  Don’t you think I’ve asked myself this, hated myself for this?  I’ve spent too much time condemning myself for my choices, for believing in him and us, and loving anyone.  Don’t you think I know?  Jesus.  Shut your fcuking hole.

And we continue here.  So, before Club Med was seriously all-inclusive, you could purchase plastic beads that you’d exchange for adult beverages of your choice.  But, at dinner, the wine was always included.  As much as you could drink.  And so we did.  At the close of every meal, my communal table, mother, and I would cowboy up to the bottle and drink.  Drinking games included Thumper, I Never, and something with signs.  I grabbed my breasts.  My mother pretended she was shocked.  “Stephaniiiiieeee.”  Whatever.  Those games made me realize I could smile again, I could have fun on my own.  When we returned to New York, MID was waiting at the airport with flowers.  I did and didn’t want to see him.  I moved back in with him two weeks later.  I didn't play another drinking game until two years after we broke up.  In the hamptons, playing Whale's Tales.  I'm playing again, soon. 

funny is subjective

It’s funny to me, but not to most, and certainly not when I hear it or repeat it to myself, but it’s still a funny idea.  Courage.  I kind of pride myself on mine; taking stock of all the moments I stood up for myself when it wasn’t easy.  It’s funny to me that the times when it ought to have been really easy, when it wasn’t even a question, it was suddenly, and strangely the hardest. 

Tonight, I wasn’t courageous.  I wasn’t daring.  I was sheepish, a Cosmo lemming.  I talked to you about grabbing what’s in front of you when it’s your chance.  “So much in life is timing,” I said, “and really, people like to say if it’s meant to be, but please, if it’s really meant to be, you make it happen.”  I said it like I meant it, and I still do.  I really do.  But in the rain, tonight, beneath your umbrella, I didn’t want to let you go, let the moment pass us by, but I did.  I let it slip by, not because I didn’t want it.  I was scared you’d let go, yawn, tell me you had a long day.  And I’d have to walk away, dejected.  I’m the girl; that’s not my job.  But somehow, I worry it is now.  I worry you think you’ve done your part.  Now, it’s up to me.  And I suck.  I’m so mad at myself for not following my instinct, for not grabbing you and pulling you home with me.  Instead, I came home alone, unsure of the space that is growing between us.  I’m worried I’m losing you, and we’re not even at the point where there’s anything to lose.  But that’s another lie.  I’d somehow always know what I lost, and it wouldn’t be funny.

bowling for soup

I'M TOLD OUR RELATIONSHIP IS A TRAIN WRECK. We’re rolling full speed ahead, advising the conductor to pile more coal on the fire.  “Oh yeah, we see the big brick wall ahead—it’s all gravy.  We know what we’re getting into.”  We fan away his warnings with the slightest wave of hands. 

Chooo.  Chooooooooo.

You’re moving, and I’m packing.  There’s too much to put in storage with you, too much to box and tape up.  Well done bacon, your coffee black, except sometimes in the morning when you like it with one sugar.  Our New York moments on benches with hot coffee, watching the world pass us by.  And you always turn to look at me when we part, to see if I’ll look back.  And I do.  Driving beside me means one hand on the wheel.  You order things without cucumber, and leave your seat at restaurants to whisper in my ear, “You’re more beautiful than I’d even remembered.”   You don’t rely on words to convey the things that matter; you use your eyes, your heart, and your decisions.   

I’m already starting to forget your smell, your walk, the feel of you beside me. Despite our short time together, we already tag team our how we met story.  The cadences, the way you add something new each time.  I’m still learning you, your sounds and faces, your rise and fall in the middle of our consecutive nights. But the more I do, the more I’ll want to forget.  It’s more to grieve. 

The train is making no more local stops.

Memories remind me of what I no longer have.  They are skeletons, with joints and attachments that keep us anchored to our pasts.  I hate that you left at 5 am and said it wasn’t a big deal to you, that it didn’t mean anything, because it meant something to me.  “You’re using the wrong pronoun,” I said, and you kissed my nose telling me not to steal your lines.  I imagined you walking home, your hands in your pockets, your feet swinging out when you step. I was vexed with predictions of what you were thinking.  I worried you wanted no part of me anymore…that we’d be back to singular pronouns, to mine and I.  You wanted me less.  I wore my insecurity like a weapon.

You demilitarized me in the morning, just after your orgasm.  You cupped my bare foot in your hands, my toes near your mouth, as you rubbed my sole, pressing thumbs, kneading the ends of me.  Needing me.  I responded to your warmth, “This foot massage just ain’t gonna cut it, as lovely as it is.  I need to orgasm.” 
    “A Stephanie Klein moment,” you later said with a wry smile, as you shook your head.  “I think you’re fantastic,” you whispered as I begin to fall asleep afterwards. “No, I know you’re fantastic.”  And we fell asleep in one another’s arms, your foot over mine, like siblings in the back seat of a car, worn tired from the fighting over space.  Bodies giving up.
    I awoke when you farted.  I darted upright. 
    “What, you heard that?” You smiled.
    “It woke me up.”  Then I smiled into you, and just before falling back asleep, I added, “I don’t want to lose you.”
    “Then remember where you put me.”

Kapow!

EVACUATION.
On our train ride back to Manhattan from your family’s house, I cried, leaning my head on the On-Board Train Emergency Instructions.  I stared at the word Evacuation, beneath it, an icon of a red rectangle with rounded corners, with a stick figure you see on bathroom doors running from white flames.  Exit the train only when directed.  They say life is a journey, some train ride you are supposed to enjoy, but there’s suddenly an evacuation plan.  We think we can protect ourselves with folded arms and flame-resistant hearts.  With plans and maps of our lives, with promises.  Emergency cords with red wooden handles. 

I cry more than I laugh; I just didn’t name it until you said it over Cacio e Pepe.  It was an astute observation, and hearing it didn’t make me disconsolate.  I’ve always been her, that person more apt to cry than to laugh aloud.  I’m easily moved in life by so much of what I observe.  In the seeing of ordinary objects and lives, I can see the spectacular.  I’m moved to tears watching a woman push her soft child on a swing, studying the pockmarked man twist ropes of dough into garlic knots at 6am, knowing he’s supporting a family right there in his square hands, with it’s round band of gold.  Tears are manifestations of big emotions, like awe.  “You’re in awe of me?” you asked.  You have no idea, I thought, then a tear slipped down my face into my smiling mouth.  Tears are warm. 

We poured onto the train, out of the rain, the doors snapping closed behind us, and I couldn’t speak.  You pulled me toward you; my hands reached up for your head.  I breathed in your neck, thinking I’d miss your smell.  I looked at you when I said, “I don’t want to get any closer to you.”  Usually I would have looked down, trying to hide my fat tears behind a tent of fat curls.

“You’re crazy about me.  I’m crazy about you.”  You pressed your hand into my lower back.  “And, so we’re also both a little crazy.”  You pulled me into you when I actually started to sob, trying to quell my fears.   I knew, even in that moment, we were making a memory.  It would be one more thing I’d remember and try to preserve, as if behind museum glass.  The way you tell a story, your bracelet, necklace, smell, the way you always find a way to touch me… all of it won’t fit in the boxes my father sent.  They make boxes for lampshades and wardrobes; they don’t make a fate box.   

We passed green fields with orange cones; rolling past triangular piles of wood in backyards, lumber yards and gates.  You leaned forward reading a book; and I could tell from the small hairs on the back of your neck, you were due for a haircut.  I wanted to groom you; it was impossible for me not to cry beside you.  You didn’t see my crying, or that every memory I have of you makes me sad.  Each memory lands in my palms, like hardboiled eggs, a perfect soft fit. I hate that I can’t keep them.  I’m hoarding moments and culling memories, afraid to speak because what if it all comes out?  I’ll have nothing left to hold. 

My hardest evacuation was when you told me to leave, your entire arm pointing toward your apartment door.  I’d first told you when we started all of this, “Don’t you dare try to protect me, make some decision for us thinking you’re going to spare me pain.  I’m not that weak.”  I worried that’s what you were doing that day, protecting me, when you’d asked me to leave your apartment. 

It wasn’t. 

You were frustrated and worried… about yourself.  You felt overwhelmed with to-dos for your trip, exhausted from the highs and lows, from the worry and weight of your decisions.  You took away our “lasts” when you decided you couldn’t see me anymore.  I don’t even remember our last time having seex.  I never had a moment with you, knowing it would be the last time.  Now, I’m left guessing, trying to remember our lasts as so much slips past me, stuff that’s supposed to keep me close to you while you’re away.  The only last I remember: the last time I whispered to you, near your front door as I left.  “Wait.  I have to tell you the nicest thing you ever said to me.  You wanted me to meet your friends so I’d feel closer to you when you were gone.”  I wish I had them now to make me feel closer to you.   I should’ve hated you, but instead, I finally knew what that was like, the desire to spare someone else pain.  I became the selfless one.

You sent me away into the world at my most fragile and weary because you knew you’d soon be doing the same.  “I need to be selfish,” you said, “and seeing you hurts me.  I’m sorry if being with me makes it easier for you, but too bad.  I’m tired and frustrated, and now I have a headache.  I didn’t ask you to come here; you need to leave.  Now.”  Then you opened the door to your room, refusing to sit and work it through with me.  It broke my heart to walk away like that, and I imagine that’s exactly how you feel about this trip now that you’ve met me.  I tried to fix it, to let you know I didn’t want for anyone else, that it wouldn’t matter when you returned, that I knew your trip had nothing to do with your feelings for me.  “But do you still want me?” I asked nervously.

“I’ve wanted you from the first moment I saw you.  I’ll always want you.”  I didn’t believe you.  All I heard was your frustration, felt you pushing me out the door, and suddenly, everything was just words.

I.
Didn’t.
Ask.
You.
To.
Come.
Here. 

That still stings; I don’t care what you say about ripping off band-aids.

ALWAYS. 
It’s written on the top of the instructions.  Always Contact a Train Crew Member, Always Listen for Announcements.  I’ve been following the rules, studying the signs, and now I’ve found my always, and he’s evacuating.  I can’t breathe.  The Medical sign is for me; I’m in distress. 

I cannot protect myself from this because I’ll miss anyway.  I’ll miss the negative space, the things we never had: a summer, snowfall, hot chocolate, chicken drippings from the pan.  Every joy will feel the weight of my miss for you, in every pause, or silence.  In every crowd, at every big event, I’ll search for you, wanting to share. A glass of wine after a long day, your hands on my hips, your fingers near my mouth, the middle of the night when we talk in halves between half remembered dreams and half spoken sentences.  Choosing sides of the bed, negotiating amounts of time for the sleep button on the compromised choice of DVD, unmasking the mystery that is the untouched drinking glass of water by The Lineman.  We compromise even in our sleep, giving handfuls of sheet, pulling corners of pillow, stealing back hands, overlapping feet, taking what we need.  My concave hands on your rounded shoulders as I pull you over me during seex.  When I was away from you, and I could taste my breath, it tasted like you and somehow our seex.  I can’t taste you anymore; I’m beginning to forget.  It’s like a dream you try really hard to remember, but nothing.  I will miss.

And, I’ll feel it in my bones on rainy Sundays, in the taste of coffee, in my empty hands.  Every train I ever take will remind me of you and our time together as lovers learning to become friends.  I’ll hear it in Bowling For Soup’s Almost Had You, remembering when I needed to leave Irving Plaza after hearing it, thinking it would become our near future.

And I almost had you
But I guess that doesn't cut it
Almost had you
And I didn't even know it

You kept me guessing and now I'm destined
to spend my time missing you
I almost wish you would've loved me too   

You are my have to have.  I’ll stay aboard, passing the world we used to share with a smile.  My want for you is beautiful, and I’m thankful that I left myself open to receive this chance of you, of us, this blessing.  The world is lucky to have you.  I’ll watch from afar, your biggest fan, and I’ll fill my empty hands with fists, fighting and cheering for your safe return back to me. 

dirty dave

I met him for her at Stone Rose.  “Him” was Dirty Dave, and “her” was Pediatrician Patricia. I was sent into relationship battle, clutching nothing more than my dirty martini.  She saw him from across the bar, whispered she thought he was cute.  "So go over and say hello" went over like a fart in church.  "It's not a big deal.  Man, do I have to do everything in this relationship?"  So I approached Dirty Dave on her behalf.  Who wears a leather jacket indoors?  Who wears a leather jacket, period?  Thankfully, it was an overcoat, not a leather blazer. I'm sorry, but seriously, who would sell a leather blazer besides some man store version of Express or The Limited? 

When I approached Dirty Dave and his friend Sven, yes Sven, I asked him about his outerwear.  "So are you cold in here or what?"
"Not anymore, now that you're here."  Oh Jeez. 
"Sven, what do you think of Dave's outerwear?"
"I don't."  What a great answer. I had a friend for him, too.
"Boys, come meet my shy friends."
"I'll meet your friends but only after I meet you." So we met, which consisted of a handshake, a smile, and a glass of Chardonnay for me. Yeah right—a glass of “anything but Chardonnay.” 

Dirty Dave is news anchor handsome, but please, I was on a mission for bashful Pediatrician Patty.  "Don't go passing me off to your friends there Miss Stephanie.  I know you saw me waving at you earlier."  I hadn't seen him wave, and besides, who waves?  The same man who buys a leather overcoat, clearly. 

Handshakes and smiles are extended before we spring into who’s your favorite Fraggle Rock character.  “Boober.  Sometimes I call Linus Boober because he’s obsessed with laundry, specifically my dirty panties.”

“Say dirty panties again.”  Oh Dirty Dave.  You’re from Tennessee; I so didn’t see this coming. 

Now I’m fast-forwarding to the good part.  Drunken Dirty Dave insists on walking me home.  The part I skipped was when Patricia took off with an ex-boyfriend, and my other friends went home.  During this time, I’ve learned Dirty Dave is very intelligent and attentive as well as handsome.  I’m actually really looking forward to the walk home.  Oh, and that’s where we get into the goods.

“So I know you’re writing this racy book, but I have a story for you.” Okay, I hadn’t asked for this, but okay.  “I was walking down this very street over the summer, and right here—“ He stops walking and points toward a parked car.  “Right here, I was just walkin’ by, minding my own P’s and Q’s—“ Who says P’s and Q’s?  (Though I do *love* that it stands for Pints and Quarts) “When I see this very attractive black woman naked in the back seat of the car, rubbing herself.  I mean, really attractive.  Halle Berry attractive.  So I keep walking but then I kinda circle back.”  He shows me how he walked, then he stops and opens his mouth for a while before saying, “Damn that’s hot.”  My chaperone home then tells me how he climbed into the backseat of the car with her, and how her boyfriend drove them around town while they had seex in the backseat.  For the love of God and all things dirty.

I walked the rest of our journey home in silence before finally saying, “And you felt the need to tell me that story why?”

“Cause it’s a good story.”

“Yeah, ‘good’ if you were going for the whole let’s see what I can tell her so she’ll never let me touch her thing.”  And then I realized, that’s exactly what this blog does for me.  I really am a Greek Tragedy. 

Okay, I’m over it.

bereft

I remember when two of your friends touched me on the shoulder.  One of them was holding a hat in a gloved hand.  They said you spoke of me often, that you loved me so much.  I was surprised to hear them say it, “love” without pause.  I remember the look in their eyes; it looked like sorrow, and I couldn’t thank them by name.  Somehow the memory is tinted blue and smells like a handkerchief in a small girl’s satin drawstring purse.  Like bubblegum and salt.

I remember how you loved me; I saw it in your hands and see it in mine now.  It's cream like the sofa. 

I loved that you were proud of me before I ever knew to be.  I wish you were here to hold me now.  You'd be thrilled I called, and after you hung up the receiver, you'd smile and rub your earlobe with your thumb.

When I remember us, I remember cake, and how you always halved my slice for yourself.  I think you bought me clothes.  If you were here, I’d tell you I’m worried. 

shortcuts

I sat at the 72nd Street subway station and cried.  A wrinkled black woman with too many shopping bags stopped to hand me a tissue.  I took it and tried to smile.  I wondered, if you had been there, and seen me as nothing more than a stranger, would you have gotten involved?  Would you have mentioned The Spanish Inquisition or taken a chance by wiping a tear from my cheek with your finger?  Would you have offered me you?

I imagined you were there with me, passing over my head, a kiss and a breath in my hair.  I imagined your walk, with your fisted hands deep in your brown leather pockets, slipping out from the local train, looking at the platform, for me.  I imagine you here now, with me in the subway car, how you would touch me and hold me as if I were a pole in the center of the train, there to keep you steady.  You didn’t worry about losing your footing when you were with me.  “You can always spot a wealthy person on a train.  They don’t know how to stand,” I was once told.  “They aren’t used to the stops and the turbulence…to abrupt.”  I was wealthy because I had you to hold.

I waited on the information line at Penn Station, asking for the track number for the train to Huntington.  I’d missed the Great Neck train by two minutes, so now, instead, I’m on the same line you were, out to Syosset.  “Wait for the track number.  It will be posted on the board.”  The guy behind the glass told me through the microphone speaker, just as he had the last time, when I insisted there was a shortcut to the answer. 

I always grieve on trains.

The next time I see anyone cry, I will sit beside them, and I will reach out to wipe their tear with my bare hand.  I will get involved.

050505

freaky

passed over

It’s 4:09 am on Friday night, Saturday morning really.  My night began at Hiro, then rolled onto champagne at Pop Burger, followed by a roll at BED.  If you find yourself on 27th Street, going to BED, think twice, unless meeting a bathroom textile worker who lives in New Jersey, but uses “but I work in Manhattan” as some kind of selling point, is your idea of a good time.  Not to mention that half of Long Island is there.  They no longer live there, only visit for Passover and summer barbecues, but they seek a good time at BED, behind velvet ropes and guest lists that make them feel important.  I had a water and waited for my friend to finish her drink so we could leave… and press onto fun.  Fun was an apartment party, a last days of disco evening, on Greene and Grand… indeed.  Lots of Green.  Lots of Grand.  My friend made off with a boy.  I made off to Big Nicks for waffle fries at 3am, then into bed to watch Emma with Linus, to post this at 4:16 am, and to miss, feeling hollow and passed over, hating that I’m not sharing Passover with anyone but myself.

cookie monster, pooh, and friends

I never eat steak.  Last night, at Raoul’s, I broke through never with a steak knife.  I didn’t just eat a steak; I ordered and slaughtered it, along with two orders of fries with mayonnaise, as promised.  It’s what I needed.  The 2000 bottle of Nickel & Nickel’s Tench Vineyard Cabernet Sauvignon was a very luscious bonus.  Just before leaving, the waitress handed me a glassine envelope, filled with petite cookies, sealed with a sticker.  Ah, the power of the goodie bag... takes me back to Bar Mitzvahs.  Speaking of Mitzvahs...

Last week I accompanied an ex-but-he’s-just-a-friend—we’ll call him Eeyore—to his company dinner at Cipriani’s.  While there, I dazzled the partners of the firm with my eyelashes, witty banter, and useful food trivia (When do you use a serrated knife?  What's the difference between a fruit and a vegetable?  Grapeseed oil is practically flavorless and has a higher burning point!  I know, well they asked!).  Personally, I was dazzled by the wine.  “You must remember who makes this and email me the name in the morning,” I commanded in a whisper to Eeyore.  His blue eyes looked like sea glass and made me thirsty for affection.  I knew it was time to leave.

Eeyore phoned to thank me this morning.  “No one can stop speaking about you.  And no one can believe you're with me."

"I'm not with you."

"Yeah, but they don't know that.  Damn, I bet they'll even give me a bigger bonus."

"All the more to buy me things with."

"You know, Stephanie, you really are wonderful.”  This is Eeyore’s favorite phrase; he says it as often as “you might as well make it a double.”  I love him, despite the fact that his letting me go was “a jackass move”—his second favorite phrase.

“Thanks Dear.  Did you find out the name of the wine we were drinking?” 

“Uh, no.  But I will; I promise.”  Eeyore is good with promises as long as he remembers making them.

When I arrived home tonight, my doorman made the face.  The face they make when you’ve got something unexpected, like flowers, a legendary little handbag from an au courant friend, or a case of wine!   

Eeyore outdid himself… and then some.  The card was not, in fact, from Eeyore but from Roo, a prospective suitor.  "Just because I wasn’t with you, doesn’t mean I couldn’t bring it to you."  Turns out, after I raved to Roo about the wine I shared with “a friend over his company dinner,” he phoned the restaurant, got the name of the wine “the redheaded lady was enjoying last night.”  Then he phoned several distributors, and voila!  Door to door alcohol damage in a day.   I love New York and resourceful men. 

negative space

When I saw the movie Stepmom—with Jules and the woman with the deep-set bug eyes that every guy remembers as hot (who women just don't think of as pretty), in a t-shirt, from Bull Durham, Sarandon (or maybe it’s her voice, dripping in self-assurance)—I cried the entire time.  I needed napkins at the tender happy parts, the singing into hairbrush handles, jumping on the beds, horseback riding at dawn moments between a mother and her children.  I didn’t cry when you could see the cancer; I wept at the good because I knew what was coming. 

I knew when I handed you my red notebook, my most important journal, that I wanted you to last, wanted us to be an us.  You asked for paper and a pen so we could tell a story, line by line.  I could have handed you sheets of white paper.  Instead, I brought you the shrine, knowing you would be a fixture, and I let you tag team with me on sheets in the back of my red heart.  I hate how dramatic I am, how I’m a romantic, how I remember things while they are happening, before they should even be memories.  I hate how I cull and hoard my moments with you.  I do it because I know they won’t last. 

I worry it won’t last anywhere but here, on this page, in this mind, between these spaces and paragraphs.  It won’t be anywhere but here, in my memories, and we can’t even choose those.  I will miss this negative space, the things we'll never have. While apart, firsts will happen for both of us, and you can't replicate firsts, only try to copy them, like reproductions of fancy art.  But I’ll share this with you one day, and that will be my first, and it will live there, in the space between us.

weekend roundup

You worry if it’s broken, but aren’t sure yet, the way you feel when you’ve just dropped your cell phone. You look at it carefully, turn it on, and for a minute you hold your breath. Relationships just take longer to turn on. Mostly, I'm turning blue, searching for an oxygen hit.

Elementally speaking, The Italian Job has been holding a strong A in CPR 101.  We went out Friday night to Megu upon his suggestion (absurdly expensive, but so damn worth it). They sat us at a table for two, but he decided he was too far away from me and moved to sit beside me (I love when they do this).  Then we kissed in the cab after dinner, where he said, "I'm so glad to have met you.  I like you so much Stephanie."  I love that he used my name. 

He had to work early in the morning, so he dropped me off at Fizz to meet the girls.  I received a smitten text from him the next morning, "Heading to the office.  Wish I had woken up in your hair. Actually, I wish I hadn't waken at all."  Then another one that night... "My friends seem to have become boring, or maybe I'm just thinking of you too much."  That was Saturday night where I went to a friend’s birthday dinner, then home to The Lineman.  The Italian Job called a few times on Sunday.  I was despondent, so I didn't answer.  I’d been making a day of tears and TNT.  I’m pretty sure it’s impossible to watch TNT without crying.  I mean, just watch RUDY once and you’re certain to shed a tear when he leads ‘em out of the tunnel for the first time.  The main character is a scrappy underdog with lots of heart, and those who beset him envy it.  He’s all heart.  My date was all hands, and he wanted tea.  I wasn’t in the mindset to leave my covers.

I phoned him back later, after he texted inviting me to his friend’s apartment to watch some game.  "I'm not going to your friends place to watch TV, never mind some crapass game.”  It’s mildly bitchy, but he’s not the type of guy to make more of the message than it is. 
"But when can I see you then?" He asked, then laughed,  promptly after receiving my text message.
"How about Tuesday?"
"How about right now.  Let's have dinner."

So I cabbed it east and we did J.G. Melon's.  He actually makes me laugh out loud, and aside from Chris Balls DiClerico, no one makes me laugh aloud.  So it was great.  I'm seeing him again tomorrow night.  God, is that man HOT!

The George didn't call all weekend.  Thursday night, I was running around with the camera, so we didn't get any quality time together.  While I'm very attracted to him, he's a little dull.  I'll have to see, or else let him go be "nice" someplace else.  I ended up calling and texting him yesterday.  He called back last night saying he was hungover all day.  That so translates to “dating and sleeping with other women all weekend.”

Captain Jack has been emailing me this whole time.  Wait till you hear this one...
 
“I miss you.  You're amazing. When can I see you again?” landed directly in my inbox.  I still get a small thrill when I see something has arrived from him, even before I open it.  Then he followed up with a phone call.  I love when men layer this way. It’s similar to layering your perfume scent.  Body soap, lotion, perfume, one atop the next to sustain things, make them last.  The more pressure points he hits, the stronger his message.  Go on and layer up the messaging: IMs, emails, phone calls, phone text messages, snail mail, small notes and gifts left with the doorman. Unless you're first attempts are never recipricated, in which case, cease and desist.

Captain Jack’s voice message:   "Hey Klein, when we were dating, did you happen to have a cold sore in your mouth?"  Nah-uh.  He did not!

"Um, no.  Are you okay?"  I started laughing when I said okay... which I knew would be okay with Jack.

Turns out it was a pimple, but he did learn, upon some probing, that he has hemorrhoids. I love that he told me all of this.  I am still laughing.  That's a HARD call to make to someone.  I sent him an email letting him know he was in my thoughts.  “How’s the HEMline?  Still rollin' with the 'roids?”  He wants to hang out this week, after some warm water soaking.  “Once the inflammation goes down.”   

Sagaponack Struan calls Thursday night.  What an ASS and a HALF.  Background:  I invited him to be my date to a Movie Premiere 2 weeks ago.  "I'd love to."  Then after our date, where there was some mild weirdness, with a touch of chicking out on my part, I asked him if he still wanted to go.  "I really want to, but it's my Mother's Birthday that Monday, but we're celebrating that Thursday."  PAHLEEZE.  He must have totally forgotten that he'd said any of that because his message to me on Thursday night was, “Hey you.  What you up to?  I really want to hang out, so call me when you get this tonight.”  What a dumbass, calling to invite me out on the one night he claimed he was busy. 

And that, dear friend, is my weekend roundup. 

is there a sign on my forehead?

It’s hard to fake it when you have a pink stamp on your left hand.  Clearly, I’d been out, and not at some local bar out; I was out out. The smile on my hand was my first tell.  My lack of saliva, the second.  The bitch of it is, I wasn't really planning on going out at all.  I was heading home, rubbing my eyes, but then I worried if I’d gone straight home, I’d have had less of a weekend. My Friday night would have ended before it began.  I wanted a beginning.

If I’d gone home, now would be Saturday light out instead of Saturday 3:10 am dark out with corner Gray’s Papaya breath.  I’d have had less of a weekend if I’d just left work and landed here.  But when you invited me to meet you at the bar Friday after work, all I could think was, “to hell with people.”  I didn’t want to do the small talk, the "No, really?  And, how was your day?" thing.  I didn’t want to do impressions.  I wanted to relax, and that’s the last thing I’m doing when I’m majoring in perception with a minor in trying.  So I said I was going home straight from work, “too tired,” I yawned.  I meant it.  But the bar where my friends were was remotely on my way to a cab, so why not?  I’m sure you’ll have issues with it, even if I never hear them.  I’ll see them and taste them in your afternoon kiss.  “I thought you were too tired,” you'll prompt.  You want to know why I didn't find you.  Why wasn't I with you?  I would ask all those same things if I were in your black shoes.  I'd take it personally.  But from my blistered feet, I know it has nothing to do with you and everything to do with effort; I was spent.

I didn't feel like people.  I felt like person.  Connect with one, unplanned, spontaneous, right after work, how can I make your life better?  Sauvignon Blanc, that’s how.  And now it’s 3:15 am, still dark out, make up off, in my sweats, and I’m home, with the DVD going, a minty mouthwash mouth, a bun, and a bed.  And yeah, a tell of a stamp reminding you I had a life without you all night, by choice. 

cab windows

I’d felt that, against a cab window, so many times before you, in that thick heavy silence where you’re wondering what’s next.  Your movements are no longer casual; everything feels heavier.  I’m tired of my re-run nights of mistakes, of my safe one-bedroom, single serving of a life.  It’s why I reached my hand out toward you.  The reaching is the hard part; it’s like getting to the gym.  Once I’m there, it’s all gravy fries.  And when we entered my apartment, you told me you were a smart man, the kind who wouldn’t let someone like me go. 

curious about george

I couldn’t decide what to wear.  I changed three times from sophisticated chic in my cashmere wheat colored wrap top with jeans and a blazer to a scarf top.  The scarf didn’t match the shoes I wanted to wear, some funky black boots with an Asian pattern embroidered in birthday colors.  So I changed again, and finally settled on a low-cut, let’s get it over with and fcuk, silk number.  Perfume.  Out the door.

When I arrived at Piadina 15 minutes late, he was standing to greet me at a table near the door.  “I didn’t know what to expect while I was sitting here waiting for your cab to pull up.  Curly or straight.”  He was besotted, and I was home. 

After surveying the menu, we decided to share a homemade tagliatelle with a meat ragu, then I stepped out of my skin and ordered pork.  Who orders pork?  But I did because I was living dangerously.  He had the sea bass. 

During dinner, we divulged our sad stories, and we stared shaking our heads.  There’s something strange about reconnecting, about feeling so at ease so quickly, but knowing you’ve both changed and let so much slip between you.  You spend moments listening trying to discover what’s new, and it takes a while, but you know you’ll enjoy the journey.   

“If you’re going to hold my hand, hold it.”  He quoted me back to me.  “That’s what you  once told me; and I never forgot it.”  Then we held hands like we meant it as we walked in the cold up West 4th Street.  “I remember your pesto, too.” 

“I can’t believe I made homemade pesto in college.  What was I thinking?  I mean I still don’t know single women who spend their nights making things in their blenders that don’t include designer vodka.” 

“Well, Stephanie, you’ve never been most women.”  Then we both smiled, smitten, looking down at our shoes.  “Those are very cool shoes.”  And that was the official change of subject that just went by, before our very shoes, between the cracks in the sidewalk, in the pause of our breaths.  Everything lingered, as thin and strong as smoke.

We arrived at Pastis for an after dinner drink.  I watched as my camel v-neck sweater over a conservative checked shirt date braved the crowd, balancing my Sancerre and his dirty martini.  “Oh really?  So you’re feeling dirty?”  And he laughed, keeping his eyes on mine, letting me know, with just his smile how much he adored me.  “George, maybe we should wait 3 months to do this.”

“Three months?” He asked as he touched the small of my back.
“You broke off an engagement 3 months ago.  And I know you’re not looking backwards, but sometimes it takes time to get all the memories off.”
“Why three months?”
“Well, not three months per se, but some time should go by so you’re ready for this.”
“So there’s going to be a ‘this’ huh?”

I didn’t need to answer.  He squeezed my hand and pulled me closer.  “I’ve always imagined a future with you Stephanie.”  I might have stopped breathing. 

When the clock approached midnight we decided to leave.  I didn’t want to let go; I hugged him for longer than I should’ve, and then we kissed.  It was quiet and subtle, not a building up to this moment kind of kiss.  It was very don’t worry; this will happen again. 

When I got home, sans makeup and fashion, I crawled into bed with Linus.  My phone vibrated on the nightstand.  He’d text messaged me; I knew it was him before I flipped the phone open.  “I had a great time—next time, I’m cooking for you at my place.  We’ll see what kind of chick flicks I can dig up for us.”

I fell asleep listening to Colin Hay singing, “I Just Don’t Think I’ll Ever Get Over You.”  I drink good coffee every morning, comes from a place that’s far away.  And when I’m done, I feel like talking.  Without you here, there is less to say.  I don’t want you thinking I’m unhappy.  What is closer to the truth, that if I lived ‘til I was a hundred and two, I just don’t think I’ll ever get over you.   

craptacular

People ask me how I do it, and when I respond, "I can't not do it," I'm not sure they get it. So for example, tonight I was on such a bad date, that I had to come home and write about it.  I had to the way you have to rub the belly of a very pregnant woman.  It was our second date, and it was a Tuesday.  I was in jeans with black heels, loving to love myself, in a white tank with an inner bra shelf, so if it was cold, he could admire my nipples and start thinking about seex. Who cares what he was wearing; it wasn't memorable, which is better than remembering some Hawaiian shirt a-la-Larry from Three's Company.

We'd made the plans yesterday, so he'd had some time for reservations, for linen somewhere, for a place with more than just appetizers.  It wasn't about getting fed… shite, most women only do tar tar, crab cakes, or some salad anyway.  Okay, not me, but most women.  It's about showing interest.  A guy asks me to meet him at some inexpensive East Village shitehole, and I'm thinking one of two things:  1) he's cheap, or 2) he's poor.  Either way, he's not the guy for me.

The first indication ought to have been when I suggested we meet at Balthazar for our first date drink.  "How fancy shmancy," he said over the phone.  Oh fcuk.  Still, I went.   He was cute, witty, and I felt we were on the same page.  We liked one another enough to commit to bread.  Then, an additional glass, and with an additional glass and a half, the hunger kicks in. Before you know it, there's a seafood tower obstructing the view of your date.  We drank more and ordered fries and a goat cheese tart. More wine.  Then, we finished off our shoreline, and suddenly we're kissing on the sidewalk while he tries to hail me a cab. 

"Come meet my friends," he suggests.  I didn't want to say goodbye yet. I’m having fun with my new friend.  We cab it to Chumley's, which is soooo not my place.  For starters, their idea of a wine list is “red” or “white.”  Not, here’s our choice of reds, but “red wine.” I was agreeable, though, and ordered “red” because I was certain their idea of “white” was Chardonnay.  I met his friends, who are also agreeable.  Then, my date rubs my leg under the table, telling me he wants to be affectionate so I know how much he likes me.  It’s a beginner move, but it’s nice just the same.

Between conversations, where we side with one another against the group, he leans in and whispers that he can't wait to make out with me.  And when everyone takes a nicotine break, that's precisely what we do.  Then we left and went to the next place where everyone says we should go because they are going.  After an unsuccessful hour there, trying to get a table, we leave and get more watered down drinks at the next place. But we kiss well together, and his hands feel really good around my waist, so I break rules and agree to a second date on our first.

Which brings us back to Tuesday night.  He IMs saying he doesn't quite have a plan.  I kind of want to kill him because he's the boy, and this is his job.  I just want to have to look cute and be smart.  Despite knowing I live on the UWS, he suggests the LES, and when I hear Styvesant Street, I want to cancel.  "Look, sorry to be a brat, but I'm not trekking down to the LES."  Normally, I would have swallowed it, but come on, he should just know better.  He should suggest what's convenient to me. "Well I know you work here, so what do you think of this place or that place."  That is ideal. "How about someplace citysearch gives one dollar sign that's way out of your way? Sawdust is such a good time... keeps you grounded."  That was my date.

Normally, I'd just do it.  Instead, I pulled out the honesty via email… it's so much easier to be brave when you're hiding between well-constructed paragraphs. "So here's the deal.  I'm a big believer that the man should treat the woman as if she's the good china; he's got to use both hands.  I believe in chivalry, in 'can I pick you up' vs. 'Styvestant Street.'  I believe in a man treating me like I'm special, and when that happens, I'm all too willing to spring to “over the top,” let me give it back tenfold, position.  But when I don't get it, I don't stick around to respond to anything tenfold.  All I want to do is run." 

Abrasive, but honest. 
I should get a tee shirt made.

We circumvent the hurdle when he responds, "on a weekend, I'd leap at the chance to pick you up.  I'm having a tough day."  And when I hear, “tough day,” I think of what my father has said to me, more than once:  “Hey Steph, stop being such a ball-breaker.  People have tough days.  Take it easy.”  So the date hit a soft spot; I could do relaxed.   

I meet him at Cibar, which he says is "too fancy."

It was NOT fancy, unless fancy means they serve martinis in actual martini glasses.  It was a normal, good, first date place, for our second date.  There was no actual food served there... which is not such a good second date place. 

He's one drink in when I arrive.  He looks the same, in an unzipped black cardigan sweater and jeans.  Cute, actually.  We have some drinks, and then the real fun begins.

"Stephanie, I could never really love a woman unless I lost her.  You know, I’m the type of guy who never realizes what I have until it's too late, until it's gone." 
In vino veritas?
In vino, heisanass.

Okay, so, that’s his way of telling me, he’s still not over one of several of his ex’s.  It’s also his way of telling me he’s a big baby boy.  I respond, I kid you not, with the following diatribe…

"Well this is the part where I ask for the check.”

“Come on.  Are you serious?”

“Quite.  You see, I believe people when they tell me who they are.  Clearly, you know you, way better than I ever could, so I'm going to take your word for it.  And, some boy who doesn't know a great thing when he sees it, isn't the guy for me. I hate to use the 'I want a man not a boy' line, but that's me telling you who I am." 

“Oh, come on, at least go out with me one more time.”

“Um, we're on our second date and we're FIGHTING!  Don't you think that tells us something?"

"It tells me that you're smart.  I mean, we're not fighting.  We're having a discussion, and most of the girls I date don't know how to do that."  Oh man, now I know what’s coming next.  "You know, cause I date a lot of gorgeous dumb girls."  Okay, I said he was cute; but he’s in no position to say he dates a lot of anything, never mind with the word gorgeous in it.

"Um, okay.  How's that working out for you?"  Then I really did ask for the check.  He then tried to backpedal out of his statement, but the truth already slipped out when he was playing with the thin red straw in his nothing but ice now glass. 
"Please, just go out with me again."

"The only going out with you again will consist of going out to the street to get a cab so I can go home. Alone."

NEXT.

the 5 minute hand job

I wasn’t going far, but I was wearing heels and didn’t feel like blisters.  I would cab it to Columbus Circle because the tmobile hotspot at the Starbucks near me was out of service. When I told the bearded driver my destination he thanked me and asked if I was going shopping.

“No, I’m a writer.”  As if saying I’m a writer explains that I’ll be sitting in a bookstore within the vertical shopping empire.

“Ah, a writer.  What do you write?”

“Non-fiction.”  This is an answer, I have learned, that somehow satiates people.

“Let me see your hand.  I read hands.”  Nothing in me hesitated to give him my hand; there was after all a barricade with an opening far too small for him to ever pull me through.  And, his eyes were warm.  “I’m a writer, too.  I am writing a book about being a taxicab driver and all the 5 minute relationships we make in New York.  But English is my second language, so it will be difficult for me.”  Then we hit a red light and he begins to examine my right hand. “You’re a Libra, a therapist to everyone.”

I smile, thinking if my friends had heard him they would shake their heads affirmatively.  “Yes, that’s true.  That’s why I’ve got two books coming out.”

“You have a very long lifeline, very long.  You’re an old soul, too.  You see these double lines right here?”  He then moved his thumb back and forth in the palm of my hand.  “These break your lifeline.  You will hit your luck and become very famous between 30 and 35.  Do you see them?” I didn’t say anything.  “You will also have a Phd.  You are supposed to have a Phd.  You should also have 3 children.  Supposed to.  You’ve had three significant relationships but the third one changed you very much.”  He looks into my eyes as his thumb rubs just under where my pinky finger begins.  “That third relationship was like a marriage, and you felt the divorce.  Now your eyes are open, and you’re right to be selfish.  You will have one other significant relationship and it will last.”  Oh thank god.  I began to breathe again.  “But right now, you are right to be selfish and cautious.  And in your next relationship, your eyes will always be open.  You will never make the same mistakes you made again.  Very famous.  You are a very open person, very open, and it serves you well.  I am very lucky to have you in my cab.” 

Abdul and I exchanged phone numbers.  “I will have to come up with a pen name for my book,” he said.  “Otherwise my wife will want to divorce me.  Some of those 5 minute relationships happened to be ones where she wouldn’t approve.” 

“Anonymity really isn’t my thing, but yes, trust your guy instinct on that.”  And we both smiled.  "Okay, your gut instinct."  He invited me for Indian food at his home in Astoria.  Clearly, I am not going; or at least not going unaccompanied by a very strong date.   

Maybe I believed everything Abdul said because he told me everything I wanted to hear.  Well, I couldn’t care less about the Phd. bit, but everything else was dead on.  But couldn’t everything he said be applied to anyone else my age?  A very long time ago, when my grandfather Papoo took me to a psychic in Florida, I returned to the car glowing.  My cheeks hurt from smiling.  “He said I was a princess in my former life, Papoo.”

“What’s he gonna say?  In your past life you were folding linens in some hotel?”  This time, though, with Abdul, he kept things in the near future and recent past, and I didn’t ask for any of it.  And something tells me, just as it always has, that everything he said will come true if I want it to.

wet spot

ONE MORNING I AWOKE ON A WET SPOT in our bed.  “What the hell is this?” I asked you  as I pulled your hand, dragging it over the spot.
“I dunno.” You mumbled.  “Smell it.”
“Why don’t you smell it?”
“Just smell it.”
“It doesn’t really smell.  But it’s not a leak.”
“Must be from Linus.”  Our Toy Fox Terrier’s urine soaked through our high-thread-count sheets, staining our new king size mattress.
“Bad.  Bad boy.”  I scolded, as I looked Linus in the eye.  He ran into his crate, whimpering, his tail between his legs.  He wouldn’t lift his head all day.  “I just can’t believe he peed in the bed.”
“Yeah, I’d help you clean, but I have to study up for tomorrow.” 
So I got on my knees, stripped the bed, did laundry, and scrubbed Oxy Clean into our bed for well over an hour.
“Steph?”  You summoned from the living room hours later.
“Yeah?”
“Commeer.”  Textbooks and note cards were strewn on our sofa, and when you spoke to me, you twirled your yellow highlighter.  “I had a dream last night that I peed in the bed.” A smile escaped from your mouth, as though you were a child telling your mother you’d broken the living room vase you were warned never to touch.

I wanted to kill you.  I’d been scrubbing your urine from our bed on my Sunday while you watched a football game pretending to work.  “Well guess what?” I asked as I climbed on your lap.  “You’re never, ever, living this down.”  And I smiled, kissing you, as tears filled my eyes.  I was so in love.

walk of shame

I walked the streets of Manhattan today as though they were slate stones punctuated in my grassy backyard. It was as if I kicked off some gardening clogs to bend down and turn on the faucet for the sprinklers. With my heels dangling in my hands, I walked from your apartment to mine barefoot, smiling. Yes, this is my city. I’m a happy New Yorker. 

sent mail

I have a pit in my stomach, but I’m afraid to tell you about it.  Feeling needy scares me, and maybe it’s something I should swallow with milk.  I’m going through this alone.  Holding the worry in my stomach, in my shoulders, in my womb.  I’m frightened of dying alone.  I’m afraid my life won’t be as colorful as I imagined it. 

With fears about my future, I hang onto the good I can now, hoping it will be enough.  Sustenance.  I get high off ideas I write on napkins, thin lines in my red notebook.  I satiate on the idea of these ideas. The sweet voice of a friend on my voicemail, when Linus rests his little head in my hand, Natalie Merchant.

I missed you so much today; I could feel it in my wrinkles, smell it in my pillows, and taste it in my tears.  When it’s safe, I’ll give you this.  I’ll use ribbon and save it for when you believe in us.  So you won’t get frustrated and yell that you give up, you won’t wonder if you make me happy.  You will stop making me afraid to be sad near you.  You'll let me be me, tears and all.  By then, you’ll have the answer on you.  You’ll carry the yes in your pocket with your keys.  And, I hope you don’t drop it.  Because yes, you do make me happy.  Yes to it all.  My love for you is profound and as real as the earth.

Nothing has changed, though now our earth is so separate.  My love for you runs thick like the water covering it.

* * *

For my first time since middle school, I visited the New York Public Library.  I didn't know where I was going; I just went.  Up all those courtly stairs into a museum on Russia?  Man, what is this? "Where is the library?"  The guard tells me to take the elevator to 3.  Ah, okay.  On 3, I ask a sack of a woman at the information desk for a card.  "No dear, this is research, the real library is across the street."  So let me get this straight.  You can't take out any books at the New York Public Library?  Yeah, the one with the Lions and the stairs.  It's monumental, and you can only leave with flimsy pamphlets about how to borrow books from across the street.  What a sham.

So, I went to the Manhattan Library as instructed.  I read a little Pablo Neruda.  I like his ode to socks.  I still prefer Ms. Olds.  Anyway, I've got to hop to class now.  I'm kinda mortified about what I submitted.  Oh well.  Work in progress.  Work in progress... aren’t we all.  I should walk around with an orange sign, “under construction.”

city slickers

“Are you gay?” Is not the worst way to begin a conversation with a suspect man. 
Yes?  Good.  You saved me a lot of time. 
No, even better, because had I not asked, I would have assumed it. 
It’s so win win. 

So, when Monique and I grab a wine list from an adorable ‘Ino waiter, I just ask.  Okay, wait, no I didn’t.  He was wearing a Sarah Lawrence tee shirt.  All signs point to gay.  “Oh, you went to Sarah Lawrence.  Are you gay?”  That’s how it was done.

He laughs.  “Nope.  Not gay.”

“Just odd?” 

“Yes, exactly.  At SL, the odds are good, but the goods are odd.” 

It was winter when I interviewed at Sarah Lawrence College for their writing program.  During the on-campus consultation, I learned the school, besides being clad in black, was mostly lesbian.  It’s not the kind of thing I expected to actually learn in an interview.  Details about their writing program, scholarships, cafeteria hours, fine.  But, “I like pusssy?”  Not so much.

“Hi, I’m Arlene Bliss, and I’m a lesbian.”  A tall woman in open-toe shoes said as she lunged toward me with an open palm.  After shaking it, I sat and smiled politely.  Maybe she didn’t realize she said that aloud.  Her last name was Bliss not Dis.  “Do you have a problem with that?”  She was now sitting across from me, smiling, as if she’d just asked how the drive up to campus was. 

Was this some kind of trick question?  Were multiple-choice answers about to be fanned before me on the stately wooden desk?  Do I have a problem with it?  I looked at her plume of dark hair, the way her bangs threw her brows into shadow, and I waited for a laugh.  I waited for her to tell me she was just trying to loosen me up.

And I waited.

I swallowed the silence and finally offered, “No.  I don’t have a problem with your being a lesbian.”  Then, I smiled.  She smiled.  It felt like combat; I could smell the gunpowder.  “But I do have a problem with your asking me if I have a problem with it.”  I knew at that moment, I wanted to leave.  It’s no wonder students take tests under trees, under honor codes; no one can stand to be around one another… they’re all under attack.

I left.

“So how did it go?”  My father inquired as we left the building.
I walked quickly without looking up.  Then I whispered, “Dad, this place is just too, too odd.  You know, even for me.”

Clearly, it wasn’t the gay thing.  It was the let me put it in your face and lap dance you with it.  Who would have thought I’d find a City Slicker* in Sarah Lawrence.  There's something to be said for whispering. 

* “Yes, we’re black, and we’re dentists.  Let’s not make an issue out of it.” 
“They weren’t.  You are.”

let it go

Things have not improved whatsoever since last week.  The only added bonus is that I weigh 120.5 lbs.  Tomorrow I’ll be 124 lbs., though, because today things seemed okay.   My life has been turned up side down.  This has been so horrible.  I had the security of having a fiancé.  I felt good about wearing the engagement ring.  Because things have been so awful, I’ve been unable to be myself, the Stephanie he fell in love with.  Instead, especially tonight, I’ve been acting like a complete psychopath.  No doubt, I’d be committed if they came for me tonight.  So much has gone wrong over the past 3 weeks.  Nothing between us has been pleasant, and I hate fighting.  One fight is one thing, but this has been ongoing to the point where it feels like we are at the end of our relationship.  There’s nothing I can do about it.

He says he’ll stop with the lies, that he’ll communicate better, that he’ll talk about his stress.  Meanwhile, he said all of this to me honestly last week.  Since then, he has continued to lie to me, and he has told me that he’s nothing but confused.  It is just like high school.  We’re both upset.  We want to make it better, but then he picks a fight with me.  Then says he just picked the fight because he needs to be out of here for a while.  He says those words “confused” or “I’ve got to get away for a couple of days” and I turn into a begging child, screaming, pathetically.  Please, no, anything but that.  Please don’t let it come to that.  Then I say, “Fine.  You know where the door is.”  And, I try to act like it’s okay.  Inside, I’m dieing.  It’s the worst feeling in the world.  Then he sees how sad I am, feels guilty and says he’ll try to work it out with me.  I hate it.  I feel like I’m at the bottom of a rope, kicking, dangling at the bottom, trying not to tire, to fall.  At least I’m not fat.

Now we’re trying to have fun with the little time he does have, but it doesn’t work.  Any time I see him, I end up crying because he put me through all this.  Now I’m acting psycho.  So, I’ll try to go to sleep.

But, just this morning he talked about leaving; then I “convinced” him not to.  Then, we had seex, because I wanted him to feel happy and close.  Sounds like high school.  If I learned anything over the years it should have been how to walk or let him walk away.

I haven’t learned how to let go yet.  I hope I get there one day and remember I’m an individual.  Remember the days when I was younger and didn’t know to recognize any of my imperfections.  I would write “famous notes” when I was eight years old, looking in the mirror, saying I was destined for something.  I’ve lost that girl, and I want the strength to find her.

I wish things were the way they used to be, secure and fun.  I absolutely hate myself for being this weak.  I don’t know how to let him go.  I guess I’ll have to relearn how to break an addiction to a person.  Tomorrow, that’s going to be required reading.  I’ll have to read books on coping with divorce.  Self help, here I come. 

I’ve never been so devastated, but it could be worse.  It could be divorce with a child and a house.  I could be sick.  I could find him with someone else.  This is not the worst.

-----------------------------------------------------------
Ahem, this is what happens when you don’t learn to let things go.  This is what comes from control.  The above was a journal entry, written a year before I was married.  In the margins of the entry, I added this: “It's almost 5 years later and I still haven't learned to let it go.  Stephanie, you can't control everything.  If anything, you should realize this is what will set you free.  Practice it now.  Let go.  It doesn't matter if he calls, whoever he is, something, some power, will take care of you.”   

I’m happy to report, that today, I cried when I read all of this.  I cried while smiling.  I’ve learned to let it go.  The power that is taking care of me... is me.  I’m strong and my dreams are coming true.  I found the little girl in the mirror who believed in me.  I love her. 

in the nick of time

When it comes to boys, nicknames happen to help us keep ‘em all straight. 

“You know, Connecticut Brian.”
“Oh, but who are you having dinner with?”
“Jon.”
“Which Jon?”
“Fun Jon.”
“Well who do you like the most right now?  Dirty Dave, Captain Jack, or the Bad Greek Boy?”
“It’s a toss up between Zim City and The Italian Job.  How about you?  Seeing Mile High Man anytime soon?”
“Nah, I’m over him.  Onto B-rad.”

You get the idea.  Nicknames come from necessity and foster frivolity.  Once you really like a guy, all the nicknames are for naught.  You no longer need to keep them straight.  He gets a name; the nickname disappears and reveals something real.

You can’t pick a nickname; it just has to happen.  Spencer likes the name Bunny and insists that’s what he’ll call his next girlfriend.  But you can’t do that; you’re breaking some rule.  It will mean less.  It won’t be unique.  “Nah, I’m going to work it in, cause it’s cute.”   No!  Nicknames evolve.  Look at Linus.  One day he’s Lebrinus or The Lineman, and sometimes he’s Noodle, Bear, or Roast Beef Sandwich Head depending on my mood.   

You’d think someone would have called me Red by now.  In high school, I played soccer with another redhead, whom people referred to as Big Red thanks to the popularity of the gum commercials.  She was tall and freckled and wore red ribbons in her hair, so being called “big” didn’t faze her.  Had someone named me Big Red I would have gone home to cry in my wee little pillow.  I already had a fat nickname. 

Save for Moose, I’ve never had a nickname.  I longed for The Wasband to call me “Red” once I saw The Philadelphia Story.  I’d look up at him when Cary Grant referred to Katherine Hepburn as “Red” throughout the movie.  I’d squeeze his hand.  “Isn’t that the sweetest?  I love when he calls her that.”  Sure, it’s Cary Grant.  He can make dumping a woman sound just darling.  You want to go out the next day and find out where you can get a break-up, too.

I have a silver ring from Tiffany’s that Roger brought home for me one day.  I hate Tiffany’s.  It’s overpriced and uninspiring.  In a word, it’s provincial.  In a few, it’s safe, chardonnay, and milquetoast.  It’s unimaginative.  It’s the safety school of jewelry.  It’s nothing to get excited about, like making a reservation to eat at Haru.  You might as well just order in.    He’d had it inscribed, “I adore you, Red.  Love RL.”  He only did it because of instructions.  That’s right, instructions.  It wasn’t an item on his to-do list sandwiched between “Tanning Salon” and “Call Grandmother.”  But, it was ingrained in his head.  Call them hints, but they were instructions.  When I heard someone say, “I adore you” in a movie, I’d tell Roger, “See that’s so much nicer than ‘I love you.’”  Had he begun his courting with “adore” in lieu of “love,” I’d have created a case for “love.”  Grass greener thing. 

I wonder if I’m ever happy with the way things are.  I believe even when I am, I’m always striving for things to be better… which I suppose can be seen as, well, never happy.  But I am happy; I’m just difficult.  Roger air-balled “I love you” all the time.  I just wanted something new out of his mouth.  They’re all just words I suppose. Succinct.  Little.  Pellets.  Of.  Heartbreak. 

I’d like to think he would have said it on his own.  All of it.  I adore you.  Red.  I can’t imagine my life without you.  But he didn’t.  It was never on his own.  I pushed.  I asked for it.  It's one thing to communicate what you want; no one is a mind reader.  Once you tell someone what you want, as specifically as I did, it means less once you get it.  I wanted what I wanted.  I craved for him to be creative and head over heels in love with me.  The man should always love the woman more.

When you push things and try to control them, they’re never yours.  Even if it’s sincere from their end, and you have everything you wanted, you’re left wondering if it’s genuine because of your controlling hand in things.  If I’ve learned anything, it’s this.  It’s hard, but you will never get what you want by trying to control things.  Exhale.  Breathe, and let that shite go.  If it is meant to be, it will be.

she said, he said: a date with Stephanie Klein

SHE SAID:  It was a yummy date, a jdate, but a date with a 34-year-old man named Stuart.   He happens to live a half a block away from me with his yellow lab, Cali.

We met at 6:30 at Perbacco on E. 4th street, between A & B.  He picked the place.  "It specializes in wine" so said citysearch.  When I arrived, he was at the bar looking absolutely Hank Azaria delicious, but the Hank Azaria likening didn’t happen upon me until later. The restaurant was empty; it was only 6:45 (we were both running late).  I’d phoned him from the cab at 6:28 to warn him.  Something in his voice made me wonder if he thought I was canceling.  In our email correspondence, I had suggested he bring cards.  "I want to learn Poker," I demanded.  Cards he brought.

When I first sat down, he said I smelled like a garden.  "Roses," I said.
"Yeah, roses."  Then he grabbed my wrist and drew it toward him.
When it was my turn, I leaned toward him and drew him in, assessing, "you smell like a Sunday afternoon in socks sitting by the fire."  And then we laughed.  I’m a retard, I thought.

We drank wine from one another's glasses.  He smelled arugula and wood; he liked zins.  He said there was a word he made up that sounded like a word.  And then, just like that, he couldn't remember the word, which parlayed into camp stories.  He told me he went to Brant Lake camp.  Oh dear God.  WTF?  Todd went there.  Falafel Sam went there.  It never ends.

When he said he loved camp, I thought, he must have read on my blog somewhere what a camp crazed lunatic I am.  At the very beginning, I whipped out my notebook and wrote down “whiskey over.” Which is toasted rye, that he enjoys at the diner on our corner, with an egg white western omelet and The Post and his freshly squeezed o.j.  Though I don’t know how he takes his coffee yet, or if he drinks it at night.  He prefers that diner to the one I like, the crowded one with the good fries, because his guy knows his order there.

We traded first drunk stories.  He was 16.  I was 14.  He was at some camp “like Dirty Dancing,” he said.  “Nobody puts Baby in a corner,” I thought.  It was New Years.  He drank champagne, beer, and then vodka.  And when he got to the vodka, it became a debacle.  He asked for a glass, and the old man said to him, “you’re with friends now.  No need for a glass.”  And he swigged from the bottle.  I liked the way he told the story with his hands.  He didn’t remember how he got home, only that his father took him there.  And recently, his doorman had to let him in because he couldn’t get the key in the door.  Hmmm. 

When the cards came out, I insisted on cutting the deck.  Growing up, when my father shuffled, it was my favorite part.  “You should knock it to show your trust of the dealer.”

“Yeah, but I don’t know you yet.”  And then I cut it and smiled.  “Besides,” I said, “I’ll always want to cut it, even if I do trust you.  It’s a fate thing.  I want my hand in the cards.”  I told him I’m good at roulette but I hate cards like Black Jack 'cause I still count on my fingers.  I tutored people in calculus at college, but yes, I still count on my fingers.  I always will.  He said he’d teach me to play craps.  I can’t wait to hold the dice.

He indicated that his father is laissez faire, while his mother is much more big stick.  “You should be happy, Mom, that I am independent and don’t come crawling to you anymore.”  Then I spoke of mothers and little boys wanting to marry theirs.

I realized he’s a lot like my dad.  Well, he’s like him in the golf-crazed, card-obsessed way.  That’s comforting to me.  It’s what I’ve known all my life.

He admitted he'd read some of my site (even though I warned him not to), and when he confessed it he started laughing.  "You're so funny and awesome and real.  I know you say some guys see it as a turn off.  Your site is a great litmus test... weed out the guys who aren't strong enough for you."  Then I told him about Jack... about how he said I was too social and got bent because I kept introducing him to friends, etc.  He said, "The guy is an idiot.  I want to meet all your friends."  Then he told me he studied all the photos of me on my site to learn my different expressions.  I know that by writing that it sounds a little stalkerish, but it wasn't.  He was just interested.  And he's hot, so let him stare.

He said I was unconventionally beautiful, “which is the best kind.”  Then he asked where I thought I was on looks and personality, like percentage wise.  I didn’t know how to answer.  I was just being honest.  I don’t remember what I said, but certainly my adoration for my friends’ beauty was conveyed.  “Guys usually like me for my personality, not my looks,” I said.  I think that’s true.

At one point early on during the night, he leaned over toward me and said, "I like you.  Just so you know."  Then he kissed my cheek.  He found ways to touch me when he told stories, and when I told mine, he moved a whip of hair off my face, tucking it behind my ear.  As he did it, all I could think was, “man, he’s pulling a power move.”  We closed the bar.  We ate ravioli and shrimp, though we smelled our neighbor’s rice balls.

He said he liked my teeth and said that I said something a lot, but I don't know what I said.  We talked about not having New York accents.  I told him the story of Jessie Little getting weighed at the truck stop.  We had cards on our foreheads. I asked him if he liked my hair curly or straight.  He said he didn't care.  “What I care about is right here,” he said as he held my face with both hands.

I told him he looked like Hank Azaria and that when I got home I was going to masturbtae watching Huff with my on demand.  I swear, who needs porn when there's Hank Azaria?

He invited me to Tahoe with him.  "But it's our first date.  You don't even know my middle name yet."

"Well tell it to me.  And then I'll know, and we can go to Tahoe together."

The only drawback... you were waiting... is that he's just getting out of a marriage.  It ended in October, though he said it ended long before that.  Still, I told him it raised my red flags.  To which he responded, "I know you've seen When Harry Met Sally.  Joe got married after Sally.  She was supposed to be his transitional person, not THE ONE."  And all I could say was, "some people spend a lifetime looking for something with one person and find it in a moment with someone else."  Then we clinked glasses and tried to get drunk.  I think, somehow, I can still smell him.

Before long, we were quoting movies, doing camp handshakes and high fives.  And I don't do high-fives, but we couldn't help ourselves. Wine spilled on his phone.  He showed me a list he keeps of all the new restaurants he wants to try.  Loved that.  Cards were played, games were not.   We shared a cab home at 3 in the morning.  We didn't
kiss the whole night... but didn't kiss in a really good way.  Like saving it.  It was hot.

When I got inside, just into bed, my phone rang.

"I thought of the word: incentivize."

"Yeah, that's not a word."

Then he told me he had an amazing time.  "Me too."  I went to bed smiling.

I awoke to this email from him:

Last night was fun,
I had a great time;

I'm still smelling roses,
My phone smells like wine…

--------------------------------------------------

As tired as I am today (and I have used your name in vein) last night was worth it Steph.  I'm looking forward to seeing you again, if you'll have me...

Stuart

AND... he just called.  That, dear reader, deserves an emoticon.

HE SAID:   A date with Stephanie Klein……  We met at Perbacco.  Translation = blame it on the wine.  I thought it would be a perfect place for a first date since alcohol can either ease the pain or grease the 1st-date wheels.  As usual I was running late, considering minutes are like dog years to me, but Stephanie was running late too and she ended up arriving just minutes after I got there.  Whew.  I don’t think a man should be late for a first date.  It leaves a lame first impression if you ask me.  I wasn’t nervous to meet her, especially since I did my homework before we met.  I read her blog.  My sister Eileen told me not to, and I said I wouldn’t, but my curiosity got the better of me.  The way I see it is It’s a good thing knowing 100 facts about your date before meeting them.  It sort of puts you at ease, knowing a few intimate details about the woman you’re about to meet for the first time (ie. It’s always good to know when a woman will orgasm from normal intercourse).  Useful information, if you ask me.  Stephanie walked in the door, wearing dark, thick-framed glasses, smelling like a garden of roses, with a black blouse with strings that tied up the short sleeves.  Her hair was straight, healthy looking, and it smelled as good as it looked.  I was looking for the bump on her nose, caused by a break as I recall, but it wasn’t really noticeable to me.  So far so good.  No red flags, no bad breath, no funny faces, no scars.

The bartender immediately gave us samples of Italian red wines, which got the night going right.  I felt like I’d known Stephanie for more than just a few days, which is a good feeling going into a first meeting.  The conversation flowed, from past relationship nightmares to current standings, and before we knew it 3 hours had passed.  We bonded with some of the patrons too, and were told he “had to try the rice balls, since they are the best in the city.”  Whata-the-fcuk is a rice ball anyway?  Needless to say, we skipped the little fried balls of rice, and ordered some tapas instead….Some highlights of the evening.  We played a few hands of gin, since I remembered to bring my playing cards.  Funny how the daughter of a regular card player has no idea how to play gin, even though she did smoke me after a brief review of the rules….

We moved onto Swift around midnight, for another couple of glasses of wine.  Around 2:30am we hopped into a cab together, sharing a ride to the upper west side…  All in all, I’d say it was one of the best first dates I’ve had.  Stephanie warned me repeatedly about her blog throughout the night, but I’m into her public display of emotion.  I know her deal going into things, and I actually find it appealing to meet a woman who’s got a plan, a passion, and quirky side.  Some people call it baggage, “a lot of shite”, or “a fcuked up past”, but I call it seexy.

jack the knife

This is the shite that happens when you own too many chick flicks.  In love with the idea of love leaves you “Jack Knifed.” 

I was “in like” with Jack from the first moment.  He met me for brunch, and while I waited for him to arrive, I bent over to uncuff my jeans (there was snow, and boots, and all-around wet).  I realized during the uncuff that my thong was flirting.  I quickly pulled my sweater taught.  It was too late. 

“Nice view.”  Jack said through a smile as he approached from behind. Later, he admitted he not only loved the view, but he loved watching every guy in the place stare.

I was mildly unglued when he mentioned stories that sounded like mine.  Was he reading the blog and then offering up his matching tales?  I’d half-listen while I tried to remember if I’d written it anywhere.  We had too much in common.  It was likeness leads to liking in a big bad goose bumps way.  I had the this-is-its more than once.  He was talking, and I watched, but I couldn’t really hear.  I was trapped in a moment thinking only, “oh my God, this guy is so great.  I love that face and the way he tells stories and finds ways to touch my face or arm, or hand.  He tells me I’m adorable between stories.  He’s smitten.”  Then I snap out of it, reminding myself I know next to nothing about him.  I get so carried away with the idea of a person that I don’t even pay attention to who they even are!  He could be a con artist liar man who runs from relationships as if he’s got an upbeat iPod playlist on, motivating him into a sprint towards the door. 

As crazy as I was about Captain Jack, when I slept at his apartment, I had a pit in my stomach.  Not butterflies, a pit.  Something wasn't right.  I felt like Blair Warner from The Facts Of Life in the Magnificent Obsession Episode where her latest boyfriend, Chad, means everything to her.  She bends every which way trying to please him (though back then there weren’t thongs).  Chad tells her to wear her hair a different way, what colors to wear, etc.  And before you know it, she's not Blair anymore; she's Hair.  Or something like that. 

I was beginning to feel that way with Jack.  I had to justify my social life, and I found myself hiding what I actually did.  "What did you do last night?"  "Oh, I went to a fashion show, but I skipped the after party."  No I didn't.  I totally went. But I knew if I'd told him that, he'd think, "oh no, party girl."

I’ve learned to take things one day at a time... and to trust my body. The pit in the stomach was telling me something, and I was going to listen.  See, the good news in going through a “Jack Knife” is you learn things.  The bad news is you’re 90 degrees from where you’d thought you’d be which leaves you with that not so fresh feeling.  Panama Jack was a crash course in Listen To Your Body 101.  Now I’m working on Knife Skills 102.  Who needs a tomato in the shape of a rose?  I’m taking orders.

something borrowed

To read this please buy my memoir, Straight Up & Dirty >>

slutting it around

I have friends who say it in jest.  "I've been whoring around too much lately; I'm giving it up for lent."  I've been slutting it around for the whole of my private life.  No one sluts it up as much as the fatties.  I would know.  But I'm deleting it from here and saving it for MOOSE.

One of my ex-boyfriends told me he loved me in front of the waiter.  He told me in the morning when he kissed me despite my outhouse mouth, but it meant more that he'd do it in front of the waiter.  When a sober man expresses emotion (I'm not talking screaming, outrage, or loud sobbing) and doesn't care who sees it or what they think of it... I swoon.  There are few things hotter than a man who means what he says and is ready to back it up.  (He did mean it, but sadly, it came down to timing).  Maybe I need to work on my esteem more.  Just a thought.  Though, I think I'll always be that way.  Some things are just for us, but I value a guy who can kiss me on the street.  I have room over here for an affectionate man, but I've already got an emotional slut on my hands.   

a year ago today

January 2004: You’ve read about my dog, my music, my favorite chick flicks, my friends, and my growing up as Moose.  You know I wear Creed’s Fluer de The Rose Bulgarie, and when people are near me, they say the room smells good. 

You know I was betrayed by an ex. You know I began the year with a wax leaving a square smaller than a Triscut, but larger than a Wheat Thin, and now I’m working on growing it out.  You’ve read about my kissing habits in fourth grade, to my recent lefty kisses.  I’ve covered vertical tacos, Cleveland steamers, a dirty sanchez, a Jersey turnpike, and a felcher.

You know what I want and don’t want in a man, and especially how I find didactic as sexy as a good smile.  You know I get very nervous from the idea of meeting his parents.  You know I’ve tried meeting him on match.com.

You know I have a problem with recency, and that I’m afraid I’m so fcuked up, I’ll never find a healthy romantic relationship. You know a year ago I cried in the bathroom at work, now I masturbate in it instead.  I eat and drink alone at bars and restaurants.  You know what my ideal life would be.

You know I’ve done the blog nerd out thing, gone to a whole slew of birthday parties, and that I photograph all the really good pictures for the press.

I have an amazing memory for detail, but I still write in a notebook.

You’ve learned about my mother, father, and sister Lea, and how we bickered in cars, and later how she dealt with foreign cars.

And you learned most of that all in just one month of my writing. In January '04.

So what has changed since then? The photographs are up on walls of a hotel. The book is on the way. I've been doing much more writing, and not as much photography. I'd like to shoot more. I've become friends with many other bloggers, and I've met many a reader.  While I still hate museum dates, I like going by myself. I'm still eating alone, but now, it's by choice. I sometimes go on non-dates.  Of course I'd still like to meet someone, but maybe it's not time yet.  It's all about timing. And when it does happen, I hope he's the kind of guy who will hold on. Most importantly though, it will hopefully happen when I'm not even noticing... we'll fall in like first.

I still have a strength of life.

I'm nearly almost jonesing for a good burger, and I'll always have a thing for the acoustic guitar. I'm less needy and less angry. I weigh more. I feel much better about Nyack. My hair is shorter now. I've learned disciplining my anxious dog involves a water gun. I'm going on a lot of artist dates by myself, and I'm smiling a lot more.

.

golden globes

Would it kill Diane Keaton to wear a dress?  I don't think I'm asking for too much here.  Isn't there some person who can tell her what to do?  Clearly winning "worst dressed" year after year isn't any type of fire under her ass.  Can't she hire someone to whisper these things to her? Clearly her friends and family are of no use.  Sure they give her support when she gets bad reviews, but are they there when it counts?  Are they there for her in her time of fashion seppuku?  I think not. 

magic tricks

I didn't meet a very cute guy last night.  Didn't in the way of names or handshakes, but did in the way of my card.  He was on his cell phone outside my lucky restaurant*.  I was near the door with my friends, bundling, wrapping, and shoving fists into warm coat pockets.  “Hold on ladies.  I’ll be right back.”  I dug into my handbag and pulled out something white.  It wasn’t a rabbit.  I clipped a card with two fingers, and then, I went for it.  “Sorry to interrupt you,” I said and then smiled offering him my card, “but I couldn’t resist.”  He was still on his phone, but he stopped talking, looked at my card and then back up at me.  I turned back toward the girls, who were rubbernecking at the entire scene.  “Stop staring,” I whispered through a smile.

“It was nice meeting you,” he yelled back.  Okay, he yelled something back, but I can’t remember anymore.  Hopefully he’ll find my email address and remind me.  Yum.

* Lucky restaurant?  I’ve heard of lucky bra or maybe some jewelry or a penny, but a restaurant?  Come on.  Well, it has been lucky for me.  I met In a cab headed north boy there.  What am I talking about?  I still don’t know why I associate that story with luck.  I guess I did “get lucky,” but you know, and I know, that’s not ever what I mean.  That night will always be magical to me.  I guess I just miss magic (read: magic, not trix).

trombones

Instead of stories, he remembers all the girls from high school based on the size of their breasts.  But, even still, he doesn't refer to them as breasts, only "boobs," "rack," and "busty."  He dated the fat twins—I thought for their boobs—but when I think about it, despite their rotund nature, their breasts were pancakes.  He tells me now I was the first girl to give him “wood,” and that’s not all: I was his first kiss.  I think it happened in our 6th grade classroom closet during lunch.  It wasn’t after lunch; I would have tasted that and remembered his smell because kids at that age only ate luncheon meats or wet tuna fish sandwiches.  I do remember his tongue: it had rivers running through it, deep lines, and it was wider than I’d expected, but he darted in there so fast, I will forever remember that kiss as “like a lizard.” 

The rest of this post can be found in my memoir.

you probably think this blog is about you, don't you?

I shouldn't, but I do, and all without good reason, certainly without proof.  And it's too soon, and somehow too late, but it's true.  I wish I could smell you and somehow taste your want for me.  I miss something we haven't even had, and the most fcuked up scrap of it is you'll never know.  I'll never tell, and for a second you'll think this about you.  You'll dissect it, the way you like to do, and then you'll suppose that one line isn't about you.  And then the pit will infiltrate your stomach at the thought it's for someone else.  Then you'll feed your fingers in your hair and have hope.  And then, that will make two of us... hoping in "vain."

court bouillon

“Steph, he sent 2 dozen roses to the office.” She is whispering; I would be shouting.

“We love him. Don’t you just love him?” I nearly squeal for her.

“Well, I’m beginning to think. This is crazy.” I know she’s smiling, even though we’re on the phone.

“No, it’s not crazy; it’s courting.”

“And he sent the cutest card.”

“Ah, the card. I love when they do this. You’re a lucky girl. The only court I get comes in a bouillon cube.”

(If you're going to send flowers, send ones that look like this.  Okay, okay, send anything you want... beggars can't be choosers.)

time life

Knowing I wanted to be a writer smelled like crayons.  Call it a Pavlovian premonition, but I "knew," the way you are suddenly certain of something without proof or reason... the way dogs know when their owners on their journey home.  I was sprawled on the cold green tile floor of the hallway, outside Mrs. Kalb's classroom, with a handful of crayons.  A tabloid sized piece of recycled-looking paper was split into two parts.  The top bit was blank and reserved for drawing a story, yet the bottom bit was lined for words.  As I wrote, I knew, even at eight years old, I'd want to write for the rest of my life.

The same force of a thought came upon me in college, during a fiction workshop.  The professor liked to jolt our creativity with an exercise at the beginning of class.  She held up a photograph from Time.  It was a black and white photo of a woman getting dressed, with a young child observing her ritual.  "Okay, write."

So I did:

Before my daughter Sarah was born, I believed my birth took my mother’s life.  Sarah’s birth has not only saved my life but has saved my past.

When I was about eight years old, Mother cut off my hair.  "You need to make your mark in this world, Doritt, and never say 'Remember me?' to a person.  If you have to ask, they usually don’t."  My best friend Judy told me it was crooked, and I said I’d never go back to that salon again.  I was embarrassed that Mother cut it; I was ashamed we scrimped money.  My hair was very long, down to my waist, except it was a lot thicker on top.  Parts of the curls broke off at the ends.  Mother said the beauty parlor was impractical for the amount I wanted taken off.  "We’ll just get rid of all this splitting," she said as she grabbed a thick handful of my orange hair.  I screamed, I mean I really screamed, when I saw that first handful of my loose curls on the cold bathroom tile.  “What are you doing?  I said I only wanted a trim!”  Mother pulled my hair taut to quiet me, glared at me in the mirror, and in a low voice reserved for dreaded things told me God made a mistake in creating me.

With my black mink muff from Fisher Brothers that my husband Nathan bought me just before Sarah was born wrapped around her arm with smears of icy blue shadow along its edges, and in the pearls that I just had re-strung last week, Sarah does her best to strut over to me to ask if I will cut her hair so it looks like Claudia Schiffer’s.  Her ruffled silk panties poke through the polyester headscarf she has tied loosely around her waist as a sarong skirt.  Batting her eyelashes and making a dramatic curtsy she asks in a saucy English accent, “Darling, don’t I look gorgeous?”  She has trouble balancing in my beige pumps with the two pairs of Nathan’s knotted sweat socks stuffed into the toes, so she staggers and finally falls, her legs straddled out in front of her like fallen wooden posts.  With liquid, loving laughter in her voice she pleads again as if she is asking for a dollar for Mr. Softee.  “Please cut it.”  I scoop her up with both my arms and set her down in front of the vanity table.  She looks like Nathan.  Loose wisps of hair the color of warm honey make soft commas on her neck.  She has my silver hair pins clamped on to her ear lobes, rouge all over her hands, eye shadow up to her eyebrows, and red lipstick on her teeth. 

“Where’s Poppa?”  I ask, but I don’t need an answer because I know Nathan is probably already asleep with his tie still on. 

“He’s snoring.”  She whispers as she hands me the cutting sheers.

“And how was your day at school today, Ms. Sarah?”

“Mom, come on.”

“Are we going somewhere?”

“Mommy…” Sarah tugs on the hem of my skirt.  “Come on!”

“Where we going?”  I tease.

“Cut my hair!”  She’s pouting.

“I’ll do no such thing with that tone of voice.  Is this how you greet your mother?  Give me a kiss.”  I say as I squat closer to the floor.  Instead of a kiss, she licks my cheek, giggles, and skips out of the room, leaving my pumps behind.

“You kiss like a dog.”  I shout, but stop laughing because I remember that Nathan is asleep.  I peak into our bedroom and see him, asleep on his back.  His tie is off, but his shoes are still on.  His feet dangle at the edge of the bed.  I slip off my clothes, all of them, and squat on the floor where his arm is stretched out straight but hanging, as if someone is holding it there for him.  I slowly take off his watch and put it on his nightstand.  Climbing softly onto the bed, I try not to move the mattress too much.  As I begin to unbutton his shirt, he swings his arm back onto the bed, and opens his eyes.  Then a thin smile spreads across his face like a snake. 
In his scratchy voice he says, “Well.”  Then, he clears his throat not expecting to sound so hoarse.  “Isn’t this a surprise.”  I smile and kiss him on the nose.  He finishes unbuttoning and hurries to peel off his damp clothes, kicking off his shoes but leaving on his brown dress socks.

“Do you want me to open a window?”

“I can stand the heat.  Besides, you think I’m letting you out of my sight?”  He squeezes my ass, and this makes me want to climb under the covers.

“Get up.”  I stand over him. 

“Ah, ah, ah.”  He waves his index finger like a teacher sure in his dogma.  “Please allow me.”  He sits up, pulls the covers back, grabs my hand, and pulls me on top of him.  His muscles are defined like braids, each one wrapping itself around the other.  “You feel incredible.” 

I begin to think of the dimples he must be feeling on my ass and roll off him onto my side.  Nathan says that cellulite is feminine, and that he loves how soft I am.  During seex, I feel my sides jiggle, my ass fat bounce, and I have to remind myself that seex is supposed to be pleasurable.  But, I’ve come a long way.  I’m just recently learning how to sleep without a shirt on, but I still sleep with my underwear because of my dimples.      

“What’s wrong?”  He asks, eyebrows wrinkled.  He looks concerned.

"Huh, nothing.  Nothing’s wrong.  Come here.”  I rub his back and kiss his neck.  His penis is hard and leaking.

“Don’t put it there.  I can get pregnant that way.”

“You can not.”  He whispers as he tries to glide it in.

“Yes, men dribble before they shoot.”  I wiggle loose.

“Oh, pithy, Doritt.”  He smiles.

“Mom, are you going to cut my hair or what?”  I was startled to see Sarah there, leaning her elbows on the bed. 

Nathan rolls off of me and asks her, “What did we say about knocking and private time, Sarah?”

“But Mommy promised she was going to cut my hair tonight.”

“Oh, no, Mommy said no such thing.”

“I’ll massage your feet with Kerri lotion.”  She tries to barter services.

“No.” 

“And, I’ll rub Poppa’s head with the paper towel.”

“Oh, I get to be in the deal too?  Well then, if you’re rubbing my head, I want cold hands, no paper towel.”  Nathan knows that Sarah likes to rub his head only with the paper towel because his bald scalp is greasy, and she complains about how her hands smell afterwards.

“Mommy, please.”  She pleads with raised eyebrows.

“How about tonight we give ourselves bubble baths and tomorrow after school, we’ll both get our hair done like Claudia’s?” I ask as lean over the edge of the bed to smooth the loose powder off the bridge of her nose and smear the eye shadow out of her brows with my finger.   

“Can I get yellow ribbon, then?  Two bows?”   

“If you get your p.j.’s on right after we clean up all that mess you left out there, and you go straight to bed, we’ll talk about the bows in the morning.” 

I put on my robe, assured Nathan that I’d be back and for him not to go anywhere, and watched as Sarah put Mother’s perfume pot where the brushes belong.  “Now you know better than that.”  I remind her, and she puts the pot where it belongs.

“But darling, I’ll just die if I don’t have ribbons.  Peggy wore pink boxed ribbons today.”  Sarah murmurs as she leans into me, nuzzling me with her nose.

"Squirt, get your tush out of my scarf and into the tub.”  I say as I swat her with the rolled up newspaper from the magazine rack beside the dresser. 

As I tuck her in, she asks me if she can bring Aunt Judy’s dog in for show and tell.  Judy is my oldest and dearest friend.  I say that I’ll ask her at work tomorrow while she’s in school.

fire down below

Smelly and I met Chris while asking for directions to La Boca Veritas to recreate an Audrey Hepburn episode that wouldn’t involve a black dress.  The three of us chatted as the sky turned pink.  We paced the tree-lined strip along the Tevere as I deleted photographs to accommodate sunset by the river moments. 

A balding dark man leaned against a parked car, his hand moving frenetically.  Only a moment of a beat passed before I whipped my head around.  Was I seeing things?  Oh yes, oh yes I was.  “He’s jerking off.”  Neither Smelly nor Chris knew about what I was whispering.

“What?  Where?”
“Right there,” I say through clenched teeth while pointing with my whole head. 
“Oh dear God,” Chris says as he quickly jerks away.  Smelly won’t even look.

We continue walking, and I occasionally turn back.  “Smelly, did you see that?”
“No.”
“How did you miss that?”
“I didn’t want to look.  I mean, what if it was true?”

He jerked off by the river, smiling with summer teeth (some are here, some are there).  In a moment, camera in hand, I was certain I needed to capture this for the blog.  I turned back and pointed the camera in his direction.  I was ready to fight fire with fire.

The Jerk concealed his face abruptly, as if he were discovered with an illicit lover.  He ran away. 

“Holy shite.  I so wish I snagged that on film for the blog.”  What was wrong with me?  It’s not like I’d actually put that on my blog.  It’s too disturbing, still, I wanted to the option.  Then the three of us continued to head toward our restaurant destination speaking of what had just happened to us.

I was certain we should cross the street, but Smelly and Chris felt safer crossing at the intersection.  When we finally approached the intersection, The Jerk was kneeling on the cement in an alcove along the river.  His eyes were tented with a handkerchief.  He was ready to die.  “To die” in Shakespeare’s day meant to have an orgasm.  You’re getting closer.

Later that night I dreamt in Italian.  There wasn’t any talking or confusion, but I was in Europe.  I tried to will my dreams toward my bed at home, toward Linus, even, but the steering got away from me.  I felt incredibly dirty, not in a good way.  The witnessing of the executioner haunted my thoughts.  I get a pit in my stomach knowing complete sickos like this exist.  Fiddlers.  He was smiling, laughing then he whispered, “Wait to take the photograph.  Wait.  I’ll cum for you.”

My camera never fired, and I didn’t stick around to see if he had.

jingle balls

Granted I was a Freudian Slip for Halloween; who knew I’d give an encore performance at Christmas.  It’s the evening of December 26, and I’ve traveled 40 minutes by car to reach destination Blue Martini in West Palm Beach’s Disneyesque City Place.  A reader was due to meet me there.  He doesn’t read for the blind or to malnourished children; he reads my blog (almost as noble).  Through email correspondence, we decided to meet up, and that took balls for me.  As a single woman, I’m painfully aware of the lonely stalkers out there, but I trusted my Web instincts, filled the gas tank and headed south to a very public destination.

Along with my cup size, nationality, and affinity for sushi and eating with my hands, Plantation knew my love of The Barenaked Ladies.

“Did you see them when they were in New York this month?”
“Yes, I did.”
“They were great, huh?” No one ever thinks her favorite band sucked on stage; this was a good assumption.
“No.  It was their holiday show, promoting their new festive album, so they were singing songs like Jingle Balls.”  I then pecked at my Shiraz.
“I think you mean Jingle Bells.”
“Oh god, I said balls didn’t I?  My family is so rubbing off on me.  This is terrible.”

Then I laughed because in one sentence I managed “balls” and “rubbing off” while discussing family, not seex.  Then he laughed, and it was real and a nice affirmation that there are good people out there over the Web.  They aren’t all lonesome stalkers with too much time on their hands to advise you on your life based off a moment of a thought you posted; they’re caring, funny, and normal—in a good, non-long-winded-let-me-tell-you-about-my-entire-childhood-in-an-email way.  Thank you, Plantation, for reviving my faith in the goodness of blog readers everywhere.  You’ve got one up on that Tiny Tim fellow.  Oh God, I just wrote “tiny” and “fellow” in one sentence.

xxx-mas

“It’s nice soap, smells pretty, Fay.” My mother says over Fay’s shoulder.  Fay is my mother’s aunt; who now uses a walker to accompany her saunter.
“Ooooh, how nice.”  She puts the scented soap to her nose.
“Yeah, you wash your chocho with it.  You should always smell nice down there.”  My grandmother Yiya cautions her sister Fay.
“You’re sick you know that?”  Fay asks then laughs as she draws her attention back to her gifts.
“Fine, you’re right.  That soap won’t help you; what you need is a raspberry.”
“A raspberry?”
“Yeah, a raspberry douche.  Douche.  Douche.”  My grandmother just said douche three times as if she were clicking her heels and hoping for home. 
“What are you typing over there Stephanie?”  Fay changes the subject.
“Are you writing for the book?”  Now Lea is part of the conversation.  “Fay, you’d love her book; it’s dirty.”
“I can’t handle dirty at my age.  I have nothing to do with all those scrumptious feelings.”
“Come and eat.”

This is why there’s never enough alcohol on the dinner table. 
"Oh come on.  Stop being such a prude Stephanie."

Through the rest of the meal, I learn my grandmother thought she was pregnant when she was tongue kissed by a man, that two years ago my 80 year old great aunt Fay learned what a muff diver is, and that my great aunt Martha was adored by the Mexican guards while she was in jail for trying to smuggle drugs to Los Angeles.  "Live it all while you can girls.  Life is short.  Take a lover.  Martha did it all when she was alive, right down to her Indian lover with the strap-on.  When she was finished experimenting, Martha left her.  The Indian lady went crazy, hunted her down with guns."  On the word "guns" Fay makes guns with her thumbs and pointer fingers, then makes the sounds "boom, boom." 

"Yeah, the change of life, I don't care what they tell you, makes you crave a whole lot of boom boom."  Oh God.  Oh God.  Make them stop. 

I'm more like my mother than I care to admit.  Growing up, she tried to deny her heritage, shrieking when her parents invited her friends to their house while they roasted animals in the yard.  "The eyeball is the best part."  Then sucking noises as food was licked from fingers.  She never wears hoop earrings, even to this day.  She's embarrassed of her heritage, even still.  And maybe I've learned that, along with a sense of embarrassment for the curves of my body.  Being ethnic, even a white redheaded ethnic, is a little too flavorful for some quiet homes in my life.  But it's me, as my mother's daughter.

On the ride back to my mother's house, mom thanks us.  "You girls made their Christmas." 
"Are you kidding me?  That was the best Christmas; they made my day."  Lea feels a strong connection to my mother's side of the family.  I sat silent, trying to find a radio station playing non-country, non-Christmas, non-classical normal music.  I miss New York and all the wannabe freaks.

 

illusive meeting

Tonight I'm going out with the illusive IJC and MT for some BYOB... clearly no photos to follow.  Stories, however, hope to prove plentiful and posted here once I'm drunk.

I'm not drunk but on Linus duty.  It's much easier to be a proper alcoholic when you're married.  Then there's someone home to walk and love the dog for you while you're out loving to love your company.  Which I was.  The only caveat tonight: I have nothing juicy to report other than I WAS STOOD UP.  Go ahead.  "Good the bitch deserves it... finally someone brought her down to reality."  I'm not stopping you... insert stupid chuckle *here.*  Besides who chuckles anyway besides an entertainment mouse handing out pizza at a kid party? 

As I fingered the rim of my Cabernet glass I tried to recall a time when I've been stood up previously.  Not in a, "wow, I'm better than any fcuking guy" kind of how could he stand me up kind of way.  More like a, "gee, I guess I really am fat so he took one look and headed for the door" kind of way.  Thankfully it has only happened once before, while I was with pappoo in Florida, after the purchase of my first pair of thigh high stockings... but I digress.

MT didn't show.  Thankfully, I had Chris in clutch.  After pork sandwiches to celebrate my final night of Hanukkah (or however the hell it is spelled), we sauntered across the street to meet the illusives. 

The IJC, who has previously marked me as a black kettle, arrived on time and approached in a long coat.  I was happy he noticed me from one of my hundreds of online self-promotional photos, as his face was a mystery to me.  I'd only known him through his bashing of Interchangeable Jewish Chicks, and our limited comment correspondence.  He was decidedly charming and surprising.  But I'm a lady... so I can't divulge too much. I would never "talk" (unless a blowjob and interesting blog entry were involved).  After all, MT set up our little meeting and didn't show, very Jewish meddling mother.  I was expecting candlelight and U2 songs.

I bought Chris and the IJC some beers as we waited for MT's arrival.  The boys spoke of big titty erasers (how naturally large breasts can erase all bad behavior) and fringed Burberry scarf fetishes.  Sometimes, despite myself, and the beer, I'm too much of a guy; I let it all hang out.  "She's so your type," I assess as I point to a pink Burberry fringed girl with a pink face and personality who has just interjected, "I've just matriculated from Columbia."  "As a nurse" came later.  "Matriculated" was invented by the drunk redhead who is now typing.

"I should take you out more often.  You'll save me a lot of time."  The IJC concurred.  I was quite right.  He's into pink fringe, straight hair, and your basic Murray Hill nightmare.  But hey, I'm as pathologic as the next guy... and as we've established, my kettle is black. Love.  Hate.  Love.  Hate.

Meanwhile, Chris is ready to let his balls loose at the nurse table beside us, so I'm ready to pack it in for the night when the IJC counters with, "Yeah, and you could never date him because you always need to be the center of attention."  Okay, clearly I'm not the only one with the money calls. He is dead on balls accurate.  Thank you Marisa, despite your token Oscar.  Time for my exit.  Linus needs me.  Kiss.  Kiss. Jackets.  Swig of water.

On our way out, I spot MT cell phoning it in the vestibule.  "Ahem, you so aren't just showing up now."

"Oh, no, I've been here a while.  I was on the phone." 

"But didn't you see us?"

"Yeah."

Well, alrightythen.  I left the boys alone and opted for the man in my life, Linus, who now, as I write this, is beaning in my lap, licking my leg with his sandpaper pink tongue.  And all across our fine city, pink scarved women with pink tongues and pink personalities are doing the same.  But we'll have to check in with the boys to see if they verify the story come the AM.

savory

more photos >>

You passed me memory with the butter, over the cubes of foie gras I didn't think I'd like but did.  You pointed out my milestone on the sidewalk as if it were glass.  I swerved and am just now thanking you.  Thank you for turning up my music, opening my car door, and holding me in your arms for a sidewalk dance and twirl in the sparkle of a winter night that tasted of wood and smelled of snow.  For holding me longer than you ought to have, and for dipping me on the street where I saw my breath and felt my smile.  Thank you for the ribbon you wrapped around my nostalgia, reminding me of what I'd forgotten... my goddamn strength and power, my fuel and my laugh, and my absurd rhythm.  Thank you for bringing back his memory for me and for the coffee and cigarettes.  I'm sleeping with a smile and a fist.  The motherfcukers can kiss my cellulite ass.

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anonymous inconsideration

I'm patient when it comes to slow learners and traffic.  I can even handle anonymous inconsideration, which is evident by all the rude comments I leave up on my blog.  Clearly my patience is not genetic.

"Holy motherfcuker, Stephanie, listen to what I just did."  It's my sister Lea in from the cold Manhattan streets, unwrapping herself and unleashing Linus.  But I'm going to give you the condensed version of her chatter because Miss Lea couldn't find the point to her story if it poked her in the rectum. "These English people stole my parking spot.  And I'm sorry, but they so didn't know who they were fcuking with."

"English people?"

"Yeah, this uptight lady yells from her uptight car, 'oh sorry, your loss, now go toss off.' I was like, there's no way she just did that.  I mean, at first I tried to be nice with the 'excuse me, you probably weren't aware, but I was backing into that spot.' And then I get a 'toss off? Oh fcuk her."  Lea has one of the filthiest mouths and sense of humor I know.

"So what did you do?"

"Wait, you don't understand.  I was driving around for an HOUR, circling for that damn spot.  And she took it?  What the motherfcuk and her goddamn Mercedes hatchback.  Suck my ass."  She's red-faced, but it's not from the cold.  "So anyway, they walk off, and I finally find a spot.  Poor Linus vomited on the passenger side mat, too, from all the driving."  Poor baby Linus was now "henning" with his toy frog. (When Linus enjoys a toy, he sometimes props himself up on his hind legs while he's still lying down, so he looks like a hen warming his eggs.)  "So once they were gone, I let the air out of one of their tires, those fcuking Versace women.  They were just like Rome."  Ah, yes, want to launch me over to your side immediately?  Tell me she's just like my ex-nightmare-in-law, Rome. 

"Jesus Lea.  Did anyone see you?"

"Yeah, Linus saw me.  And he shite when he saw it.  So I scooped that shite up and smeared it on her windshield, and under all the door handles.  I'd fcuking love to see what happens to that bitch's manicure."

These are both things I would never do.  Grabbing a dick is one thing.  Grabbing and smearing shite is quite another.

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earning potential

Who knew the hot new gay club was the Villa Chauvin hair studio opening on 23rd street?  I did.  So my single girlfriends came in tow, ready to flirt for free hair glossing and highlights.  Flirting with a gay man consists of complimenting his ass, and throwing in a “he was so checking you out” for good measure.   My friends mingled with a straight (and very much in gay demand) Patrick McMullen photog (view the photos from the night).  It was all friendly drunken flirting with men in leather pants who coif the New York select.  Hair stylists, dear reader, are the secret keepers of New York. I was determined to find someone sloppy.  Sadly, the closest I got was, “Monica is very open.  She spilled it all in this very chair.”  Okay, so it wasn’t that chair.  Still, women are apt to share their most intimate secrets with their hairdressers.  “If you trust him with your hair, you trust him with your life.” 

Toasts have been made with plastic-filled very strong drinks, involving, “We will each French kiss a boy tonight.  And if the clock strikes three, and no tongues have mingled, I don’t care if you grab a stranger and lip lock him into a corner.  This shite is on ladies, and very real.”  Who the fcuk says “French Kiss” anymore?  It’s right up there with Max Headroom and the hand job.  Still, the bet is on, and the retro French Kiss is due for a vintage moment in our very fashionable near future.  Well, that is, once we leave the salon.

At another bar, full of jappy girls and preppy boys, while I’m checking my coat, my friends encounter a Harvard idiot.  “You ladies picked a good night.  There’s lots of earning potential here.”  Ew.  Who the fcuk are you?  I get word that Kent with a “t” has splashed his nonsense along with his gin and tonic.  Now it’s my turn.

“Are you the infamous Kent with a ‘t’?”  He’s preppy and blonde, standing erect, as he smiles.  He thinks this is flirting.

“Why yes, I am.  And who, may I ask, are you?”

“Not an idiot.  Nice to meet you.”  I’m drunk and feisty.  It happens from time to time.  “So, Kent with a ‘t,’ word has it there’s good earning potential here tonight, huh?”

“Oh yeah.”  He then nods to his two buddies, raising a glass.  The boys club has come to order, and the clinking of their clear drinks is the gavel.  “You ladies have lots of Harvard-educated Goldman Saches boys to choose from tonight.  Lot’s of earning potential.Oh yeah.”  What the fcuk?

“Well Kent, lemme ask you a question.”  I grab his dick with my free hand.  “How much earning potential is a half roll of quarters these days?  I haven’t been up on the markets lately.”  Oh yes, I did.

“Oh, I like her.”  His buddy interjects.  Kent with a ‘t’ turns red and scampers away. 

“Your friend is a dick boys.”  They laugh and stare at my tits. 

Then, Kent returns, with, “Okay, let me ask you a question.”

“Go for it.”  I stare.

“Did you get here tonight over the bridge or through a tunnel?”  Kent laughs at his joke, eyeing his friends for approval in laughs.  He's clearly the type of guy who comes up with his own nickname and tells people to call him by it.  Ken-dog.

Then I interject my retard laugh, very loudly.  “Wow, man, you’re so clever.  You took all this time to think that one up?  I orgasm faster than that.  Damn, Kent, you made a fool of me; I didn’t know you could get honors in retarded at Harvard.  Your parents must be so proud.” 

Then, we ladies all made good on our bet.  Kent didn’t get any action; you know, if you don’t count the cheap quarter thrill in the last inning.  I went home alone, smiling, despite the Kent’s of the world.

things that go bump in the night

My former boss thought the rash on the inside of my left ankle was a tattoo until I tilted it toward her as I mouthed “in late… doctor” while she was on her phone. I first noticed the rash three years ago. I know what you’re thinking--what the hell is she waiting for, it to fall off? Well it had been moving around, surfacing over to the right, and sometimes lower down. I’d had it under control, using half empty tubes of steroid creams from trips to Mexico where heat rash had infested my forearms. I web-md’d my way to a feeling of “it’s under control.”

Maybe it was from Linus. I stopped him from licking the area, shooing him away. “Leave it.” Which only made him want to lick it more. Dogs can smell cancer. Sometimes I lie naked on the bed and instruct Linus to, “Go on. Find the cancer. Lick the cancer.” I’m quite sure there’s not cancer up my nose. But he’d go to town on my foot. I used the Benedryl stick, abused the Calamine lotion, and ruled out poison ivy. Then it began to wake me; I had to scratch it. It was time for a doctor.

You can’t go to a regular doctor because they only handle colds, ear infections, and most of the things you catch as a child. I don’t really get what primary health physicians do besides give referrals. What, check your cholesterol? Who does that? I just assume mine is high and order oatmeal. The foot rash meant business; it meant a specialist. Fine, the dermatologist, close enough.

So I’m in a waiting room chockfull of tweenagers on Acutane and middle-aged expressionless women in pointy shoes. Well fcuk it. I’m here. They might as well survey my body for suspicious moles.

There’s not a worse word for a heavy freckle than a mole. Moles are small hairybugfinders that eat their weight worth of beady grubs and wheely earthworms; they burrow and have snouts. So now, I’m not just a woman with a rash; I’m a woman peppered with moles and a rash. And people with rashes are dirty.

Add insult to injury, now I’ve got to get naked. And let’s face it. Dermatologists aren’t accustomed to naked. They see a bit of acne or treat some dry skin. They discuss wrinkles and options. They don’t see breasts and vaginas on a regular basis.

“Hi, I’m here to get naked so you can survey my body for irregular cancer spots then stare and scrape at my feet.” How do they eat dinner? Then I leave with a tube and a piece of paper. “Blood test.” Because they don’t take blood at the dermatologist’s office. I told you; dermatologists aren’t real doctors.

Now I have to go to a lab. It’s a shade away from Clinic. I faint when I donate blood and when I visit the gynecologist. It’s fear. They need to check my liver to ensure I can take the fungus pill. I’m sorry, what? Fungus? Okay, now I’m a dirty-rash-mole-girl with fungus. It gets worse.

On Lamisil, you can’t have alcohol. I’m dirty-rash-mole-fungus-girl with the shakes, and now I’ve got to sober up and face it.

In my sober days, the itching dissipates. Fine, no rash and seltzer with lime on the rocks. Except now, in my early to rise mornings, I’m noticing a new bump. It’s not a rash; it’s a hard knot in my wrist. Something went bump in the night.

It wasn’t some drunken bruise. I developed Carpal Tunnel Syndrome; I was certain. At work I wore a wrist brace and shot down Advil with my AM latte. The swelling wasn’t giving way. I went to bed with fungus and awoke with a syndrome. It was growing.

“It’s a cyst.” “A boil.” Holy motherfcuker. It’s worse than a mole; it’s a cyst. “You should really see a doctor.”

“Linus, smell this. Is it cancer?” Fuck it. I need a drink. Screw my liver.

And I got soused, and then inadvertently banged my syndromed wrist against a wall. “Damn that’s going to hurt tomorrow.”

In the morning, the bump was gone. I continued to press on the area to see if it had moved, like the rash had. It felt a bit like a flattened gummy bear under my skin. Excellent. Rash gone, bump gone. Cured.

The bump on my wrist is back now. I’m told it will continue to come back unless I get it removed. I’m getting old.  Suddenly there are "procedures."  I'll have a scar, stitches, and downtime of my right hand (and I'm no lefty).  I mean, moles, cysts, fungus. At this rate, the next bump in the middle of the night will be another ailment instead of a wakeup call from a man in my bed.

help, I need somebody.

No, not just anybody.  Today I’m going to listen to the Beatles on repeat.

It’s bad enough that for the past three nights, I’ve been falling asleep to It’s a Wonderful Life on my dvd player.  Clearly, I need help.

I’m not quite sure of the exact time when it happened because I never opened my eyes, but in the middle of the night sometime, I screamed.  HELP.  I didn't just scream, I rattled. I screamed, “help” so loudly that I startled myself loose from the grip of a dream. 

In the dream, a man was straddling me under a table.  We were both fully clothed; this wasn't frisky.   He was pouring numbing liquid on my neck and spine, and then down my throat (this makes sense as I’ve been sick with elephant glands and a very sore neck).  But I’m somehow able to ask if he’s going to kill me, but he doesn’t answer.  I know he is going to.  I decide I need to struggle for my life.  I try to scream, but nothing comes out.  The silent screamer dream reoccurred in different forms when I was younger and terrified of being kidnapped.  This time, when the screaming wouldn’t work, I dug my hands into the man’s mouth and began scraping my fingernails on the roof of his mouth.  He hadn’t numbed my hands.  Finally, my neck was able to move, and I was able to scream.  HELP. 

Then I woke up, worried a neighbor had heard and buzzed the doorman.  Linus crawled out from under the covers.

I might have found my voice, but it’s screaming out for help.

orange

removed by the author

fuel

I know people who whisper the words “situation” and cough around “circumstances.”  They exhale excuses while they slice away their guilt along with their morning pound cake.  “Growing apart,”  “Travel,”  “I know s/he isn’t the one.”  “I’m waiting until after the holidays to end things.”  It’s called having no goddamn stones.  And I’ll throw ‘em all I’d like because my house is made of bricks and clicks, not glass.
 
I know women who have had affairs with married men.   I’ve never knowingly been the other woman.  I mean, someone might have weaved an intricate lie around me, letting me believe he was unattached, but I’ve never learned otherwise.  I’ve never been involved with another girl’s boyfriend, never mind a husband.

I have, however, been accused of it by a married women.  “You’re fcuking my husband aren’t you?”

“I’m sorry, what?” We’re at a nightclub.  I couldn’t have heard right.

“Oh please, don’t bother denying it.  I wouldn’t be surprised.”  She said while she stirred her “on the rocks” drink with a thin red straw.

“You know my story.  How could you think I would ever—he adores you.”

“Please honey, you’re just sounding more guilty by the minute.”  That time she looked at me.

She went there.  H.O.N.E.Y.  It’s right up there with saying “I’m fine.”  The dynamic changes when someone plays the honey card.  Suddenly my make-up feels like war paint.  I had to defend myself; I needed a strategy because honesty wasn’t working.  But what do you do in that situation?  In the hindsight seat, I’d be calm and dismissive; “I think you’d better speak with him about that.  Clearly you’re going to believe what you want.”  But it sounds cold, and she’s clearly in pain.  I want to tell her to get counseling or get out.  Clearly her problem is with her husband, not with me.  Still, now I’m up on a stand, getting an oral examination, and not the good kind. 

“Listen, I’m the last person you should be accusing of anything.  Fact.  He’s a flirt, and honey, if you are going to find an ally in anyone; it’s going to be me.  I’m on the sidelines yelling at him when I see him flirt.  So back off.”  Okay, I don’t think I could have said anything worse.  Passed her the honey card as if it were the black queen in Hearts.  Now I was fuel.

Upon hearing “back off,” she did as she was told.  She swiveled on the heels of her boots, and headed for her man.  Then the screaming began.  The married couple left in separate cabs that night.  My date and I shared a cab to the upper west, shaking out heads.  “Oh dear god, why do I have such a big mouth?”

“All the better to kiss me with...”  he said as a wry smile spread across his face.  And that was my fuel.  Yum.

be a sport

EVERYONE CALLED TODD WOOD “Woody” for obvious reasons.  Still, I dated him for three months while attending my junior year of college.  Most of our conversations focused on food, mainly New Orleans rum bread pudding.  We had our share of “no, I love food more” wars.  We’d said we’d have a cook off, but it never quite materialized.  Things went awry.

The first time I slept at Todd’s, on the upper east side of Manhattan, far from Columbia, it was unscheduled.  A walk of shame was involved.  In the middle of the night, I woke him. 

“I need to leave.” I rocked him in my panic. 
“Are you crazy?” He was calm. 
“Yes, but what does that have to do with anything?”
“Why do you have to leave?”
“Because I’m not going home in the morning wearing heels and black lace.”

He rolled on top of me, his breath warm with sleep, and whispered, “you can stay until tomorrow night then.”  And I went back to bed, on my stomach, facing away from him… because that’s how I sleep.

In the morning, I awoke to a note on his pillow: Red, stay put, I’m working on your walk of shame issues. I kissed the paper and giggled.  I love creative boys.  My shoes were missing.

I heard shopping bags rustle when he walked through his apartment door.  Todd had purchased me an outfit including socks, underwear, and a new pair of sneakers. Not just any outfit; it was adorable.  “The deal is, you can wear these clothes all day, but I’m still taking you home in those heels.”  So we played tennis, drank wine, and ate until dusk.   Then he took me home, and we watched a movie in my bed.

ON THE TOWN one warm pink evening weeks later, Todd invited me to meet his boss and buddies, because when you’re a guy like Todd, they’re always referred to as “buddies.”  Todd was a strikingly handsome black guy who dressed in orange polo shirts, played squash and lacrosse, and wore loafers year-round.  He was a huge U2 fan.

“I’m so glad you’re wearing a skirt.  You have such killer legs,” he whispered to me as he held my hand on the street. 

“Why so you can show them off to your friends?  Maybe I should go change into jeans, you ass.”  I mocked as I pulled my hand away.

“Oh for the love of god, Red, learn to take a compliment.  You analyzer.”  Then he kissed me on the mouth, and I shut up.  Some guys like difficult women.  Todd was one of these guys, and I liked that he knew how to handle me.

I wasn’t always hard.  One afternoon, after we’d been exclusively dating for three months, while he was at work, he insisted I hang out at his place as long as I’d like.  I felt closer to him when I spent time at his place, studying.  I liked wearing his clothes.  I felt loved in his bed, even when he wasn’t there. 

So I decided to be nice and clean, snoop, clean.  If a woman ever cleans your apartment for you, and she’s not working for some service, it’s probably just her way of moderating her guilty little inquisitive side.  Besides, I wouldn’t get any studying done in his mess of a place.  I’m a libra.  I need peaceful pleasant surroundings.  Oh blow me.  It’s true.

He had matchbooks everywhere, clothes strewn about, and lots of random papers, old magazines, and outdated newspapers.  I did what I do best; I sorted and organized.  Anything I thought ought to be discarded, I put in a bag in the bottom of his closet.  I didn’t want to accidentally piss him off by tossing the January 1995 issue of Men’s Health Magazine (which I still call Gay Men’s Health… cause it’s all half-naked guy photos).  And in all that cleaning, I didn’t come upon even the smallest stash of porn.  And every guy has a stash.  He didn’t have an Internet connection, so there had to be something more tangible than a history folder. 

There wasn’t.  The boy had no porn, no photos of ex-girlfriends; there was nothing incriminating.  When he came home, he was visibly thrilled.  He picked me up and swung me around his apartment.  I loved seeing his smile, as he discovered what I’d done.  His matches in a clear vase, now, looked like a funky centerpiece on his coffee table.  Wait, you could actually see his coffee table. I was spoiling him, and I loved how sweet we were to one another. 

BACK TO THE AWRY BIT.  We met his boss and trader colleagues from Oppenheimer Funds—really a big fraternity of cigar-smoking, grappa-drinking, lap-dances after golf kinds of guys—at Bar & Books.  Each of the guys had a date, some were wives, and some were arm candy.  In front of their dates, I noticed the guys flirting with the waitress.  Winks, laughs, brushes against a shoulder.  Todd was attentive and made me feel safe.  Once the alpha male had to head home (his wife was home with the baby), talk of next stops filled the private cigar room. 

“Let’s go watch the game.”
“Yeah, I want to watch the Olympics.”  It was 1996; the Olympics were in Hotlanta. 
“I want to dance.”
“Let’s go to Scores.”
“Do they have dancing at Scores?”

Freeze frame. 

I was a worldly woman, but I assure you, I didn’t know what Scores was.  I heard, “let’s watch the Olympics” from one guy, then I heard his girlfriend say she wanted to dance.  Then another guy chimed in with “Scores.”  Sounded like a sport’s bar to me.  You know, goals, coasters, beer.  A jukebox to keep the ladies happy, I thought.

Okay, action:

“Scores?”  Girlfriend asked with furrowed brows.  “Well do they have dancing there?”

“Yeah, they’ve got dancing of sorts.”  Ah, I thought, he’ll let her dance beside the jukebox.

“So what do you say, Steph, you up for it?”  Todd asked as he looked at me smiling.

“Sure what the hell.”  Okay, I thought I was being a sport, agreeing to go to a sports bar, when clearly sports bars aren’t really my thing--especially if I’ve already eaten.  I can usually be coaxed to “watch a game” if ribs are involved.  All the married people decided to go home.

So we were off, walking to Scores, your fiancée’s worst nightmare, but I didn’t know what was about to happen.  “Steph, are you sure you’re okay with this?”

“Yeah, what’s the big deal?  And don’t call me Steph.”

“Holy shite, you have to be the coolest girl I’ve ever known.”  I loved that he thought I was cool.

“$20 for the guys, $10 for the ladies.”  A bouncer collected money.  Girlfriend whined, “when do we get to dance?”  We were escorted to a banquet in the middle of the room.  There were definitely TVs, but I hardly noticed anything besides breasts, G-strings, and straddles.  I felt ugly and insecure.  I didn’t know what to do.

The waitress’s breasts were propped up on a serving platter.  It was as if we were being shown the fish before the chef would cook it.  She asked if I’d like anything.  I couldn’t speak.  So she gathered orders from the rest of the table.  Todd leaned into me, “What’s the matter, Steph, you’re not your usual talkative self.”

Nothing came out of my mouth.

The waitress was back, staring, waiting for our drink requests.  Todd ordered then turned to me, “Steph, what would you like?”

“To leave.”  And I got up and left. 

Todd chased me out into the street.  “What?  What’s wrong Steph?”

“For the love of god, it’s Stephanie.  And what’s wrong?  Who the hell do you think I am?  You have no respect for me.  What the hell.  How could you ever bring me here?”  I was crying now. 

“Calm down.  I thought you knew.”

Stop play.  Time-out again.

Don’t ever, ever, tell a pissed off person to calm down.  Relax is worse.

Okay, time-in:

“No, I didn’t fcuking know.  But I know one thing.  I’m not seeing you again.”

“Stephanie, I thought you knew.”

“What the hell.  Do you know what my father would do to you if he knew you disrespected me like this?”  I was talking, at this point, to hear myself.  I didn’t care if he was listening.  I was at maximum drama capacity, arms flying, tears, the whole bit. 

“I thought you knew.”  He kept repeating as I raised my arm into the air, trying to catch a cab.  “I thought you knew.”  I knew I was overreacting, that it was a misunderstanding,  that he hadn’t purposefully hurt me, but I was already there, with my arm outstretched.  I couldn’t take it back.  Taking it back meant he’d stop apologizing, and it’s nice when men apologize and kiss your ass trying to get into your good graces again. And he did. 

I tried to put the misunderstanding behind us, but It was never the same.  I didn’t feel protected by him any more, and even then, back in college, when I didn’t know from Scores, I knew I needed to be with a man who made me feel safe, respected, and taken care of.  That night, I left feeling dirty, disrespected, and inferior.  My body would never look like one of those girls.  I was jealous.

first date

“It doesn't matter whether you're selling Jesus or Buddha or civil rights or 'How to Make Money in Real Estate With No Money Down.' That doesn't make you a human being; it makes you a marketing rep. If you want to talk to somebody honestly, as a human being, ask him about his kids. Find out what his dreams are - just to find out, for no other reason. Because as soon as you lay your hands on a conversation to steer it, it's not a conversation anymore; it's a pitch.” --Quote from The Big Kahuna (based on the play "Hospitality Suite" by Roger Rueff)

So you're on a first date, and you want to cut through the weather talk. So you ask... what? What do you ask? What are good first date questions which leave you with insight as to who this person really is? How do you cut through the clutter and actually spend time with someone real? Hell if I know. I've been on many a date, thinking it went swimmingly, assured there would be a second date, only to never hear from him. Please, I'd never call him. The man should ALWAYS pursue the woman, otherwise, he's really, genuinely just not that interested.

Do you have any regrets?
If your idiot date says no, "I live life without any regrets," ask for the check. Integrity is a product of regret; it builds over time because you pick something from your past that you'd like to do over, but you can't, because it's too late. "So you pick that thing up, and carry it with you to remind you that life goes on, the world will spin without you, you really don't matter in the end. Then you will gain character, because honesty will reach out from inside and tattoo itself across your face." --The Big Kahuna

If you knew you would be stranded on an island, what three movies would you take with you? If you both answer this question, you will learn what kinds of movies you'll have to watch through the course of your relationship... There are those that might add porn to his list, and others who would add "An instructional movie on how to survive on an island." Right there, in that difference, you've learned a lot about how your date thinks. Mine: Little Women, Good Will Hunting, The Shawshank Redemption (if I could have a fourth, it would be a comedy... but it's too hard to choose one)

If you had three wishes, and you can't wish for more wishes or anything having to do with money or world peace, what would you wish for? 1. To always be able to eat whatever and however much I'd like without ever having to exercise, and I'll always be healthy, strong, fit, and thin. 2. To have a very happy and healthy close-knit family including an amazing husband, and three kids, with several grandchildren nuggets 3. To move easier and more swiftly through rejections and loss.

What's the hardest thing you've ever had to do? Walk away from my marriage

Name your top 3 favorite bands. (aka what music do you listen to?) 1. Barenaked Ladies 2. REM 3. Indigo Girls (gasp)

Do you do any (bad) drugs? If he actually admits to anything at least you know he's honest. I've never tried any drugs. The jury is still out if I'd ever date anyone who does.

Can you be in love with more than one person at the same time? This question doesn't have a right answer... but it does give some insight into top level views on love and how people justify things.

What are deal-breakers for you? Liar's and mamma's boys

How often do you talk to your mother? Enough said.

If you don't like your date, how do you let them know? Do you just never call or do you tell 'em at the end of the night? I won't call him back, and I prefer not being called if he's not interested. The whole, "I just don't think we're a (gagging at this word) *match* but we can be friends" is unnecessary. If someone doesn't call you back it means s/he isn't that into it. Next. Don't whine that you need an answer. You have the answer; pay attention to it.

If you do like your date, how long do you wait to call them? I like when he calls right away. Here's the whole deal with this. Listen up. If a woman is digging' you, she wants you to call. If you do it right away or wait a while it won't matter. She already likes you. If she isn't diggin' you, she doesn't want to hear from you anyway... but some girls get anxious if even the guy she didn't like doesn't call, so some boys work that angle. At the end of the day though, she still won't dig you after your next date. You can usually tell right away if you like someone.

Most of the answers matter, and some, despite not hearing what you'd hoped for the answer, you decide to grant a second date because of chemistry, because of want and instinct. Because you know that your rigid checklist hasn't worked so well for you in the past, and sometimes you just have to let go, get beyond the "good answers" and just live it. It's scary, but it's fcuking hot as hell. And I look good in red.

in cars and bars

Things said to me tonight:

Write about masturbating tonight, and email me the story tomorrow.
Hi Tiffany.
Oh my god, are you Stephanie Klein? The Stephanie Klein?
Is your hair really strawberry blonde?
Give me your number.
Call me back.
Where in the bar are you?
Are you going to write about this on your blog?
I love you.
Save November 5 for dinner, and the 15, 16, and 17 for seex and being sore.
Only 4 people in the cab, I’m working.
Oh my god, will my picture be on your blog?
I’m not playing the news for you; you’re here for transportation not entertainment.
I’ll see you Saturday.
Sure I have a 911 girl. All men have a 911 girl who will show up at 4 am no matter what.
Yeah, you’re the majority. Only 5% of women are okay with being 911 girls.
You’re killing me.
Smell my breath.
You just have to be there at midnight. Something magical happens at midnight.
There's nothing seexier than a woman who shows up knowing no one and still has a good time.

VIEW THE PICS OF THE OPENING OF ONO RESTAURANT >>

figurative

removed by author

how the west was won

When people tell me I'm courageous to write the things I do, they mean disclosure.  Admittance.  I put myself out there, cellulite and all, to be judged.  The back fat, the smell, the ugly of it all.  I have never given a shite what people think about any of it.  My parents read this, coworkers, ex boyfriends, lovers, friends, and strangers.  I don't see that as courage. 

What's more courageous is to face things, pick them up, turn em over and examine the shadows and undersides of things.  It's not easy. 

I don't want people to cheer me up or make me laugh.  I need to stew in it, and work through it in pages, paragraphs, outlines and arcs.  Sort through categories in my archives if you can't stand it.  Or stop reading my site.  I don't give a shite.

suit

in my birthday suit right now, watching Linus chase the best toy I ever could have found: a fly. He's chasing it around the apartment, his little cleats click on my hardwood floors, and I'm laughing into a cry. I love my dog, my family, my friends, and my life. 29 doesn't feel old, but it feels scary. I want babies and a husband. I want more than one child, and after 35 years old, it's like asking for a deformity. I want healthy babies and a real marriage. It's not everything, but it's a birthday wish just the same. Relax, it's not what I'll wish for when I blow out my candles and smear icing on my face... cause then it won't come true. Whatevs. Still, it's not so bad cuddling up with the love of my life, sleeping in my crotch, beneath the covers. I love Linus. I hope I get flowers today. It's not a hint; it's just one of those it-shouldn't-mean-anything-but-it-just-does wishes. I can't help it. Ahem, have you seen my DVD collection lately? Oy, indeed. I'm 29 on the 29th of September; that only happens once. Then again, so does 30 on the 29th... ah, something to look forward to. Right.

Come celebrate with me and all my "offline" friends this Saturday night, October 2, 2004 at 10:30 pm. Pop Burger, (9th Ave. b/w 14th and 15th streets), New York, NY. How can any bash with the word "burger" in it be bad? Yum. I'll be there with all the girls... including my outrageous sister whom about, apparently, I never write enough. Seriously, you're all welcome. Go ahead, follow suit and name drop; it's encouraged. Say it with me, "Stephanie Klein... she's feeling fine at 29." Rage.

upper east side

Growing up, I was terrified of being kidnapped.  I’d dream a stranger snagged me, and when I’d part my lips to release a ripple of a scream, nothing would come out.  The Upper East Side of Manhattan at night paralyzes me in the very same way.  Harlem or even some disreputable streets south of the Meatpacking District, near the warehouses and $20.00 trannyjobs is understandable.  But it’s the Upper East Side, home to the Ralph Lauren Mansion, Serendipity’s Frozen Hot Chocolates, and Bloomingdale’s Big Brown Bag that houses my anxiety.  It has little to do with east side rapists trailing unaccompanied quick-paced women to their fifth-floor walk-ups.  It’s worse.  It’s home to my ex-boyfriend.      

Despite it having far superior restaurants to the upper west, the upper east was the only appropriate place to go last night.  Sure his friends, his job, and our memories reside there. Until last night, there wasn’t much room for all that and me.  I’m on a goddamn island; there’s no room for rationing anymore.  It’s not as though I’d get all despondent and introspective over there.  I didn’t conjure up storefronts and restaurant awnings tinted rose or anything.  It’s just running into him or one of his extensions is unnecessary drama.  It’s that suspenseful music, warning the audience something is about to happen.  It’s nerve-racking; that’s what it is.  Because the truly scary bits usually happen in silence, as quick as a heavy guillotine.

Last night I had to visit the east.  Had to, the way you just had to inexplicably leave without saying goodbye.  Something lured me there.  I’d just come from the 6:30 showing of Garden State, so I was in the thick of girl. I was sticky with dripping hope and oozy magic.  I told you I was full of girl, but it gets worse:  see if I were in a movie, the cameras would zoom in from above and The Eels’s song “Packing Blankets” would blast as I wobbled in impractical heels to the corner of 67th and Columbus to hail a cab.   Everyone would know something great was about to happen. 

This wasn’t a night for practical; it meant unnecessary cab fare and a decision to head east for no reason at all.  I wanted something to happen. Le Bateau Ivre has a killer wine list, superb Belgium fries, and is always crowded but never a scene.  I cozied up to the bar and asked, “Do you have a wine list I can see?”

“You’re look-ing at tit.”  A foreign waiter slung back with a smile.  “White, red, rosé?  You name it Mademoiselle.”
“How about a Gewurtzaminer?”
“Ah, yes, very good choice.”

“I am having a Gewurtzaminer, too” the man occupying the stool beside me said. “I’m German, are you?”
“Ah, no.”
“I’m Italian and German actually.  Lemme guess, you’re Irish.  The Germans do a nice Gewurtzaminer.  I lived there you know.”  We have a winner.  “Two of my alma matters are there.  I studied spiritual studies.”  Oh dear god.  This is not what I had in mind.  I nod and smile, then stick my nose into my glass to indicate I take wine seriously and would prefer to be left alone.  “Nice bouquet?”  The bar is too small to up and choose a new seat. 
“Yes, it’s a lovely bouquet.”
“I’ve just returned from a two month journey.  I tasted many a wine.  I was in Israel and Egypt, and then I rounded things off in Italy.  I’m from Boston, but I’m in New York for this week, then I go back home to Aspen.  You know, that’s where I live, in Aspen.” 
“How nice for you.”
“Yeah, I have a Twinkie back in Colorado who called me the other day saying, ‘you know my birthday is coming up.  I’m expecting something.’  Can you believe her?”
“I don’t know her.”  Shut up.
“Well she’s an absolute stunner.  I mean, really sick.”  This man is too old to refer to a woman as sick.  Usually, when men use “sick” they mean amazing body.  See if she had a pretty face, she’d be “beautiful.”  Sick means shapely with a tight punctuated ass.  “She’s a Twinkie.  That’s what we call ‘em.”
“Yes, I heard you the first time.  You do know Twinkies always smell better than they taste.  They’re like coffee beans.”
“That’s good.  Hold up.  Let me get a pen and write that down.”
“Really, Twinkies are easy, simple, and self-contained.  But they’re inventions, always leaving you unsatisfied.”  Oh god.  I married a Twinkie.  Our housekeeper always did refer to him as Creampuff.
“Did I mention I’ve just returned from Israel?” 
“Did I mention that you begin almost all your sentences with I?”
“I collect ancient scriptures.  I’m Catholic, but I’m just back from Israel.”  Was he joking?  I know he heard what I said.  “I brought back a dozen yamakas and a torah pointer.”
“You know it’s not called a torah pointer; it has a name.” I shook my head.  The first turn was "AS;" the second was "IF."
“I know.  I know.”
“Well do you know it?”  I suddenly wanted to club this man with a mutton chop.
“No, do you?”
“I went to Hebrew school my whole life, but I was too busy dealing with puberty to pay attention to the names of things.  I just know it has one.” 
“You’re cute.”
“Well I’m not your type.  I’m not a Twinkie.”  And on that bitchy high-note, I swiveled toward the bartender and asked for my check.  So this is what I've been missing.  Ahem, you can so keep it. 

insulting

Above all other occasions, a wedding is an event where people get insulted. How could you sit me with that table, you know that's not my color...how could you have chosen THAT as your bridesmaid color, could you have put me at a table closer to the kitchen, I can't believe you didn't invite me with a date, you made it clear you want to do it all yourself and you don't want my help, I didn't even get invited to the bachelorette party, I can't believe he chose him over me as a groomsmen. And people remember how they were insulted many years later. It's as if they add it to their list of things to remember, right before, "Buy milk."

I never had a wedding. Talk of linens and pin-spot lighting, duties and charts, thank you notes and don’t forgets made me forget it was ever about marriage. It became about a wedding, and I just Could. Not. Deal. So I didn’t. We eloped.

NIGHTMARE. His mother, in a word, was a nightmare. No date we picked was ever good enough. The cousins are at camp, his dad will be in Switzerland giving a talk. It never, ever, ended.

No one really believes me at first. I think it’s the way I dress, down to my lovely jewels and pointy shoes. When I first say, “Yeah, we never even had a wedding” no one believes it; they bounce back with, “come on.” They see my job, smell my hair products, and eye my pedicure, and they think I’m high maintenance. No one can believe, at the end of the day, I didn’t care about a stupid wedding. I was never that girl, the one who dreams of her wedding day. I dreamt of being an actress or a writer, but never a bride. I always skipped that step in the dreams and went straight to a wife and mom. My only regret, missing a dance with my father.

I hate telling this story. There’s too much to explain and convince you of because I want you to be on “my side.” I want you to know that his mother was a psychopath, but that means describing her and showing you what I mean in a long winding description. It means describing his pathologic sister, then drawing parallels for you… so you could see the apple really doesn’t fall far. I’d have to describe her leaves and his rotten core. He was definitely low hanging fruit, despite his lofty degrees and wealthy upbringing. I hate telling this story; it means remembering.

You get to a point where you just don’t want to remember anymore. You’ve learned, and now you’re done with that. You want it gone. But it sneaks up when you don’t want it to. In shopping, in deciding which purse to carry or questioning my jewelry choices. When shopping for shoes or fabric, I think of his mother, and what she would choose. From what nail polish color she would choose for me, and which one I’d choose for myself, and what she’d think of my choice. I wanted so much to please that woman, and despite being a great cook, a smart passionate woman, a woman who loved her son, they never liked me. They wanted a socialite, to give him the Page Six life he “deserved.” I almost remember more of that vicious, back-stabbing lady than I do of her immature, ball-picking son.

My to-do lists were different when I was married. I spent many nights and weekend afternoons planning menus. I’d Starbucks it in the morning, then remain in my tank and sweat shorts, hair clipped in a curly pile on my head. I’d sit at the kitchen table with blank notecards and stacks of cookbooks. To-do lists weren’t just the butcher and baker—they became cooking tasks: roast tomatoes, make and freeze a lasagna. I made black-bottom cheesecake cups, and I hate baking. When you're married, to-do becomes doing for others. There are more expectations and shoulds. Now I don’t have a kitchen table, and there’s no one to cook for. And don't even go there: "have you thought about cooking for one?" I mean, really, that's more insulting than a wedding.

make

I was carrying diapers when it happened. Luvs, actually.

The beauty of having a small dog is his craps are rarely bigger than baby organic carrots. So I can encourage him to crap on the floor of my apartment. "Go on the papers. Go on the papers. That's my good sweet bean." Okay, not on the wooden floors themselves, but on a wee wee pad placed on the floor.

At 9:30pm, the pet stores were closed, and I was in a panic. The last of the wee wee pads was tossed; Linus had nowhere appropriate to “make.”

make: I love this word. “Can you please pull over; I have to make.” “Make what?” “You know, make.” I also love saying, “Baby, let’s go make it.” It’s so retro; it’s like a full-grown bush.

Of course I can take The Lineman outside for a sprinkle here and there, but I don’t do it consistently: work keeps me late. wine keeps me flirty for too long. winter keeps me inside and lazy. I was in a stitch. A stitch summoned me to the grocery store in search of wee wee pads.

Grocery stores are always cold; I hate the freezer isle, despite the ice cream. I’m in sweats and a wifebeater looking I-really-don’t-care-how-I-look-but-I-look-hot-in-this-don’t-I. My nipples are erect. I’m clutching rawhide and a thick plastic sack of diapers because wee wee pads are not sold in grocery stores. Then it happens. Hot grocery store man catches my eye across the isle. Our eyes lock, and we both look too long for it to be an accident. Then I look down. He looks down. I was suddenly 14 years old, carrying tampons, or worse, some sort of maxi pad box.

I’m carrying diapers. My Luvs bolted for the door.

breasts

My best friend Naomi had pert, rounded breasts, remarkable in size. If there were photos of her on my blog, someone would comment, “Nice yams” and post it anonymously.

like riding a bike

If it were a basketball court, we’d be in the paint. We’re at Stone Rose, in the thick of the action, because Stone Rose is all men, and we’re definitely all women. I’m with my rosy ladies clicking glasses, linking arms, and being cheeky… ‘cause we’re good at cheeky. They’re out of Riesling, and their Sauvignon Blanc is from California. How drab. Options are weighed as we finger cokctail menus.

Big Apple Martinis remind me of skittles. You ate enough of them as a kid, and your saliva became a thick viscous string you released from your mouth until it nearly kissed the ground, then you’d suck it back in. Don’t lie. You did too. I’m a "fun with wine" or "whiskey why not" girl: Jack and Ginger (Jack Daniels with Ginger Ale).

Eyebrows have been raised when I mention the whiskey. Here’s the rub: whiskey is smokin’. Songs and smells have the ability to transport. I know the smell of camp (grass), middle school (glue), and seex (whiskey). One of my ex’s drank whiskey on the rocks, then we’d fcuk. I’m the salivating dog; whiskey is my bell.

Friends have come in and out of my life like busboys in a restaurant. The good ones, though, they’re always there. Time goes, but you know you can pickup and continue as if those years were mere moments. Jeff is my “no time at all.” He’s my knitting, my bicycle ride, and my smile. He’s everything that comes naturally, even if you think you’ve forgotten. He's there, at Stone Rose, and I'm in bliss. I'm happier than I've been in a long, long time. Jeff has a liquid loving laugh that lights me up. Every. Single. Time. This photo of our hello makes me so happy (and no, we're not making out. It's called a hug with too much hair.) It’s better than whiskey, and on par with my girls.

View more photos from a night out with the girls >>
(then take a look at these)
Photos from "Fun with Wine" >>

bachelorette number 1

Gyrating men in thongs with fire hoses don’t equal Scores or VIP Room.  Men invite women who can make their vaginas wink, peel hard-boiled eggs, and serve ping-pong balls across the room.  Lap dances and meat-whistles make up many a bachelor party.  Women have an equivalent, but naked men swinging are not it.  Don’t worry; I’m getting to “it.”

Bachelor parties make me bite my nails.  I know if someone wants to cheat, he’ll find a way.  This isn’t about cheating or behaving dishonorably when a woman offers you a drink with her breasts propped upon the platter.  Knowing “my man” is in a seexually charged setting without me, aroused, makes me defensive. The quotes flanking my man signify fantasyland right now.  But that's not the point, so I’ll continue.  Bottom line, the thought of “my man” in that setting makes me feel insecure, unseexy, and bitch-slapped.  I want to hide beneath the covers and only have seex in the dark. 

In that moment, he feels desired.  She makes him believe it’s because she wants to; he’s different.  He knows she’d want to jiggle her tits in his face for free, so he won’t insult her by not paying for the service.  And when he feels taken for a ride, he does a shot and buys one for his buddy.  You’re right, it is stupid, and women shouldn’t care or worry about strippers.  But I do.

I told you I was getting to “it.”  Put a group of eligible men in a room.  Not just any men: savvy, handsome, smart, successful men who make us laugh.  They pursue us and touch the dip in our lower back as we walk a room.  They lightly touch our elbow and hold a stare longer.  They like watching.  They’re well-read and drip-feed us interesting trivia, then they say that thing.  The thing that makes us hold our breath a little.  The thing we’ll repeat to friends only to hear them sing, “Get out!  You’re soooo lucky.”   They feed us our favorite foods and lean in to smell our hair and bite our necks.  They know how to take control.  There's nothing passive or wimpass about them.  They make us feel beautiful and brilliant.  They are possibility.  They want our numbers and will call.  Want to hear the worst part?  They mean it.  They are your worst nightmare the way bachelor parties in Vegas hotel rooms are ours.  That would be even.  Welcome to Manhattan on a good night. V good night.

View photos of the V good night >>

It’s the night of Smelly’s bachelorette party, and there’s no questioning it; I’m definitely sweating.  In my hands are pounds of candy, condoms, a hollow penis, lingerie, an eye mask, brie, and my camera.  While I’ve been to a few of these things, I’ve never been responsible for throwing one.  I really don’t understand the naked man thing, the veil in public thing, or the “I dare you to kiss that ironically hairy bald man’s nipple” thing.  It’s just not me, and thank god it’s not Smelly.

We begin at a salon for mani/pedies while we pass cups of Sauvignon Blanc.  I hand Ms. Smelly Good Housekeeping Magazine.  “Well, you’re going to be married.  Act like it.”  I claim Martha Stewart’s Living Magazine because I can’t find an In Style, and I’ve already been married, so I’m aloud.  Yes, I have a subscription to Living and Oprah’s O Magazine.  I’m Middle America in Manhattan; I can do meatloaf, knitting, host cookie swaps, create a scrapbook or four, and I started a very unsuccessful book club.  So back off.  O happens to be fab.

As our nails dry, I try on Smelly’s engagement ring.  It’s classic and beautiful, as it should be, suited just for her.  It’s perfect.  I used to see women on Manhattan busses with their Birkin bags and enormous diamond rings and think, “man, she’s so lucky to have someone who loves her that much.”  How assbackwards I was. 

We’re off to be girls in the Hotel Gansevoort rooms.  We eat, we drink, we primp, we watch Smelly try to beat down a penis piñata.  She’s tired of trying to "rip the sucker's head off, " “break his balls,” or “poke his eye out,” so she hands me the umbrella stick.  The baton is passed.  She has no idea what she’s doing.  I’m angry. I beat the shite out of the piñata… and the umbrella. 

If there was a soundtrack to this next part, you'd hear Carly Simon's, "You're So Vain" and you'd turn up the volume.  You'd start to really sing along for the chorus, but you'd picture his face when you heard, "you had one eye in the mirror as you watched yourself go by."  Routinely Jonathan complained I was too old.  He criticized more than just the magazines I read. 

“What the fcuk Stephanie, you act like you’re 50.  No one I know our age wears scarves.  Go to Prada or Gucci will you?”  He'd command as he held up my Anya Hindmarch snakeskin bag.  Then he’d stand shaking his head in a sawhorse stance judging my closet.  “Here, take my gift certificate, and buy something.  You need it more than I do.”  I had a 3 carrot engagement ring.

I don’t like to wear what everyone else is wearing; my style is older, and nameless.  My own initials are enough.  Still, Jonathan would thumb through my closet before our dinner reservations complaining; “I’ve seen all this stuff already.  You need to go shopping, and not for scarves or long coats or purple label cashmere crewnecks.  You need to be more hip.”  Where's an umbrella when you really need one?

You know what, I love my long glamorous coats, and my scarves with suits or in my hair, as a belt, or as a top.  And I don’t like how he spoke to me, telling me what to wear and what music to like.  Telling me my tastes were too old.  "Who drinks wine when there’s Bombay Sapphire or Gray Goose?"  It’s as if even my drink order wasn’t trendy enough for him.  I still wear my scarves, sip my wine, sing at the top of my lungs to Carly Simon, and embrace my luxurious casual stacks of sweaters.  Now, I just don’t have to listen to anyone telling me not to be me.  So will you all ease up on the Oprah and Martha stuff?

View photos of the V good night >>

porno queen

My nickname in high school was Moose.

the chase

In college, going to bars became like kissing. At first it was exciting, but then you wanted more. For a small window of time, it was exciting getting all decked out, straightening my hair, putting lotion on my legs, manicure, pedicure, black lace matching underwear. The bouncers knew me from doing the Amsterdam and Columbus Avenue strip. I knew the bars that would let me in without an ID, and I always ended my night by saying goodbye to the bouncers, calling them by their names. Bars became boring after a while, and not just for me but for all the girls. Men have sports. Men can go to bars and claim they’re there just to hang out with the guys, just to shoot pool, or play darts, or watch “The Game.” With women, it’s not the same; girls don’t really get together to talk at a bar. We do that over the phone constantly, or at the gym, or when we’re shopping, via emails and IMs. Bars are for getting attention from desirable men, having any kind of men buy us drinks, and for seeing the latest fashions. Women, after all, dress for other women. Not many men notice you’ve got on this season's Manolo Blaniks and the gotta-have-it-Gucci …and the men that do notice are gay or in a relationship. So whenever a woman is in a relationship and her man says he’s going to a bar to hang with the guys, she usually doesn’t approve. Only because we women know why we go to bars…if the guys just want to catch up, why don’t they go out for dinner instead of going to the hottest new bar where there’s a line outside to get in?

When the bar scene became unbearable, my friends and I had a game we liked to play. Whoever could get away with telling the biggest, most outrageous, lie to a guy at the bar would win. Winner received one drink from each woman playing. Once I was a toilet paper sales person, specializing in selling both toilet paper and paper towels to schools. Another time, I chose the flowers and shrubbery for the island dividers on Park Avenue. I worked at the US Open, as a ball runner, worked at Madison Square Garden, mopping up Knicks sweat. Oh, and I helped deliver babies under water because it was so relaxing to the mother and much less traumatic for the baby. The girl can four-flush like you read about in books.

When we weren’t betting on the best liar, I was still busy practicing. Certain lies were like coffee and kissing, just something women did. Weight, for example, was always rounded down ten pounds, and height was always rounded up to the closest whole number. 5’5” was much better than 5’4½.” Age is trickier. When we’re young, we’re not just 8, we’re 8¾. We are very accurate. I always thought that only older women tried to conceal their ages. But when I was in college and meeting men who worked on Wall Street, I became 23. When a man found out I was only 19, he didn’t take me seriously. He crossed out my number.

McGee’s was not the kind of place I would ever choose to meet my friends. Bars with cokctail menus, bars with flavored vodkas, bars with velvet ropes and sofas. That was my choice back then (now I just stay home or go where there's good food.) Guinness on tap, hockey on tv, and a chalk board outside announcing $2.00 pitchers. That’s McGee’s. The men who go to Irish pubs have goatees; they own sports jerseys and even wear them in public. They use toothpicks after a meal. They’ve all played football or hockey at some point in their lives, but now, they play softball. The bars I prefer attract professional men who wear Hermés ties, have their shirts made at Charvé, and who wear JM Weston shoes. Men who probably preferred soccer to football, basketball to hockey and who now golf on the weekends.

Hillary issured an e-mail inviting all her friends to her birthday bash at McGee’s. I think she chose the bar because it was next door to her apartment. Hillary is the laziest person I know. And that would be fine, except she ropes me in. She makes me wait for her when she’s being slow, asks me if I would mind getting her a glass of water when she’s closer to the kitchen and I’m not even standing.

I complain to Hillary that only jerks hit on me. To which she says, I must be secretly flattered by so much attention and to just shut up. This Hillary doesn’t get. I don’t bitch about the losers that hit on me to brag about the attention I get. I complain about the guys that think they’ve got it, the guys that end up whispering too loudly to their friends about how they just had their hand on my thigh, the guys who probably made up their own nick-name and told their friends to call them by it. Actually, it’s not flattering at all to be hit on by these men. The fact that they have nerve enough to approach me suggests that they think I’m in their league. They think I’m attainable. They think they might score. This is insulting. This is a mockery. This pretty much makes me feel more ugly than if no one approached me. If no one approaches me, at least I can go home thinking I was too beautiful that night, just flat out unattainable.

So, there I am sitting in the back of McGee’s, watching everyone who walks in make a bee line straight to the back of the bar, only to do a u-turn at the end. There’s nothing worth stopping for on your way into a bar. I don’t know why at parties they even bother to stand by the entrance with champagne because it never stops anyone from going straight toward the back of the room to check out the scene and order a drink to bide some time.

Mostly, when I’m at bars like this, I’m just bored. After saying hello to friends of friends and finding out how their jobs are going, complimenting them on their shoes or great belt, I end up sitting alone on a banquette, pecking at my vodka tonic wishing it were a Green Apple Cosmopolitan. When a guy approaches and asks me why I’m sitting all alone, I usually tell him that I’m tired and bored. That’s only after making sure he’s not holding a colored beverage. I all but ignore men who drink anything with more color than a dirty martini. If I like the look of him, and he’s holding something clear, I ask him to tell me a story.

“A story?” Furrowed brows, wrinkled eyes. This guy was definitely older.
“Yeah, why don’t you sit down and stay a while.” I say as I pat the green leather spot beside me. Rich outlines of his shoulders strain against the pink fabric of his monogrammed shirt. This guy was not a weekend softball player.
“What kind of story are you in the mood for? I aim to please.” His honey-wheat hair glows blue from the fluorescent light hovering above our table.
“Well as long as you’re taking requests, why don’t you tell me what has been the highlight of your day today?” I cross my legs and lean toward him.
“Well before I do that, I insist on replenishing your drink. What can I get for you?” The expression of his eyes is hidden under the glare of his funky frames.
“Trying to bide yourself some time? Okay, I see. Fine, I’d like a seltzer with lemon.”
“On the rocks?” He says with a thin smile as he steps backwards on his way over to the bar.

After he orders with the female bartender, who incidentally really shouldn’t be wearing that tank until she tones up that Hadassah Wave flab, he starts speaking with three other guys. With his back to me, he tucks in the back of his shirt deeper into his slacks. One of the other guys is pretty cute, but young looking. Young, like you want to take home and shock young, young like you want to play teacher/student with. If I get to know Mister-Monogram better, I will introduce his friend, Mister-I’ve-been-bad-and-need-to-be-punished, to Hillary. Then Hillary’s future boyfriend and the other two guys he’s with turn to look over at me. Good. He’s talking about me. I look down at my nearly empty glass, lift an ice cube out of it with the tip of my slim red straw and pull the cube into my mouth with my tongue.

“What I wouldn’t give to be that straw.” He is back. “For the lady.” He offers me my drink.
“Well thank you.”
“Now where were we?”
“I believe you’ve left me here waiting. And I have to say, that’s not a good start.”
“Ah yes, the highlight of my day. Well, without a doubt, the highlight of my day was shooting a 74.”
“You mean to tell me you bought yourself some time to think up that one? Walked all the way over to that bar, and that’s the best you could do? And you were doing so well.” I say shaking my head and patting his knee. “Don’t you know that meeting me has been the highlight of your day? Did your mother teach you nothing? And to think that I was even considering taking you home with me tonight.” I wink and give him that look, the look I feel myself making when I feel my eyes narrowing, when I drink too much and feel like a seex goddess.

I suddenly have to pee and ask him if he’ll save my seat, that I need to use the ladies room.
“Well, I gotta say, I hate to see you go. But, I love to watch you leave.” Look at that wry smile. He is a fox.

The line at the ladies room is obscene. I stand on it for maybe a minute before I just can’t hold it anymore. I knock on the men’s bathroom door. As no one answers, I swing the door open, to find some guy facing a urinal.

“Oh, don’t put that away on my account. Just relieving myself. Imagine if you had to hold it ‘til you got to the front of that line.” I pee like a man…almost standing but facing away from the bowl. I don’t bother with applying more lipstick, or even trying to fix the hair. I am too drunk; my eyes just don’t look right. I suck in my stomach and exit the men’s bathroom.

I return to what has become my spot in the bar to find a leggy brunette in my seat talking with too-good-to-be-true-pink-shirt-guy. This is a tough one. She could be his friend, listening to how psyched he is that he just met such a cool girl. She could be his annoying coworker that he can’t be rude to. She could be a woman he solicited, a woman he invited to sit beside him with the pat of his hand.

I decide to see how Hillary is holding up, walking past pink-shirt-guy’s eye line.
“Is that guy over there in the pink looking over here?” I ask as I take her glass away from her.
“Ah, I’ll check in a second. Why, should he be?”
“If he knows what’s good for him. This tastes like ass. What is it?”
“Dewar’s and soda with a twist.” Who drinks Dewar's? I mean really.
“He’s standing, talking to a women and two other guys.”
Hillary is a good friend. She understands some things. Like to look over at Mister-I-shot-a-74 in a subtle fashion.
“Do you have a cigarette?” Whenever Hillary drinks, she has to smoke. Somehow she never remembers that I never smoke, never have smoked, can’t stand smoke. But then I realize she’s not asking me. She’s asking my Mister-Matsuda-glasses-man. He wasn’t wasting any time.
“Hey, so I never got your name.”
“This is Hillary. I’m Stephanie.”
“Well, Stephanie, and Hillary, I’m Roger. And it was nice almost getting to know you, but I’m afraid my bed-time has come.”
“Early tee-off time, huh?” He is even cuter in this light.
“I was wondering if you would like to get together for dinner sometime.” Sometime meant that he was going to wait a week to call.
“Well, no I don’t do dinner for a first date.”
“Well good because I wasn’t talking to you.”
I turn to look at Hillary, but she had already walked away. “Very amusing. I see someone took his funny pill today.” Then Mister-dimples put his hand to my chin, shook my head slightly and said, “Stephanie, it has been a pleasure. You really are a cutie. Now give me your number so I can call you up and invite you out properly.”

Roger never called.

(And incase you're a google fanatic, I've changed the real names to protect the innocent, and myself.)

mouse tomato

Wi-fi is not a Judy Blume book, though it is about fidelity. Wi-fi, short for wireless fidelity should enable me to post this weekend while in the Hamptons. See, yesterday, I purchased and installed a Wireless G card and signed up for T-mobile HotSpot. This seemed neat. Cut the cord. Clean, wireless, sanitary. Yeah, not so much. Admittedly, I'm a mouse tomato. You know, a play on couch potato, but with a computer and female. I imagined hopping into the Bridgehampton Starbucks to enjoy an iced grande skim latte and a little spot of posting. However, the frickin Starbucks in the frickin Hamptons is not frickin Wi-fi compatible. Don't give me this whole, "good, time for you to relax and let go for a while." Pahhleeze. And because I’m in a share, there are no phone lines. Not one. In all of the posh Hamptons, I've got nowhere to go to access the Internet. They’ve got nothing but tennis courts, hot tubs, swimming pools, and monster grills. So, my friends, stay faithful to me, despite my inability to perform all weekend. Now that’s a Judy Blume book: Wifey.

i can't dance

Grind, sure, but dance, no. Anything requiring coordination is an automatic out. People have said I'm Elaine Benes in red. Prior to Sex and the City, I heard Sarah Jessica Parker. Something about my personality... well, I'm pretty sure it comes down to dancing. Sarah Jessica can dance, but in Miami Rhapsody she plays a character who always denies an offer toward the dance floor, "You know I can't dance. People always think I'm throwing a fit." Despite the lessons, I can't do it either. Maybe I just haven't found the right partner because honestly, any woman can dance so long as her partner is a strong leader.

nerding out

Who: Bloggers & the people who love them
Where: Siberia Bar, 346 W. 40th Street. (between 8th & 9th, there's no sign so just look for the red light over the door).
When: 7pm, tonight, Friday, July 9, 2004
What: The nerdiest get together I've ever attended
Why: Because I'm a nerd

Check out the pictures from the evening >>

New York Apple's Blogger Bash at Siberia is tonight, Friday, July 9, 2004. The real party happens after the bash, when all the nerds run home to post our pictures and write about one another, sending trackbacks, linking to one another, a virtual red robin. I know, you can't wait for my pictures. Me neither. Love this stuff. I do. I just love it. Nerd.

Oh, yes, to answer your question, people do wear name tags. I wore one on my ass. The problem with the tags, everyone writes their website destination and rarely their actual given family name. So you can't go home and google them. You can't even refer to them by name, really. You just call them, Petit, Fish, Ari, Picture of Me, Bob, Pepper... well you get the point. There are, however, those who work their name into their web destination (me, obviously, daniella, steven, kambri, Mike, etc.) The recap, well, there's not much to tell. It was my typical night. Chris took out his balls, and we steriotyped.

First we tried to figure out who was wearing panties, and who might own a whip. Chris got most of them right (yes, he actually approched these women and asked them). Some people have gaydar; Chris has dirtydar. He sifts through the teases and knows who can fcuk without inhibitions. Knows the ones who own the 'outfits,' the ones who take out the heels for seex. This scares me a little, these women with facial masks for their men, with zipper or rubber ball mouths. It seems to take you away from seex, becomes more about accessorizing, and I do enough of that outside the bedroom.

So of course, we get to talking about balls and blowjobs because I'm with Chris:

"It has been my experience, every single time, that all Jewish women swallow."
Then a survey began. "Yeah, I think it's because they hate cleaning."
"Well, I'm only half Jewish."
"Yeah, when I don't want to, I pull the, 'oh baby come on my tits, it's so hot.' Works every time."
This is a typical night out with Chris. This is a blogging event with very savvy women. Last night was one in the same.

I've done this once before, check it >>

little miss independence

View more black and white hamptons pics >>

So here’s the thing. This weekend was a smattering. There’s no way to capture it in words without confusing you into a squint. So look at the pictures first, then you’ll still be confused, but you’ll have a sense of what I was looking at when I scribbled notes onto my lined index cards. I’m not editing, the writing is lifted off the cards, and as for the pictures, well, I’ve only concealed a handful to protect myself, and my loved ones. Or as Kim would say, “lovsies.” But she’s weaning off the ies.

View more vibrant hamptons pics >>

Forget sharing a room with 3 other women, or sharing a bathroom with 9 other people… roughing it was a weekend in the Hamptons without a pedicure. “I don’t know how you did it. I never ever could have made it through.” Thursday evening Kimberly (the brown one) and I (the red Kim) circle the Hamptons for a restaurant with more than 4 other patrons. It’s high school. Music is blaring, the windows slid open, and we drive twenty minutes out of our way to find a good restaurant. Dragon Room is a drag, so we settle upon 75 Main and seek out dessert at “Jet.”

Jet East: Picture it. A spinning blue light overhead and hooch every which way, lots of it. Greased hair, too many rings, widows peak, hair spray, I’m a cop and own this town, the only respectable boys are too short to date and haven’t moved past the polo shirts. You’re at “Jet” because you’re trendy and on vay-K, too tired to add “East.” Then you hear it: ”Don’t have to be rich to be my girl, don’t have to be…” And we sing along and kiss the air evoking Julia Roberts feeling like our own little pretty women. But it’s bullshite because I’m in the Hamptons, where streets are named after money. Let’s face it, it’s money, from the driveways flanked with hydrangeas to the Hermes orange Birkin and French tulips for her dinner party. You smell it, it smells rich with complex tones and depth, a sophisticated nose, and you’ll pay the $10 parking and talk your way out of the cover charge because you smell rich, too. It’s the Creed. South Hampton is old money, East Hampton is new money, and West Hampton ignores money and surfs instead. People drop names, saunter beyond velvet ropes and talk about the Sony party, the Hilton’s new record label, Lizzy Grubman’s new reality show filming at Cyril’s, and you almost want to boot. But you don’t because vomiting is cliché. Kim and I are just about ready to be booted from our “you don’t have bottle service” table, when I rush to claim the last free “you are relegated to the back” table. Then I snap away and meet Pat Parnell and Shon Tomlin (Fuel TV dudes from LA), who hire me to photograph the premiere of Riding Giants the next day. I can’t disclose the photographs yet (sorry). But here’s what you would see: Christie Brinkley glowing with her angelic children and yummy husband. Gabrielle Reese not giving advice on how to recover from pregnancy because “I don’t give advice.” Some tan men whose faces look like mitts, with bleached hair, dimples, and Hawaiian shirts. Who cares what they’re saying. And me with fcuking ugly toes on the Blue Carpet. Oy.

Photography Lessons: Mark Danielli and I head toward the stables because I won’t shut up about getting out to take some pics. I saw the eye rolls with each mention I made of peaches. Someone had to shut me up. So, I teach; he’s a quick learner. Then we fool around in the bushes… no, not like that, though I do look naked nymphish in the pics. Mark looks like a fairy too. He says, “The Almond is gay on Friday nights. These pictures of me in the yellow field will do well there. Hold on, let me write the ad: Gay lord fairy seeks roomie in Chelsea. Frolicking optional.” We get kicked off private property.

Capri, Bells East, Savannah: Carpools load and the nicknames start. New friendships, alliances, and trysts form around our oblong kitchen table. Then we’re off, searching for something resembling a good time to happen. But it was already happening, in our house, just us, in the heat and laughter between us. Savannah, at the very least, was a conduit for pepperoni. After that night, I was apparently “sold.” Sleeping arrangements were musical back at the house. Though, I preferred the sanctity of my own bed. Okay, you’re right, I had my period and was in no mood to share anything with anyone. Except with Tricia. I adore Tricia, and I feel compelled to set her straight about how wonderful I think she is, and what a Ho I am not. It’s settled. In the morning, I’m up before anyone else, but Tricia catches a morning glimpse. It’s my feet, hiding behind the refrigerator door. It’s morning, and I love Tricia for her coffee and her good morning notes.

Cyril’s: I run into many people I shouldn’t have, and I become gravely depressed. Without editing my index cards, here’s the story straight.

“Get out (leave), right now. It’s the end of you and me. It’s too late. I can’t wait for you to be gone.”

This song is the story of my life, and our Hamptons theme song, as it happens. I’ll drink it with some rum and try to focus on my strength instead of the life I met and left. But it’s hard to take when I run into Bianca Struel (the same species, mortified I’ve associated her with Fat Camp), and then Caroline Wiesser (Falcone). Caroline and I used to work together. Now she’s married, with a delicious baby and a house in Roslyn. Just kill me now.

I’m crapass at dating. I get too involved or worked up, lose perspective, even a little bit of myself. My energy goes into some guy instead of me. I’ll go places I don’t really feel like going because he’ll be there. It’s not me. I’ll rearrange plans around a guy—and history gave me this lesson: he will be gone soon. In life, no matter what happens, I end up with me. So it’s independence weekend. Well Amen to that. (snap. snap.)

I walk into Cyril’s anticipating the brain freeze from the BBC (Baily’s Banana Colada) and sink into my white chair. I should be happy. I’ve stopped caring about the frizz and my arms. I’m flanked with beauty, the sky, the friendships, the tan women in their orange terry Juicy tube dresses and enormous… ahem, jewels, what were you thinking? I’m squinting and holding it in because the line to go is too long. I see a trendy beautiful woman with smart sunglasses sit on tan boys’ laps and I’ll admit it. I can taste the jealousy; it tastes like steamers. I know I could have it, but I don’t have it now, not right now, and I don’t want some stupid random hook up. I want something substantial. I want to long and have it, and want it still. That’s the trick, you know. For me, the getting can be easy. It’s wanting what I’ve got once it’s mine… or knowing what I want. It’s just too complicated and if you have to play anything, be it cool or concerned, it’s just not for me. I don’t like playing. Not in the sun, on a boat, or on a moat. I do not like it. No I don’t.

“Cause I know about her, and I wonder how I bought all those lies. You said that you would treat me right, but you was just a waste of time.”

I never look at it as a waste of time, but when I slam into people my age, married with their babies, their gardens, their make your own taco nights, well I want that. I feel myself leaning over, trying to stab them with my fork prongs. I want to ingest their lives. But I demonstrate control and remind myself I’m not willing to settle for Jell-O. I prefer my crème brulee, all blow torch difficult and shite. I wish he’d get his act together and pursue me already. I’m a strong believer that the man must pursue the woman. I miss being pursued. Miss flowers at the office and feeling special to someone other than my friends. I want a man, not afraid of putting it on the line, letting me and everyone know he’s crazy about me, knowing when and how to hold onto something delicious. But it can’t be West Coast; it has to be sincere. It can’t be I love yous in a week before you know my middle name. It can’t be “you’re amazing” “are you mine?” before I even know you. You need to learn how someone handles anger, stress, and disappointing people. It can’t be “sweetheart” before you know what kind of drunk they are, how they handle deadlines, or phone messages, or their mother, or you when you’ve gone and chicked out in the middle of the night.

Stephen’s Talkhouse: How about this for a nod to independence, I’m not fcuking going. I hate Star Room, but I love my friends. They have an agenda and the invitations to match to HBO’s kick off party of Entourage. Jen (stick bug), Kim (the brown one), and Samantha (the other brown one) are going to Jet East, then hopping over to Star Room. I elect to slit my wrists before joining them. Thank god for sweet Stacey and Amy. Love these talented girls. Love that they want live music. Ken, Steven, and I huddle in the car, where quarters, nickels, and dimes are in their proper spots. There’s an emergency bag in the trunk with flares, jumpers, and toilet paper. The boy is prepaired. Well he was, but now I’m in the car. That’s a handful. I flip from Lauren Hill to AC/DC, my ultimate pole dance song, and then we’ve arrived. Steven takes some liberties with a stranger’s $150 beach parking permit, and adheres it close to his heart: his stomach. Hey, the way to a man’s heart…

Sagitha (sangria), Amy, Stacey, Jeff (the clever one), and Mark finally arrive. I convince Stacey and Ken we should do trivia night in the city together. Friendships are growing; the Stoli Vanilla ginger ale drinks are superfluous. I’m buzzed from conversation. I’m thrilled until Steven tires me with his never-ending banter (god love him, though). Then, Ken and I look to find stragglers; we’re calling it a night. Until we’re struck by a kickass taking names band. Life is a Highway. Red Red wine. We’ve officially got some foreshadowing here, so pay attention. Before you know it, we’re dancing to the stylings of one Mister Johnny Cash, and okay, lets face it, grinding to some song about redheaded chicks. I almost get on stage, but decide his hands feel better than any stage could. Hot. Oh yes, I’m heavy with sweat, sticky, and slippery. Surprisingly, I’m 100% sober. Not surprising: I’ve got an afro.

The moon is orange, his sticker is on backwards, and I get a call. “Oh my god, Stephanie. You’re awake. Pick us up. We’re on the side of the road in front of Star Room.” The more the merrier. It’s 4am, and I love my girls.

Smiling, I fall asleep with my iPod listening to The Stones, Wild Horses, and finally passing out, wet (I had to shower because of the fro: “Oh man, Stephanie, what the hell did you do?”), to Louie Armstrong’s La Vie En Rose.

Blair witch barbecue: Okay, there weren’t any witches if you don’t count, “But the reality is” lady. But there were woods, and secret paths, and thank god, there were stars. It’s a perfect night, and all the girls packed right. They had barbecue outfits. I, however, pulled my closet full of nothing to wear and emptied the lot of it into a suitcase, only to surprise, surprise, have nothing appropriate to wear to a barbecue. What, a silky blue nighty top isn’t appropriate? Yeah, like I give a shite. I’m full from diner lunch and can’t imagine eating. Now drinking, well that’s another story. Here’s where it all happens. Red Red Wine, again. I detest beer, but you knew that. The bbq hasn’t a drop of vino, until I beg. I manage to procure a bottle of merlot and procede to empty its contents into two very wide plastic drinking cups. Why did I suggest a drinking game, for the love of god? Whale’s Tales. I drink an absurd amount of red wine. Everyone laughs. I love drinking games. I should add it to my list.

I’m in a hammock looking up, and I can swear I see north. But you can't see north. But I do. Then I spill my red red wine all over Ken. There goes his shirt. I’m doing everything wrong, and he says that’s what he likes. And I can’t believe I’ve left my lens and drank too much red wine out of a cup. I lost my way in the woods, a lens, a shoe, and a few bricks from my wall.

The rest was kinetic. Like riding a bike or learning rhythm, you learn by doing it. Your body has a memory, remembering what you’ve forced out—trauma, pain, a kiss. You see it in the wrinkles, in the stiffness, in the habits. We do what we can to force out the tender, to keep things in check, hush vulnerability to a scant whisper. I fall asleep rehashing, parsing through the moments like cards layed out on a coffee table. I always show my hand. Though, I’m pretty darn good with a poker face, even if I’ve never played Texas Hold ‘Em. Forgoing games, I wear my heart heavy on my sleeve, wine on my shirt. So the red red wine was my undoing on Sunday night. I chicked out a little, created a head drama, then climbed back into bed and let my body do the thinking for a while. I awoke without my camera and index cards, anxious I'd lose the thoughts, like trying to recount your dreams in a journal. You can't remember them all. I'll post those in a month.

Car conversation: “You have to write about kissing in the sunshine.” Here we go. I’m getting hamptons blog requests. How am I supposed to write about that? My dog’s not even here, and the only kissing boys want to do with me is at night. It might make them inherit the shanks on the golf course or something.
“Sorry, love, I can’t write what I don’t know.” I apologize as I scribble this down on my index cards.
“Okay, well don’t write about seex. Please.”
“You know I can’t sensor for anyone.”
“Fine, you’re right. Write what you must; I trust you.”

So, about the seex, I know what you’re thinking… and trust me, you’re wrong. I’m telling you, it was a seex-free weekend. Period. With a make your own garbage can in the bathroom, and a whole lot of shedding, sweating, and complaining.

As for independence, I’m still looking up, anticipating some fireworks. Even if I’m the one who has to conjure her own noise and light for now. I’m wicked good at that.

View all colored images of July 4, 2004 >>

Don't miss the black and white photos. Click here >>

father's day

It’s father’s day, and I’m the one who walks away with a gift.  I’ve been working on his present for a while (but it’s still not ready yet).  Dad slips me a $100 bill as I leave for the Pedro The Lion concert in Brooklyn.  “Please, take a cab home.”  I wanted to just cry on the spot.  He loves and cares about me so much.  He’s the one I call at 7am with anxiety—and he always gives the best advice. 

He held my hand when I broke my nose in 4th grade, and promised me he wouldn’t leave my side.  And when Jules was too chicken shite to come with me for an abortion, Dad sat with me through every waiting room tortured second.  He’s seen me through it all, as a mentor, a hero, an always-approachable friend.

I know we grow up to realize our parents did the best they could, that they aren’t perfect… but well, he’s pretty damn close.  He is my gift.  I couldn’t feel more blessed. 

When I took some time at his house to decide about Jules and our marriage, he drove me to the city every day for work.  When we rallied in the kitchen, ready to leave in the morning, he began, “You have to eat something.”
“Dad, you don’t understand.  I CAN’T eat.”
“You have to try.”
“I CAN’T.”
“But these strawberries are delicious.”  He says with a strawberry tucked in his cheek, raising his eyebrows up and down.
“Okay.  Fine.”
He washes each one and plucks the green pith, wrapping them in a paper towel and slipping them into a plastic baggie for the road.  And that’s when I knew.  In that moment, I realized I deserved more—deserve a man who will take care of me too.

A lot of women like being treated like dirt because their father’s were absent or treated them like ass.  I’ve got the opposite problem.  He set the bar, HIGH.  And now, I’m stretching and working on my reach... I'm on my tippy toes snacking on carrots looking for a good apple.  The low-hanging fruit can go to her house, not mine.  But that's not all I learned from Dad... click here for the list.

daddy dearest

Things I learned from my father:

1. To pretend I have a small hole in the seat of my pants, to lure an innocent in closer, to then “brootz” in their face.
2. To call a fart a “brootz.”
3. You can never go wrong with the truth.
4. He’ll always be proud of me.
5. To look it up in the dictionary.
6. Feelings don’t know right from wrong.
7. Don’t worry about what other people think. Don’t disappoint yourself.
8. Men need time to unwind.
9. Dungarees are jeans.
10. To saran wrap the toilet bowl.
11. When something terrible happens, you learn who your real friends are.
12. It can always get worse.
13. There’s nothing more important than your health—even if getting a hole in one seems important at the time.
14. To cover an opponent by watching their hips in Basketball.
15. That women don’t like football because they don’t understand it.
16. To answer “medium rare” when they ask how I’d like it.
17. To use chopsticks.
18. Men are shallow dogs.
19. How to castle.
20. I can do anything I set my mind to.
21. There are good men out there.
22. Class.
23. To love Classic Rock.
24. The good lord will take care of you.
25. To hate corny jokes.
26. To find the sound of a golf tournament or baseball game soothing.
27. What a “greaser” is.
28. Freeze chocolate bars.
29. A smattering of Yiddish: “Kakameyme” “Khutspa” “Kibitz” “Kvel” “Kinahurra” and those are just the K’s.
30. Life is better with a goodie.
31. To meditate.
32. To short sheet a bed.
33. Sometimes you have to do things you don’t like to do.
34. There’s a big difference between passion and love.
35. To heat a banana and eat it with chocolate sauce.
36. To respect myself.
37. To outline, study, and use index cards.
38. Patience.
39. To apologize, sometimes just to smooth things over. Sometimes because I mean it.
40. Few things are more valuable than knowledge and a good education.
41. To be like Cool Hand Luke, or at least try to be.
42. Men love women for how she loves him.
43. Women love men who they love.
44. To love Laurel & Hardy.
45. To eat the heart of an artichoke.
46. How to double jump in checkers.
47. Organize.
48. To spell machine, in first grade, by teaching me a joke.
49. To appreciate black & white movies (my first was March of the Wooden Soldiers).
50. That if a woman is beautiful, she can wear a garbage bag. No one is looking at her shoes, and no one cares if it’s Chanel.
51. Disqualify a man with any addictions.
52. I need a man, not a boy.
53. To play scrabble.
54. I’m beautiful.
55. The story of ewwy gewy.
56. Bellybuttons are funny.
57. To be a good storyteller.
58. To fly a kite.
59. Men are like snakes. They’ll fcuk a hole in the ground. It’s more emotional for woman.
60. Nobody likes a nag.
61. When bored, it’s best to “go bang your head against the wall.”
62. You can’t force it.
63. This too shall pass.
64. Our parents always try to do the best they can. Sometimes they just don’t know.
65. There are more exciting card games out there than WAR.
66. Save.
67. Be respectful.
68. French fries are better well done.
69. The man should love the woman just a little bit more.
70. Keep a journal.
71. With a murderer you know what you’ve got. With a thief you know what you’ve got. But with a liar, you never know what you’re dealing with.
72. If I’m going to smoke, do it in the safety of home, and make sure it’s not laced.
73. Bellybuttons can smell.
74. It’s better to smell than to stink.
75. Find what you love. Do it. Figure out a way to get paid for it. (Sorry, dad, I can’t get paid to masturbtae.)
76. Writing isn’t just helpful as a catharsis when we’re distressed; it can enhance your life.
77. To rub a bald head with a paper towel.
78. The difference between an Allen, Philips, and Flathead.
79. To accept the nickname Slide with grace.
80. To bluff.
81. Never to say “I told you so.”
82. How to make bacon. And how to make bacon.
83. To drive (albeit badly).
84. That I am needy, just like he is.
85. To RELAX, and how to never tell anyone to RELAX.
86. That a condom is a rubber.
87. What a penis is.
88. What it means to have balls.
89. A gentleman will walk you to your door, put you in a cab, drop you off while he finds parking, give you his umbrella, and have courage and class.
90. To reach.
91. To read a map.
92. “Yes, dear.”
93. Don’t sit too close to the television.
94. To pump gas.
95. To pass gas and announce it.
96. Timing.
97. To pack by rolling things.
98. Unconditional love.
99. What a hero is.
100. What it’s like to have a true best friend.

sports and tits

Last night I licked my fingers a lot. Paul Katcher rescued me. He grabbed me over IM and forced me out of my apartment. Paul and I met at a blogger nerd herd fest in January. He once told me he read my site for the seex stuff. I didn’t know I had “seex stuff.” Okay, so there’s the story about Pam Cooking Spray. That’s it though. So we chat over “northern ribs” (hence the finger licking), watching the NBA playoffs, and I tell him I’ve been on the upper west side for a long time, if you count my time at 55th and Broadway when I was in college.

“Oh, 55th and Broadway, that’s near Hooters.” He says.
“Um, yes. Most people say near David Letterman, but okay.”

See, when navigating around Manhattan, people like landmarks. St. Paul’s Chapel, The Empire State Building, Bryant Park… ther Starbucks beside the new Time Warner building... you get the gist. Paul knows the bar we’re going for drinks is 53 blocks north of Scores, 6 blocks east of the Penthouse Executive Club, and not as close as he’d like to Larry Flint's Hustler Club. But he hates strip clubs… um, unless he’s in Montreal. Paul would rather lick someone else’s vomit than watch a Hugh Grant movie, probably would prefer a bullet hole in his scrotum than be subjected to even a conversation about Oprah, and prefers bikinis most definitely to a one-piece… and believe it or not, we’re friends. I thank you. And Linus thanks you for the leftover ribs.

blind date

Last night I went on a blind date. We’d chatted online but never met in person until last night. Needless to say, it was the best blind date I’ve ever been subjected to. What an adorable woman. Mae and I have been speaking for months via emails and instant messages. I’ve copy / pasted more than my fair share of boy emails and sent them to Mae for advice, laughs, and approval. When a man didn’t stick around long enough to even put me in a cab, I consulted Mae. “No. No. No. We’ll have none of that. A man should hold a woman with two hands.”
“Two hands?”
“Yes, that’s right, two hands. You don’t walk around the house carrying the good china with one hand, haphazardly. A woman needs to be treated like fine china. Two hands. NEXT.”
She’s brilliant. I mean, don’t the glasses say it all?

View a few more clicks from the night >>

happy ending

I just had a physical fight in a Korean nail salon. It’s a hot humid Wednesday, and it just so happens on Wednesdays they’ve got manicure pedicure specials near my office on Madison Avenue. They even throw in a 15-minute massage, all for $30.00. Not bad. So, my toes are Fiji, and my nails are filed round and coated Limo-Scene. Just darling with my adorable new silky lace tank top. Then I shuffle in their too-big flip-flops to the massage chair. James, the man who greets everyone at the door and instructs, “Pick culla,” Vanna Whites me to the massage chair. The chair is not in a private room; it’s beside the drying tables in a loud crowded area, so it might be a little hard to relax. For $30.00 it will do. I spread my legs and hunch into the chair, nuzzling my face into a leathery catcher’s mitt cradle apparatus, careful in my movements so as not to nick the polish.

I imagine James turns a timer for my 15-minute slot with him. It’s hard to completely relax when your masseuse punctuates his moments with you with “Bubye, come again. Bubye now.” And the occasional Korean bark. But I try. I try to clear my mind and stay in the present, reminding myself to drop my shoulders and relax my neck. He spends some time on my neck, pushing in knots and points with his fingers, hard. When massages are too hard, I sometimes try to will the clock forward and pray for the ding. But this is perfect. It feels like relief, and I imagine having a lover. It’s been too long since someone has touched me like this, so selflessly. Massages are intimate, especially near the wrists. I wish he’d spend more time on my neck and the base of my scalp. Instead, he spends a lot of time fannying about near my breasts. But it’s a massage, so you’re not quite sure he’s crossing the line. I mean, maybe he thinks your pectoral muscles are sore from all that lifting you do. Clearly James doesn’t know me very well. But as he’s massaging my neck with the palms of his hands, his fingers continue creeping lower and lower. It was like he was digging in a desk drawer for my pink erasers. He wouldn’t be satisfied until he found at least one.

Then he moves toward the outside, rolling my shoulders. It becomes a silent war. He pushes my shoulders back, to prop my chest up off the chair, so his hands can swing around to the front. “Okay, yes, bubye.” He says in a smile and nod to the regulars as they leave. He can’t get quite what he’s after because I won’t budge. I’m stiff full of stubborn, and there’s no way this man is getting in there. I know, you think I might be imaging things. I think so too, so I remind myself to exhale. Then, I swear to god, I hear his zipper. My eyes blink open, but his pants are zipped closed. Okay, sweetheart, breathe. And just as I begin to, his hands navigate toward my waistline, grabbing around it, hard. My eyes open again. It’s like I’m being taken from behind during good, dirty spank me seex. But then his hands zoom up and reach into my corner pockets. He begins to massage my sweaty armpits. I’m hoping I don’t smell all over his hands. I’m hoping he’ll just stick to my neck again. Instead he begins to spend all too much time trying to massage the sides of my breasts, trying to dig his fingernails under my weight. I’m telling you, it’s war. My body leans and pushes into the chair in protest. It’s my armor. I know I should tell him to just focus on my neck, but it seems impolite. Like telling an ugly boy who keeps calling you that you just want to be friends before he’s really led on that he’s interested in more than friendship. I mean, maybe it’s all in my head, and then I just seem rude. Isn’t my time up yet?

Then he massages my palms, in a deep, I’m really trying to fcuk you way. Almost how a guy tries to show you how he’ll go down on you through a kiss. It’s their little preview. He then whispers to me, “Good massage no? Ha ha.” He actually says Ha. Ha. He doesn’t laugh. Then it happens. He stands behind me and rubs his hard penis against my back. I’m not confused; his pants don’t have pockets. He has wood. I want to leave. I blurt, “Has it been 15 minutes?”
“Oh, no it’s been haf owa. Fo you, special massage. Not so busy today. Good time now.”
Then he pulls my shoulders off the chair and massages my temples and taps on my chin, then cheekbones, giving me a facial without the cream or the extractions. Then his hand begins to open my lips. I know my saliva is on his hand, and I try to tighten my lips closed, but I can’t quite do it. Then he leans in again and pushes the weight of himself against me. And it becomes clear that I just had a happy ending massage, except my masseuse was the one with the happy ending.

camp hamptons

View all the hamptons pics >>

Some people over adjective.  You can’t believe them; they’re not reliable authors.  “How was your weekend?” you ask.  “A-MAZE-ING.”  You know they’re embellishing, just look at her shoes.  She thinks it’s what you want to hear.  How was the party?  “Soooooo good.”  She uses the same level of enthusiasm about her dates, vacations, and dry baked salmon.  I don’t do this.  This weekend in the Hamptons was yummy.  Or as Kim would say, “yumsies.”   

The Hamptons are like sleep-away camp with heels. You leave packed with a pillow, towels, bottled water, and glossy magazines.  Your real life stops counting; it’s left behind with your doorman and throw pillows.  Work, worries, will he calls genuinely fly out the window when you inhale… you smell grass and wet bark.  You’ve arrived, and now you’re giddy.  You know it’s going to be fantastic.  You know it like summer, the taste of cherries, rosé wines, and open toed shoes.  You turn the radio up with your arrival song:  “Lay a whisper on my pillow… leave the winter on the ground…”

You do a drive by of B. Smiths.  You can almost taste the brine.  But it’s late, and things are closed.  You settle for Chex mix and white wine at Magnolias.  You’re in Sag Harbor again, dangling your pointy shoe under the table, smiling, and exchanging hopes for the summer.  You share a room with your friends, giggling, and telling stories as you grip handfuls of your sweet smelling summer comforter, until voices become punctuated with silence.  I'm so glad I met you.  I'm so glad you're my friends.  Even your dreams that night are set in the Hampton house beset with new faces.  You wake with cravings of ice cream from the Ice Cream Club, because everything in the Hamptons have a clubby feel, even the parlor.  But you won't eat ice cream because the sun might peek, and that means a bathing suit.  And besides, you want a flat tummy for the evening.  New summer friends and memories are ready for the taking… if only you can remember their names.  You’re already researching tickets to the 4th of July clambake.  This is going to be a fantastic summer… you just hope to remember it all.

I remember:
Palming the cokctail list from Magnolias and slipping it into my pony skin bag for ideas.  The smell of bacon in the morning.  Sausage.  The rain.  Being so excited to share a story with your friends, you can’t wait until everyone else leaves.  He shaved his goatee.  He showed up at 4am, out of breath.  Oh, now, it all makes sense.  Didn’t I tell you his penis was enormous?  Even if it’s a superficial side of me, it’s one worth exploring.  I bet he’d love to explore any side of you.  I can still feel him in my stomach.  I’m sorry, did she just clap with her feet?  Sweetheart. He called me sweetheart; I bet that's what he called his girlfriend all the time.  But the reality is… with a bob, in the corner, inviting herself to dinner with Mark and Robbie.  The smell of warm.  Wolfer’s Vinyard.  Jennifer missing her friend Jeff.  Photographing the clouds.  Rain dribbling off the pool umbrella.  Everyone is still asleep.  I can't believe we're so immersed in our little world out here that we missed Ronald Regan's death.  Graphing Linus outside, Eric’s sunglasses, boys doing martial arts with a broom handle in the basement.  Outfitting a twin mattress with king sized bedding.  Discussions, actual discussions, about where to keep our toiletries.  Jennifer volunteering me to cook.  I forgot to pack underwear!  Kim adding “ies” to everythingsy.  Consulting the girls on my outerwear.  Knowing Jennifer would lose my jean jacket.  Scarf tops.  Smokey eyes.  Toe thong stockings.  I can’t believe I forgot to pack panties!  You can't even believe who I ran into this morning!!!  I loved that I was with a hot boy when I ran into him.  Shopping in East Hampton: white Capri jeans, an hermes scarf, pearl cluster ring, hanky panky panties, silky lacy blue lingerie, Kors flip flops, and orange H shoes. 

Offering the waiter at Saracen a fan of three credit cards to pay for dinner, only to learn J.J had taken care of our bottles of wine, 3 appetizers, 3 entrees, 3 desserts and all 3 of us… Charlies Angel’s… J.J. was our Charlie… what a classy gesture.  I don’t have one man in my life who would ever do that for me and my friends.  So I’ll drink more wine and try not to think about that.  Stuffed figs.  Getting to The Star Room in a gaggle of cars with tinted windows, strangers as drivers, smelling the grass, just not the outdoor kind.  VIP room, with bottle service… he ordered us wine because we already started… and wouldn’t change to vodka.  He asks me, “Where’s your friend with the dark hair?”  “She’s sucking face in the other room.  Hey you snooze you lose my friend.”

Running into Scott Sartiano at The Star Room… he made me smile.  I remembered his tennis injury and acting classes.  He shook his head smiling, and said, “I never got anywhere with you.  No matter how hard I tried.  You wouldn’t even make out with me.  Nothing.”  Why is there a flower tucked behind his ear?  He’s on TV, and his show is my second choice when Law & Order isn’t on.  Wait, tell me again, how did you get from talking to a stranger to putting your hand on his cokc?  I don’t really remember.  But it felt good.  “I can’t believe you just grabbed my dick like that.  How awesome.  Do it again.” 

Leftover cold mushroom and sausage pizza at 3:30 am.  Composing a buttermilk biscuit strawberry shortcake at 3:34 am.  “I dialed NJ hoping I left the dirty voicemail on the right person’s machine.”  When he left to say goodbye, he lifted me in a hug, and swung me around the living room.  I didn’t want to let go.  I wanted to visit your room last night, but I didn’t.  Don’t play dumb now.  Who’s playing? 

Jen’s malted. Eggs, sausage with syrup, French fries.  Photography exhibit at Pierre’s.  He’s the photographer for W Magazine?  Um, where’s the fact checker?  I’m about to do something really really dirty.  I love it.  You sing Opera?  Do it now.  What do I have to do to get you in the mood?  Donuts and coffee.  Our room the morning after, clothes strewn like the clothes of lovers.  David Gray.  Eva Cassidy.  Michael Pecker stopping at our table asking me about Erik.  How is he?  What is he up to these days?  “He’s a surgeon and an asshole.  Just not in that order.”  Well I don’t care whom it makes uncomfortable.  Then don’t fcuking ask me.  I’m such a ho.  I’ve had seex with two people in the past 24 hours.  She’s been eating retard sandwiches all day.  “Oooh yum, those are so good.  I eat them all the time.”

If that’s not camp conversations, musical beds, midnight raids, junk food, and suntan lotion… well you went to the wrong camp.   

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the past

He pointed out the empire state building as we waited for a cab. He wanted to make sure I got home safely. I love that. He pointed up, and I swooned just a little, pretending it was the heels. Heels are a wonderful excuse. Immediately I thought An Affair to Remember and conjured up Cary Grant, right there beside me, as we hailed our cab north. Yes north.

It’s Wednesday night, but I’m too giddy for that. See, usually I’m feeling this way on a Thursday, and man, I’m already thinking Saturday… when I see him again. And as always, our time will be too short and too public. But that’s what comes of dating with napkins and handiwipes. We’re not exactly building walls. I mean, neither of us is laying brick, but we’re cautious, as adult wounded lovers tend to be… like people who have done the burned out on an idea or a hope thing. People who’ve retired the habits of you’re persistent and cute and happen to really like me types. Now, we’re looking back. Is this a fit? Truth? It’s too damn early. So, we’re dating on Wednesdays and tolerating good night kissing in front of doormen. It’s a revolving door, and if they touch you for only a moment, you’re all lucky. But amazingly, this realistic is completely adorable, fcukable, and someone you’ve got your fingers crossed about. He’s good people… or at least you hope so. You hope he doesn’t let you down, instead of expecting that he will. You’ve got hope again, and that’s wonderful. Better, even, than Cary Grant.

Posting past memories is confusing and dangerous. Everyone calls... who is this guy? But this guy is gone. But the hope for finding the feelings again will always be with me... I can't let go of hope... it's like the last 5 pounds. It's not worth it.

obituaries

At what age do you start reading the obituaries?
I swear, I would be clueless about who died without my father.  He reads them every day on the toilet.  When I was in college, he phoned to tell me my former best friend Nichele’s mother, Marni Klinsky, had died.  Nich and I stopped speaking our senior year of high school.  Still, years later, I stopped.  I turned.  I literally began to run for a train, in exactly what I was wearing, and headed straight to the funeral.  I might have called work. 

As much as I hate Todd sometimes, I had a life with him.  I picked up his socks, pet his head when he was sick, laughed with him, traveled with him, borrowed his ties for belts, slept in his shirts, shared a toothbrush from time to time, definitely his razor, and I loved him very very much.  We had a full real life together.  When his maternal grandfather died, I wrote his obituary speech for him to give.  Some people just don’t know how to say it, or what to say. 

Today, I learned his paternal grandmother died.  He was not close with her, despite seeing her often.  That’s a long story, and not mine to tell.  She was always kind to me, though, but I don’t belong at the funeral.  Actually, unlike my immediate need to turn and run to the train, not one impulse in my body tells me to go.  It’s not my life anymore, and I’m not a comfort to any of them. And I don’t want to be.  It wasn’t my life anymore when Marni died either.  But I went, and paid a shiva call.  I loved Marni, and Nich Klinsky.  I still do.  I always will.  I wanted to comfort Nichele and her brother Stew.  I will always want that.  I love them, depsite not speaking to them since college.

I know Todd doesn’t need my comfort.  And I’m not sure I could ever give it.  I guess I love Todd, but I also hate him for his recklessness.  Relationships should have obituaries, so everyone knows what happened in a succinct line or two.  I know his immediate family doesn’t need comfort, still, it’s a sad time, and it’s always nice to know people care.  And I do… which surprises me.  You only have one mother.   

restraint

My pits were fine, but my apartment was a mess. I had to begin with the bedside table; it speaks volumes about who you are. It's like your smell or your choice of shoes. I rearranged my bedside table book arrangement, putting the French soapbox filled with condoms to the top of the stack. Some might check the book titles for anything scary: “Father Hunger” “Overcoming Overeating” “The Needy & Greedy” and be quick to shove them in the sock drawer. But since I’m frighteningly open, I leave them on display. A vase with Gerber Daisy’s, a carafe of drinking water, my eye mask, and the pill were now somehow orderly. Dusting won’t hurt. After fabreezing my bed linens, including all the pillows cause who knows which one he’ll end up using, and placing clean towels in the bathroom, I took out the trash. Then I was naked, cleaning my apartment, pre third date. I hadn’t decided what to wear, but I knew I wouldn’t invite him in unless the place was representative of the me you all know and love. It had to at least be tidy.

Random bits of mail were shoved in a bag, DVDs in their sleeves, fcuking music with the touch of a button. Fresh cut flowers arranged in the living room, beside the bed, and yes, even in a Tiffany’s tissue vase in the bathroom beside the matches. I was ready for a sleepover. Well almost. I was running late.

Late meant Frizz Ease and a hair clip. It meant one eye shadow, no time for contouring a duo. It meant brushing my teeth and washing my puss puss. There was no time for a shower and full make-up; see there’s an attitude to being put together in a hurry. It’s a good one. All women should know how to do this. Fabreeze, fresh flowers, Frizz Ease, a quick vagina cleaning, some seexy unmentionables, and you’re ready. Okay, some gloss out the door. Oh, yeah, perfume, but how French whore... I'll skip it. Okay, I'll add a little.

It was all for nothing. Okay, not all. See, he reads my blog daily, and says the stories in person are better because, "you smell better than your stories online." So thankful to the designer of Creed. Loving the last minute sprtiz. “He showed such restraint, particularly when faced with $300 perfume quite literally made for a queen.” Says Yasmin. Sadly, he walked me home, offering me his arm, and when we turned corners, he ensured he was on the outside, near the curb. Sadly, because he was a gentleman. Kissing him was delicious. I wanted to hold onto it, have it last for more than the scant dusting of moments it did. But asking him up seemed cheap, cause I was with a gentleman now. It's hard to really fcuk a gentleman. Now I want to know him, really, and his schedule is so busy, and I need to be patient, and inviting him up felt too “this will never last.” So now I’m at home with a clean crotch, flowers by the bed, and the best made bed in town. I have to wait another week to see him. I better keep the place clean. Linus, do you hear that?

awe shucks

“Don’t cut yourself.” I can smell the sea from his blue sofa as he shucks us more oysters. I’m wrapped in his childhood blanket, working on my fiction writing. I’m thankful that Linus is home and I can keep my socks. It’s too cold to go out—all of Manhattan is prohibitively inside. The city smells of burning wood and cold.

The other night, we hit Aquagrill—picked five out of twenty-five different types of oysters and slurped. Shit, I ate them so fast I forgot about the mignonette. Later in the evening, in from the cold, we dove under covers, where the sheets were too cold—he let me put my cold hands and feet on his warmest parts. Tented in my white down bed I commanded, “Tell me a story.” It was a plead. He was tired and his voice was growing dim. He began, anyway, with the story of Phebius. It’s 2:00 a.m.

It’s 9:45 a.m. I don’t want to get out of my nest, but my to-do list has grown—off to breakfast—let’s go. “So how did you enjoy my bedtime story last night?”

I never remember these stories; I only enjoy them when he retells them to me the next day over eggs. Phebius was destitute; pockets inside out broke, with a family to feed. I imagined little baby birds, beaks open and chirping… waiting for a tube of worm. Phebius prays to god, “Please, I’m a good man—please help me through this.” He grips the earth and prays aloud. He rests his forehead in his hands and notices beneath him a rock that wasn’t previously there. It’s symmetric and unlike any rock he’s ever seen. “Dumb rock.” He chucks it, and he buries his head in his hands. Another rock, this time, hits his foot. He is literally stuck. He begins to bang this odd rock into another to crack it. He’s certain it can be pried open. He uses his tools, but to no avail. His wife! She would have something, as all good women always do. Her nail file is used to pry open the rock. It’s no rock at all, in fact, there’s a liquidy glob inside, a tonsil in a pearly shell, and what’s this bead? How lovely. Our young Phebius has done it. He sets up a booth, with ketchup and horseradish… fresh shucked oysters… pearl earrings, broaches, and heavy necklaces are sold by the wife.

Behind every great man is a woman with a nail file.

sacrificial

Crusty bread, yielding sticky in the center, a shimmer pool of red wine reduction, deep in flavor, brilliant cranberry stain. Lamb shanks, fragrant rosemary, the skin sticky with brown tasty bits. Petite carrots trimmed like beginner pencils, float. I have arrived at my station. A glass of Shiraz and some Jackson Brown. Won’t you stay?

Lingers of moments, aftertaste of thoughts. Celery for balance, your smile for a laugh. The way you tell a story and play with your hair. The hair on the back of your head, I grab it to kiss you, hard and delicious. I taste you still. All I have left is hope and optimism. It tastes good with leftover lamb.

greek tragedy

In high school I was "Moose," the fat smart-ass president of the science club—oh yes I was, too. Upon my arrival at college, I was thin and on my way to becoming a writer. I was popular and fashionable. What do popular thin girls do at college? They pledge.

Sororities at Columbia University are like ketchup; they’re a condiment to a social life. They’re not the burger, or even the fries. Still, I saw “Revenge of The Nerds,” and I wanted to be Betty, one of the girls walking around in a tight Greek shirt smiling.

Rush night, I’m decked in an espresso brown gabardine suit, white French cuff top, Gucci vintage bag; I’m brown envy. We’re made to visit rooms of different sororities, housed in an official building. Each sorority had a room, where we toured, introducing ourselves in our own small clusters of a rush group. I was friendly and polite. Stacked up names and tried to use them again, to feign interest. “Oh thanks so much, nice meeting you Simone.” I was even nice at the sorority known as “the one with the dogs.” Once I met the girls from the “good sorority” I was swarmed. They were attracted to me, could tell I was salt of the same earth…

They were in a room decorated like the sea. Thick sheets of blue paper lined the institute gray walls, craft paper cut into pits of green seaweed were tacked on, layers of streamers. A crab or two. You get the point. They had a “getting to know you” exercise where you write your name on a construction paper fish cut-out. Then besetting your name, you write adjectives which explain who you are. Okay, here’s where my brain kicks in and the Guicci bag just dangles. I’m a big believer in SHOW DON’T TELL. Don’t tell me you’re classy; send me a thank you note. They wanted cookie cutter answers. Adjectives like Friendly, Sweet, Caring. All I could think: Ew.

“I have social skills and would much rather talk to people than draw a fish about myself. But here ya go. All done.” I handed over the trout. On my way out, one of the lead girls, who was also dressed in a tailored suit, told me she was very glad to have met me, and she was looking forward to getting to know me better. I was in. Besides, it's not like I wrote: ABRASIVE.

The next evening, we picked up our bid envelops, telling us which sororities wanted our pledges. Unlike the other envelopes fanned in alphabetical order, mine was cast off to the side. Biffy (I swear to god, her name was actually Biffy) offered me an awkward smile as she handed me my envelope.

No one wanted me. I was the only one in the entire rush not wanted by anyone. Even the pimply faced dog fat girls got bids. You know the types. They walk around in tapered jeans and line the back seat of their cars with small stuffed animals. It was heart breaking. I never told anyone, until now, as I type this at 1:12 AM in the thunderstorm. Instead, I said “People without social skills join sororities at city schools. I’m too much of an individual.” An individual who went to her dorm alone and cried. No one wanted me.

I wonder why, sure. Why didn’t they want me? I wonder the same way anyone does anytime there is even a slight rejection—from a job, a party, a date, even your own lover or spouse. You recount steps and replay conversations, trying really hard, squinting in thought. You endure the crap ass clichés… it just wasn’t meant to be… when a door closes, a window opens. You cry through your held smile.

Here’s what I say now: Go outside.

Realize it’s a sliver of your life, and we all die alone. Realize the only individual who should have that much power over your happiness should be you. Look around you, find the stars. Seriously, look up. Realize there’s a universe outside your small reality. With the time you’ve got here, learn to make yourself happy—just you, on your own. And enjoy the view. Do what you must to hold it and be able to recreate it. How do I do it? I write. Not in a tight Greek top smiling… but on a terrific Greek web site, for everyone, but really, just for me.

Stephanie Klein

maritime meat

“You’re from Syosset aren’t you?”
“Mmhmm. Yes.”
“Okay, fine, I know you’re Nathalie Portman, and I think you’re fabulous.”
“Oh thank you.” She is small, but her smile is big and genuine.
“I’m sure all your friends must be sick of drunks coming up and falling all over you.” (I'm talking about myself, of course... and how lame was my opening line...)
“No, no, it’s nice.”

Half the Maritime Hotel smells of smoked luncheon meat. The other half looks like meat… or at least the clientele does. Except for Nat (we’re tight now), the bar is meaty.

Lovely breasts everywhere, lots of bare shoulders (are knitted shawls now granny cool hot?), mini skirt wearers look concerned when skirt misbehaves, "it didn't ride up like this in the store." Spike haired men suck in their cheeks and pretend they’re models, always looking toward the back of the room. Men in funky t-shirts, wear blazers and canvas shoes. Women with too much make up smile too hard, they’ve been practicing in the rearview mirror of their cars on the ride over the bridge. The fatties have tits working for them, and the waifs pile on red lipstick and pout, too afraid to get lipstick on their teeth with a smile. What is up with men and jewelry? Guys, chains and pinkie rings are worse than a Brooklyn accent, unless you’re Jude Law. And the too young to even be in here guys must know someone working the door. They pretend they’re older with the help of some gum, chewing hard to compensate for their undeveloped jaw line. And the man who offers you the drink takes 20 minutes to fetch it, hoping to meet his wife on his way. His only chance is the 40 year old woman too botoxed to give him the eye.

And then Average Joe’s, Zack Cohen and Adam Mesh walk in. I’ve known Zack since he was in third grade. I’ve seen him throw temper tantrums and beat up his sister, Hillary, my best friend from high school. Lovely seeing Zack. Lovelier meeting Nat. Then home with Michael, my best male friend, in a cab headed north. Oh behave.

just a sliver

I had a full night, jam packed with moments, the kind you want to really hold and keep, like letters from grandparents. I don’t remember hands, but touch. I strain to see eyes, but I get stares. Sandwiched into my down comforter, it is all unwound, curling like one long strip of apple peel.

Things were cloudy, and I was unsure of what was said, almost like dreaming. But I was awake reaching for the slivers of insight, head cokced. I should have remembered. And what I did remember didn't seem right, didn't reflect my smile, or my giggle into my pillow. I tried to recount the moments, glimpses, and touches. I hardly remember even the simplest things. It was like a sliver. I fell asleep smiling.

kingsmont, colang & shane

Sounds like a law firm, but in fact it’s a series of fat camps I attended in my youth. 

(Me at 15 years old with my sister Lea)  Click here to view some camp photos >>

Summer of 1989, I remember most Kate Hart and Marguerite Bennetts.  Loved Kate.  Mags threw a shoe at my head. 

I’m testing my memory here, for those fellow fat farmers who might google their own name… they hopefully will come across this page and leave me a note.  Share a memory… the power of blogs. 

Rebecca Sharzer, Susan Longton, Carolyn Hiller, Bianca Strul, Sharon Listinger, Shiva Baum, Eric Fink, Adam Glick, Jon Plesset, Joeseph Schwartz, Danielle Leader, Chris Morro, Nicholas Miron, Jessica Heinz

Kate Hart, Kirsten Jensen, Jared Held, Juan JiJan, Devra Keating, Shelly Ricciardi, Becky Klein, Marc Manoli, Lizzy Steele, Christi D’Agnes, Stephanie DeMarco, Paul Gately, Aleeza Zeiger, Jeremy Pores (Wuba), Ron Ramsey, Chris Villano, Jessica Borer, Matty Catanzaro, Ike & Even Hasbrouck, Matthew Buckles

Casey Clark, Stacey Dunn, Deb Furst, Ira Katz, Laura Schwartz, Randy Carimeyer, Lauren Berger, Bonnie Cooper, Anthony Cicogna, Mindy Jones, Lisa Kalish, Ami Kastner, Nicole Klosty,  Ilana Kameros, Jenna Kronberg, Howie Marcus, Jayme Anker, Scott Wallach, Matthew Salzmon, Traci Stolman, Lara Scaff, Joanna Schecter, Tiffany Ajmo, Isa Bolton, Mia Talerico (Mia Tyler), Hillary Cohen

Click here to view some camp photos >>

big A in the big A

If you've read any bit of the mythology section of this site, you know The Big A, Adam James Lis. Who, as you can see by his photo with me, is not at all a myth. He's pretty much as good as they make 'em. But I'll leave the gods out of this. We can summon them later.

We met at fat camp when I was only 14 years old. I suspect you've heard my stories about how the couselors used to smell my breath before bedtime to ensure I wasn't sneaking chocolate, how King Size Snicker's bars cost you 5 bucks in the fatty black market, and how Domino's phone calls were made sighting a nearby house as the delivery address, where campers would sneak off to meet the delivery man at the random mailbox for the goods. Since everyone was fat, everyone was promiscuous. After a drought at home, you came to Kingsmont to get fat flooded. Fat boys, boys with man boobs even, were breaking up with girls because they wouldn't give them head. They had expectations at camp. I could write a book about it. Oh wait, I am.

Adam calls me "Klein" not Stephanie. Over dinner with Jen and Marius at Blue Ribbon Sushi, Adam described why:
Jen: "I love that you call her Klein."
Adam: "I call her Klein, I guess, because when we were younger, I might have accidentally called her Stephi." Then Adam makes the sound of a gun safety being turned off, the gun is ready to fire. Chkt. Chkt. in his pocket. "You don't want to piss her off. Klein was just safe." Then he smiles so big you could fit wheels of sushi rolls in there. What? I'm just never going to be a Stephi. It's so not me.

I guess I can be a little abrasive. A little? He reminds me that I broke up with him one evening because he smelled faintly of cigarette smoke.
"Did you smoke today?"
"No, Klein, I didn't. What's wrong with you?"
"You did too." I smell his clothes. I make him kiss me. "See, there. I fcuking taste it, you liar."
"Awe Steph I..."
"Don't even. You lie to me about smoking, who knows what else you will lie about. I won't date a liar." Then I turned and left poor Adam crying on the dirt road, which divided girls camp from the rest of it. It was dark as I walked up the hill alone, and all I heard were his sobs and a faint, "Oh Klein, please."

Despite that, Adam was my best everything for a long damn time. We all have that person, or sometimes people, in our lives who at one point or another had a monumental influence on who we are today. I mean, we're all photo collages, each snapshot of life makes us the who you see before you in a green sweater and glasses at her desk drinking her Starbucks. See he knows all my faults and somehow still things I'm the shite. And I'm the same way. And it's really nice to have friends in our lives who love us despite our tragic flaws, love us in part, even, because of them. These are the people that help me laugh until I snort at myself. So now I'll summon the gods, and say, please watch over him all the way over in Boston. Kiss him on his sweet head and guide him on his long ass journey through Harvard and medicine and chemistry. He's good damn people. Simply put, he's fabuLIS.

See all the pics from the night >>

bellevue

I saw you this morning.
I was fueling up with espresso on my corner, but my hair was clipped up, so maybe you couldn’t tell it was me, staring at you. See, my sunglasses were on, too, and my face was tilted—and with the way angles can distort, I was any other Upper Breast Side woman with a nice rack. But nothing about the moment was ordinary. I was digging through my pony skin Anya Hindmarch bag, the one I left on the train but finally got back thanks to the kindness of strangers and destiny. While I burrowed for two quarters, I suddenly had to look up, and that’s when it happened. I froze in Starbucks, where they make hot coffee to ward off the cold. A navy blur of you, outside the glass windows, I’m sure of it. You’re in running clothes, and you’re irresistible in them. You think I’ve got more issues now, think I’m mildly crazy even, for liking a guy in sweats, or a t-shirt hanging musty with your sweat. But it’s seexy, and I’m not the girl who cares if you suggest I’m crazy because normal is dull. Normal is coffee from a street vendor. Normal sucks in bed. It’s too late for you to be standing here. It’s completely illogical, but I wanted the guy outside Starbucks who I was certain was you… to be you… for what it’s worth. Call me crazy.

birthday babe kimberly

(Top Shelf: Rachel, Steph, Jen Choi; Bottom Deck: Lauren, Samantha, Birthday babe Kim)
View all the pics of the pretties from the night >>
I’ve hit a new low.  It’s 4:03 am on Sunday. I can’t go to sleep yet because there is eye makeup to deal with, water to be had, a pill and a helping of Advil to be ingested, and most importantly images to be uploaded off my Nikon.  Somehow my hair still smells like smoke despite Bloomberg.  An infomercial keeps me company: The Slimming Pants.  They show a bunch of fatties with bulges squeezed into product like swirled sausage meat in thin casing.  Then the craptacular before and after, and guess what?  After ain’t lookin’ so good.  Ladies, invest in a padded bra; divert attention from the thighs. Next.

My highlights of the evening… finding a top to match my necklace, hair highlights, drinking tomato soup from a glass, Kim’s sentimental dinner toast, watching Suzara stir her drink with a lollypop, feeling envy for Choi and Richard, helping Hanser decide between bare legs or lace beneath her leather hotpants, hamburgling in my Gucci, catching up with Rachel & Witts, sweeping my finger into cupcake icing, cabbing home with my UWS buddy system Monique, donning a clear plastic head cap in the rain—I’m so ghetto, girlfriends.

I just love the birthday babe, Kimberly.  She includes everyone in her conversations, sweeping her manicured nails across your arm.  Regardless of subject, whenever Kimberly speaks, she is all class, distinction, and sophistication.  Yet, she envelops with her touch; her laugh is as warm and inviting as fire.  Everyone is a sweet lovie to my sweet lovie Kim, except when we can’t stand someone, in which case, she’s always got a reserved seat beside me. 
View all the pics of the pretties from the night >>

patrick mcmullen's annual st. patrick's day party

Green food didn't mean green beer and no. 5. Guacamole, salads, shiny granny smiths courtesy of Power Foods filled the lobby of Avalon (formerly slimelight). Paper shamrocks, rockers, lots of photographers flooded the "No cameras permitted in the club" venue for photographer Patrick McMullen's Annual St. Patrick's Day Party. Mr. North, an Irish band, rocked the house... the place was jammed with beautiful people, peppered with ugly oldies that must be important...just not to me. Overall, it was one of those nights where I should have a crazy story to tell, but the truth is, I would have done better at home, in bed, reading Middleseex.
View photos from the party >>

kool in the haas

It was chilling enough approaching The Women’s National Republican Club, never mind the idea that a building with this name even exists. Then go ahead and add some snow, pile on the slush. Architect Rem Koolhaas believes in the idea of societal improvement. The quick pulse of global change energizes him, leaving him confident and optimistic. Why, for the love of god, was the launch for his new "book" Content (hosted by Jeff Koons) housed at the Republican Club, a club chockablock with Christie Todd Whitman look-a-likes? Hemlines never rise above the calf; ankles are crossed, just like the women. Can you smell the Pledge, and yes, that is a portrait of Nancy Regan.

I didn't "get it." Any of it. When Koolhaas addressed the audience of cheese-cube-popping-personnel, I made certain to grab a good look at the steely man. His nose was a wedge of sharp cheese, and everything about him was gray, even his eyes. I studied him to ensure I wouldn't end up spitting out a shoelace if I put my foot in my mouth later in the evening by speaking my mind, "Yeah, this is all a bit too affected, wouldn’t you say? I mean, really, what’s up with this pseudo political architecture zine? Just do me a favor will you? You’re tall. Let me know when you see the Spanikopita lady? Enough with the Satay sticks already, right?" Thankfully, the only words passed between us were please and thank you, the before and the after extended as he signed the Prada advertisement, Page 1 of his book.

However, the opportunity yielded offline chats with Jen, Dahlia, Rion, Michael, Tony, Rob, Phobe, and of course Matt Caldecutt, who was my ticket to ride. The most interesting groove of my evening was meeting bloggers in person. "Oh my, I know you. You just commented on my site today!" Indeed I had, and today all I want to do is download Tony's tunes.

More on this event:
Tien Mao on Rem Koolhaas
Dahlia on Rem Koolhaas Book Launch
Tony on A Huge Portrait of Nancy Regan Filled My Dreams Last Night
Ron on The Fast-Paced Life of the Litterateur

here's the scope

Friday eve I hit The Hotel Gansevoort, camera in hand.  Scope New York, the international art fair, landed on the roof.  Lines were the theme, and we're not talking drawings.  Lines of patrons in the cold hoping to squeeze through the immense revolving door, lines for the elevator, lines for the bathroom (not IN the bathroom), and long winding lines for the booze. 

Half-naked women clad in clear plastic clothes handed out cum shots, which tasted of diluted sugar, not chicken soup.  These women reminded me of a passage that has to be written somewhere in some instructional love book, "How to please him every time--wrap it in Sarran Wrap." or something lame like that.  Plastic clothes should remain on hangers, should be yellow, and worn only with duck shoes and accompanying umbrella.  Tsk, tsk.  Take a look. 

I was just informed by a dear friend that Photographer Patrick McMullen kept touching my hair saying, "You must come to my St. Patty's Day Party with that red hair."  Why do people always have the need to touch my hair... and now I'm beginning to remember, I had to keep telling him I wasn't Irish.  "So what, no one will know."  This is true.  I always make out with the adult beverages on that holiday.  So look forward to that post.  Yum.

sideswiped

This morning I opted for black, all black, even my socks. And when I crossed the street for the subway, you called to me to kiss you good-bye. I hadn't realized you weren't coming with me.

And once I did finally cross the street after our good-byes, I leaned on the lamp post and watched you. I kept hoping you'd turn around to look back at me. Even when I knew you wouldn't be turning around, I watched your head and your black shoulders disappear. I was so full of love and want for you; in that moment I loved you as my own, like watching a child walk to school. I wanted to keep you safe and kiss your head. I wanted so much for us and for you...all in such a small moment. It's the last time I saw you, and in a way, it's as if I knew it would be.