Two Yuenglings, some underwear, and a glass of water

That's what we ordered when we got to CB's Gallery at sort of the intermission of Nicfit's day-long birthday "brunch." I thought I was being so wise and virtuous having water (you can see the underwear here), and might have even believed that I'd sobered up a fair bit by the time I headed uptown.
But then I scribbled this blog post in my Palm while in the cab:

did i ever tell you all about
how the cokehead alcoholic read all the blog archives and then asked me never to talk to him again? I never foond ootif it was that i stolehis Viagra, or that I felt like was slumming, or that i called him a cokehead alcoholic. But that's what he is; he must have known, right? maybe he would have preferred that i'd called him the bedwetter?

...and then passed out soon after arriving at Nomda's hotel room. When I awoke, she helpfully played the voicemail I'd left her, to banish any remaining misconceptions of sobriety.

Despite lots of sleep yesterday, I'm still recovering. So no, I did not get up at six this morning to run another 3.34 miles like I did on Sunday.

(While we're on the subject, latest running stats are:
Last Tuesday -- 2.75 miles in 39 minutes, 14.2 minutes/mile
Sunday -- 3.34 miles in 45 minutes, 13.5 minutes/mile
Today -- sweet, sweet sleep)

When you drank enough to send the very best

... and drunk dialing isn't good enough, Google introduces Mail Goggles.

Dude, I wish the Cokehead Alcoholic had had some kind of filter like this...

My last days of disco

Y recently asked me if I'd ever gone to Twilo during my crazy New York club days, before I became an old boring suburban lady. It got me thinking back on those days a bit, which perhaps I never talked about much here.

There was one night that the Cokehead Alcoholic took me to either Twilo or Tunnel, which were near each other on West 27th Street in Chelsea, so I honestly can't remember which one it was. It was fun, but it was also kind of strange for me, because I was more used to the fetish/goth scene of the meatpacking district, which was a much different kind of club scene. The clubs I most often went to, Mother and True were smaller, with a tight community of regular attendees. They definitely did not have a metal detector or pat-down at the door, like Twilo/Tunnel did.

Anyway, the night we went to the T club in Chelsea (whichever one it was) we were dressed in Edwardian fetish/goth attire, having stopped at Hellfire first (an underground sex club in the meatpacking district that was closed down when they built the hotels and gentrified the place). All our velvet and corsetry didn't exactly fit in with the ecstasy-fueled club-kid vibe of the place, so we did get searched upon entry, which was strange. Lots of raver kids, lots of drugs, we didn't stay very long. But I did think that, had I gone with someone else, and were I dressed appropriately and in a different mindset, it would have probably been fun. Sadly, I never made it back to check it out again before it closed.

I'd clubbed in Boston, LA, DC, Spain and Italy before I moved to New York, so I had a pretty good sample for comparison, and I think I caught the New York scene at a perfect moment. Before I got there things were nuts, with Michael Alig killing his drug dealer and club kids appearing on Oprah. By the time I got there, things had mellowed a bit so that it was a nice creative community without too much evil craziness.

To be fair, I didn't just sit on a balcony and watch, I threw myself into it pretty deep, so maybe I had a better experience because of that. I was friends with organizers, I danced in a cage (god I wish I'd saved that picture; they used it for promotion), I worked the door and decided who could and could not come in. I was going out four nights a week, doormen recognized me and I rarely paid to get in. I was fully invested, until I retired from the scene. (And it took a few tries, like Michael Jordan, before I really did retire.)

A few years later, clubs started to fall prey to the triple-whammy of Giuliani's quality-of-life/cabaret law crackdown; the inflated rents of the real estate boom; and the sobering climate of post-9/11 New York. Most of the clubs and parties I went to closed down around 2000-2001, and were replaced by gentrification and high-priced bottle service.

Which is now itself dying, so maybe we're on the edge of another golden age of clubbing. These things do tend to come in cycles. Of course, I'm also pretty old now, so maybe my opinion is for shit.

Caution - Whitecaps: Raging stream of consciousness ahead

You know what sucks about my new job?

I am no longer anywhere near the youngest in the office anymore, so I can no longer get away with being cute and charming to engender the goodwill that makes my job so easy to do. In addition, I am now far too old to be the kid in the office with the crazy social life who needs patience, compassion, and and some good boy advice.

I'm still not sure if it's a cause, or just a coincidence, that I fell for the Lumberjack while I was doing work on the new house. I've always liked a man who's handy around the house, and there were so few of them in New York. (Stef was taken, and the Cokehead Alcoholic was tolerated for as long as he was in large part because of his household skills.) Honestly, I was first interested after the dinner where we talked all night, and he was funny and we were right in synch. But it was after Ave told me about his woodworking tendencies that I had a reason to call him, and we had something to share.

And I know for a fact that after I saw his house, and all the beautiful work he'd done on it, that my heart skipped a beat and I gave up younger men for real. Younger men have crappy messy apartments, not lovely homes with bead board and fine detailing.

So here's where I went stupid. I asked him to do the cabinet work on my kitchen. As soon as I said it I regretted it. I've been very hesitant with this house. It took me forever to actually make an offer, and I considered pulling out a couple of times. Now it's over a month after I closed, and I'm still nowhere near moving in. Mum reminds me that when I was little, I wouldn't even wear new shoes until they'd been sitting around in the closet for a long while. I am very hesitant and cautious with new ventures, and I get skittish when someone steamrolls ahead of me.

So when the Lumberjack came over with all his tools, ready to rip cabinets out of my walls then and there, I freaked. What if he did a bad job? He seemed too confident, so I worried that he hadn't considered all the possible complications. What if he hurt himself? And would he let me pay him? Was he more likely to be insulted if I did offer, or if I didn't?

Really, I was a mess. Part of me loved that he wanted to do it for me; part of me just wanted him to refer me to a good person he trusted. And I felt like he was taking over, and he hasn't even kissed me yet.

So I told him I'd decided not to do the work at all.

Then I got a few more estimates from contractors. And 'Jack didn't talk to me for days.

Now I have one contractor coming Saturday morning to do the cabinets, a second contractor coming on Saturday afternoon to rehang the bathroom door -- and really, how am I going to explain to those two why neither of them are doing both jobs? But that's a separate issue.

And 'Jack was pouting today, and wouldn't let me come over to use his saw and pick up some wood and give him his thanks-you gift, and just kept saying "you should have let me do it the other day." And he sounded so angry that instead of being honest and telling him I got scared of mixing my personal life with my contracting job (as SereneRandomness so eloquently put it), I told him that I was afraid he might get hurt.

I am afraid of doing something wrong with this house. And I am afraid of doing something wrong with this guy, who I really do like. And somehow, I have combined these two disasters, and now he is leaving and I lied to him.

But at least there's a chance that the house will come out good....

Pie in the sky

For all the travelling I did this past week, it would have been nice if I had needed this. But the Biker was on another flight, and anyway, I've never understood the point or the logistics of the Mile-High Club. It seems destined for getting caught, and as much as I may be a drunken exhibitionist, I wouldn't want to have to deal with the irate co-flyers waiting in line for the bathroom when I get out.

Only once would I have considered it, on a foiled trip to San Francisco with the cokehead alcoholic. We were supposed to go to SF for Dan's wedding, stay with Ian and Zanne for two days, and then head off to a hotel for two days. The day before, about 14 hours before our scheduled departure on American, he bailed for what I eventually found out was a typical reason: he had to attend a class for an old DUI conviction.

Which he'd never told me about, of course.

The conviction had happened in PA, right before he moved to NY, and the two states have some sort of agreement that let him fulfill his community service and class requirements in NY. But it had taken a while to get it all sorted out, and when they finally scheduled him, the class was starting right before our trip.

He didn't tell me, because he didn't want me to know he had a DUI record. So he went to the first class, which was the night before we left, and tried to negotiate a postponement, as sessions were scheduled for while we were gone. When he couldn't reschedule, he had to call me and tell me he couldn't go on our trip.

Of course, we broke up, the first time of several.

But back to the point of this post . . . when I got on the flight, my seat, and his empty one, were in this little private compartment in front of the Coach section. We were to the right of the plane galley, so across the aisle from us was a solid wall. There was another wall behind our seats, enough leg room in front of us to fit another row of seats, but it was empty, and a wall in front of that space. Then even though there was a wall on the other side of the aisle, there was a curtain on our side. It was a room designed for in-flight sex, the head of the bulkhead.

A totally bizarre, perfectly designed opportunity for Mile-High entry, and me flying all alone.

So I swapped seats with a nursing mother, since I didn't need the privacy, and I didn't want to be taunted with it for eight hours.

One of my own to play with

Wednesday night, I was seven different types of id on display. I know this is hard to believe from a blogger, but most of the time I hold quite a bit in. I don't speak my mind half as often as I'd like, and that's probably in everyone's best interest (particularly mine; see musician uproar).

But the other night at Daddy O, I was at ease among good friends, so I was telling stories that were, as TK puts it, surprisingly frank. I think that the comfort level, not the martinis, was how we got to talking about morning sex. Oh, and the fact that I was sort of trying to seduce Bachelor #2, or maybe just mess with him a little bit.

Back when I was first dating the cokehead alcoholic, he lived on the Lower East Side, in a nicely renovated apartment with a bedroom that flooded with morning light. My bedroom on the Upper East Side looked out onto an air shaft, and never got any natural light at any time.

Unaccustomed as I was to daylight, I was awake at the crack of dawn whenever I slept over his place. Accustomed as he was to the conditions of his own apartment, and usually sleep-deprived from the activities of the night before, he was most definitely not awake.

Oh, how I tried to be good.

I would cover my head with the blankets. I would look for something to read. I would repeat sleep-inducing mantras in my head.

But when I'm awake that early and next to the boy, there's only one way I'm going back to sleep, and that's post-coitally.

I'd start with the foot. I'd wrap my foot around his ankle, while still trying to keep my body away from his. I was turned away, but the foot would reach back. Slowly I'd creep back over to his side of the bed, trying very hard to be good, and failing miserably, until finally he'd say, without opening his eyes, and having given no indication of when he'd woken up, "You're not going back to sleep anytime soon, are you?"

Then he'd jump me.

Then we'd both call in sick to work (if it was a weekday), we'd have some breakfast, watch some cartoons, fool around some more, and eventually have a nap.

This one morning, though, when he woke up, he reached under the bed and handed me a wrapped box. In it was a strap-on, complete with harness.

I was lying in bed, in his t-shirt and soccer shorts, and I strapped it on right over the shorts. But I'd put it on facing upside-down, so I had to check his to see which way it goes. Then I turned mine around so it was right-side up. Then I was prancing around the apartment with this thing over my shorts. He just watched me and laughed a bit.

Finally I got back in bed. I lay there, flicking at it,
ping
ping
ping
and giggling. And he said, "See, that's why I gave it to you. Because I knew you just wanted one of your own to play with."

I know I totally forgot about him in the last post, and then what I appended wasn't too flattering. So let me say once, for the record -- I will always love him. When I see someone who looks like him on the subway, my heart still skips a beat. But I wish it didn't. It's more than the drinking, and the (probably continuing) drug use. We have different expectations from life, and I always felt like I was holding myself back by staying with him.

But he made me laugh, he gave me some drama to keep it interesting, and believe it or not, I was happy.

8, 8, I forgot what eight was for...

The other day, after I told Stan that I was done with all three bachelors (yes, I know I never wrapped up that story, did I mention the car accident? Give me a little more time!), he pointed out to me that I've had stories for him about eight different guys in this calendar year. Eight seemed a lot, but we counted it out and it was true. Scandal!

Well, not really, because of those eight, I only kissed four of them, and I only cared about two. The rest were flirtations, distractions, or speculations. To review:

1. the Musician. For those of you who thought my little weekly update on him was mean, let me assure you -- he is an attention whore, and he's probably more upset now that I don't write about him anymore. Exhibit A: When I stopped writing about him, he took me off his mailing list.

2,3. the London brothers. The Atlantic is really wide. Also, brothers? Such a minefield.

4. the 24-Year-Old. Yes, I dropped the ball on that one. He was sweet, cute, and attentive, and I sent him packing without giving him my number or getting his. Michelle has a friend who knows him from school, so I could try to pursue this further. Maybe after a little hiatus; for now I could use a break.

5. Bachelor #3. In the wake of the other two bachelors imploding last week, I have been tempted to resurrect this distraction. But I know I can't -- it's not right, not nice, not fair. Such a bad idea; I will be strong.

6. Bachelor #2.

7. Bachelor #1

Wait, that's only seven. I forgot one. If anyone remembers, please let me know. I'm worse than I thought!

Update: Stan finally remembered; the eighth was my cokehead alcoholic ex, who I got in touch with while I was delerious with bronchitis, had one dinner with, then never wanted to see again. Worth having forgotten, I'd say, and doesn't change the stats of 8/4/2.

Eurotrash nails NY dating scene

Sometimes she's sad, but sometimes she's brilliant:

"Dating is boring and futile and all about pretending you don't want to go to bed with someone because you are a *nice* girl and not a *slut*. Or rather in New York, it's all about seeing someone once every six weeks for sex but not having to admit you're in a relationship."

That is a perfect description of my first New York dating experience, with the Idiot, also known as Roommate the First. We saw each other on occasion, but he really preferred it not to be on a weekend. The sex was phenomenal, but at least as sporadic as every six weeks. I was not to dare think that we were in a relationship, because that would be pathetic, sad, and somehow manipulative on my part.

Funny, the only time he finally admitted we were involved at all was after I started dating his roommate, the Idiot King (also known in other contexts as the cokehead alcoholic, if you're trying to keep track). At which point he got upset that the King was dating his "ex-girlfriend", and I got whiplash. Ex-what?

Nice to know that I'm not the only woman in New York who dates emotional fuck-wits.

Things that go "wha..?!" in the night

Last night, still wiped out and sleep-deprived, plus beaten down by a shift at the Co-op (that used to be an uplifting event), I fell asleep on the couch. I know, I'm bad, I broke my New Year's resolution. And I was doing so well!

When I woke up at 3-ish and went to bed, Siena was poking her head through a hole in my bedroom window. The glass was cracked when I moved in, but now it had fallen out of the frame and become an actual hole. A hole with sharp edges that my beloved monkey was putting her little neck way too close to for my comfort.

I grabbed a square of cardstock out of the recycling bag and taped it over the hole, and today I talked to my landlord about it. But after finding Seece risking life and limb in pursuit of the pidgeons in the airshaft, I wasn't going to sleep any time soon.

So I decided to clean out the nightstand drawer. You know, the infamous place where you store everything you need quick access to, but you don't want out on display? Well, after Sunday morning, it was in a general state of disarray.

First odd discovery -- an entire box of condoms was missing. Last I remembered, there were at least eight in there, and on Sunday we'd been using the stash of giveaways from Valentine season which were still on my living room floor, as I am in winter Slob Mode and haven't put anything away in weeks.

Next odd discovery -- the smaller travel pack was also empty. What the hell, had I gone on some wild orgy-vacation and didn't remember it? The last trip I'd taken was to London, which was chock-full of sparks and flirtation, but devoid of any actual hanking or panking.

The oddest discovery -- a prescription bottle, with four Viagra pills in it. Although I'd forgotten that I had this, this isn't yet the odd part. Remember the cokehead alcoholic ex-boyfriend? All that substance abuse was none too good for performance, but one night he came over and displayed all the stamina of a... well, of a 24-year-old. Uncharacteristic, to say the least. When I questioned him about it, he credited my good influence towards healthy living, and a chunk of time off the sauce.

By morning he had bolted so fast, he'd left his Dopp kit hanging in my bathroom. As I packed it up for him, I noticed the little bottle from an online pharmacy shop, the kind that advertise in spam mail. Healthy living my ass! Although I'd appreciated the effects, I wasn't too thrilled with the lying, nor what it meant about the actual cleanliness (or lack thereof) of his lifestyle. After all, if he didn't even get it from his real doctor, then I wasn't the only one he was hiding something from.

So I stole a few, and stashed them in an old Allegra bottle of mine. I planned to do some experimenting with the next boyfriend and see if that Sex and the City episode was true. And then promptly forgot, of course.

Here's the thing. I had stolen six, not four. So now there's about a dozen condoms, and two Viagra pills, missing from the goody drawer. What the hell? Had someone been partying in my room while I was at work, or out of town? Or maybe the 24-year-old had found the pills, and the 90-minute feat wasn't due to his youthful stamina after all?

Jaye pointed out that the condoms had probably expired, and I had thrown them out. This sounds plausible, and even familiar, and yet so incredibly sad that I don't even want to think about it. But she was at a loss to explain the missing pills. I'd blame the Monkey, but the bottle has a child-proof cap.

After all that excitement, mystery and drama, I had to read a few chapters of Brad & Jen: The Rise and Fall of Hollywood’s Golden Couple just to put myself to sleep.