No More Vitriol

Not from me. At least not about men who hate me. Because I fuel their hatred when I make my disdain for their behavior public. OK, don't hold me to that because if this were Pollyanna's blog, no one would read it.

And speaking of readers, the Love Pariah has emerged for public view yet again. You can't keep her down for long. Slightly scathed but unrepentant and ready for whatever's in store. Bring it.

What?! I'm in Hiding...

Not like Salman Rushdie once was but I'm hoping by taking it underground for a bit, DSG will stop trolling the internet for my blog. I just made it public on Friday and then almost two weeks after our last encounter, I get this acerbic email. I told him that I was going to refrain from posting his venom but he sent me another email. So since he can't see the value of my generous discretion, I'm posting his response to that email.
This was my response to his abusive diatribe:

I'm tired of all this unwarranted abuse.
You're right about everything you wrote and I will be true to my word and not contact you again. Again, let's just stop the madness. I'm sorry I thought we could be friends and I sincerely wish you the best of luck although with your talent, you won't need it.

And he responded with yet another salvo:

i don't want to abuse you, but a word of advice. If you're going to have a blog and write cruel things about people that you are mad at for your readers to revel in and devour like a carcass, knowing full well that the person you are writing about may read it, (perhaps even secretly hoping they will) then you better get ready for what comes back at you.

I suggest you keep your blog underground if you can't handle the consequences.

i stopped the madness by not talking to you, and I am sorry that i engaged with you again, we can't be friends, but since you were only really interested in Daily Show tickets to begin with and not a "friendship" it shouldn't be too much of a sacrifice anyway.

The part that actually made me feel the worst was his assumption that I used him for tickets. That's not my style but I think it's just further evidence of how little we understood each other. Sad, really, I have front row tickets to see Ricky Gervais and I can't think of anyone who would appreciate them more. Ricky Gervais is the creator of the original version of "The Office." He's brilliant. I had an inkling but no real idea until I was tipped off to his stand-up routine. Look for it on YouTube. But only if you want to laugh. Otherwise, you'll be disappointed.

Tribeca Trifecta

The Tribeca Film Festival is underway which means both budding and veteran artists are milling about lower Manhattan on any given evening. Last night, a group of us attempted to capitalize on this, hoping it might make for an interesting evening.

We started early, hitting an art party in SoHo. The host of this shindig was named Moron. I shit you not. Our friend Amir introduced him and when I asked my roommate for clarification she said, "Mor-an," as if there was a difference especially since the a was pronounced like "ah." The art party was just that. A gathering for yuppies who were interested in investing in expensive art and others trolling for singletons. Our contingent was the latter part of the group. We had just gotten our drinks when Moran called everyone to the center of room and directed our attention to a 30 something art curator. My roommate and I found it difficult to assign any value to her sense of aesthetic taste based on how she was dressed. She was wearing tall, purple, patent leather boots with a black and white polka-dotted frock and a wide silver belt. As I surveyed the room, I noticed that the space was filled with fashion victims. It was as if Marcia and Jan Brady's clothes had been auctioned off and the winning bidders came here to show off their new duds.

We stayed long enough for my friend Git to show up and then ducked out for some nearby sushi. After dinner, we hit our second watering hole- the Thompson Hotel. This lobby bar was a sure bet for people watching and the possibility of hooking up which I can safely say was on everyone's agenda. Upon arrival we were dismayed to learn that our destination was cordoned off for a private event. We still had another hour to kill before the Tribeca film festival party Amir had scored us an invitation to. So I suggested we go to the Tribeca Grand Hotel. This ended up being a miscalculation.

As we got out of the cab, we saw the hub of activity and quickly deduced that this was another spot likely restricted for a private party. It's the Tribeca Grand for God's sake and we're smack in the middle of the Tribeca Film Festival. As I approached the entrance, a bouncer asked me whose guest list I was on. "I'm with them," I stammered and made a beeline for the opposite door my friends were entering. We walked past a red carpet area and someone told us we had to enter through the front where I was initially stopped. Amir suggested another bar but I couldn't leave without at least trying my bullshit skills.

"We're with Matt Modine," I told the girl with the clipboard. The name sounded familiar. I deliberately chose a B-list celeb with name recognition but not enough star power to raise suspicion. She asked for my name and I gave it to her and when she asked if I knew anyone else inside I surreptitiously glanced at the names on the list and threw out a few I could see. "Your name's not on here but go ahead," she said waving my friends in.

Our jubilation was short-lived. "Thanks for getting us in," Amir said,"but this isn't that great of a party." He wasn't just turned off by the boy to girl ratio(4:1), there appeared to be a big bridge and tunnel quotient. We were in fact at an ESPN party. But there weren't many hotties- male or female. However, there were some pretty men and my heart leaped as I saw one deliberately head in our direction. He smiled broadly and said, "We're closing off this side of the lobby, would you mind moving?" Judging from my girlfriends' crestfallen expressions, we were on the same page mistaking his approach for potential. After a drink we decided to go to Leonard Street for our third attempt at successful revelry.

This apartment was straight out of an episode of Nip/Tuck. Unique artwork and modern furniture was the backdrop for a largely Jewish crowd. Great. Git proved her party prowess by quickly whipping up drinks with the only alcohol available- Bacardi and Coke. But I was done and said as much. The time: 11:15 pm. My roommate and I took a cab home dropping Git off in the West Village. Amir stayed among his peeps at the Tribeca loft. There was no trifecta in Tribeca for this team of teeming singles. We brought our A game but were bested by B listers.

She's Baaack!

The exclusivity of invitation-only access to this blog was no consolation for those of you who enjoyed regaling in the public disclosure of my misadventures. That's nothing compared to the demoralized readers who are just as anonymous to me as I am to them.

I had drinks with a group of girlfriends who are producers at various networks tonight. One of them asked for an invitation to read this blog drawing the exasperated sigh of another who called my decision to take the Love Pariah underground "self-censorship." I pleaded my case in vain. "You know that half the fun is putting yourself out there or why not just write it all in a journal?," she said. In fact, journal is just half of what I am. The "ist" comes from the combination of "exhibitionist" or, if you're prone to armchair therapy, "masochist." So here we are. Miss me?

The last entry alluded to an encounter with a despicable man worthy of a permanent anointment as Keith Olberman's "Worst Person In the World." Last Saturday, my friend Bourge, her cousin Denise and I were at a club in Vegas when a man approached us and chimed into the tail end of our conversation. "We should just have a good time," Bourge was advising me as she wrapped up a story about our stupid friend- a producer from Cleveland- who had taken leave of both her senses and manners during our "girl's weekend."

"Yeah," he slurred, "We should just have fun." We stopped and stared. He was a white guy in his late 30s. "The bartender gave me an extra shot. Do you want it?" he asked us. I was about to avail myself to the free alcohol when the street smart friend of mine demurred. "I don't do shots," she offered. He told us he had a table and within seconds, an executive decision to maneuver ourselves in the direction of complimentary liquor was made. He introduced us to his friends who all appeared to be corn-fed Midwesterners. There was another couple. The woman had big hair and a bigger body and her husband didn't even feign friendliness when introduced. There was a slender woman with blond hair sitting across the table. As Mr.Despicable made the introductions, I was the only one who heard him refer to the blond as his wife. Instantly repelled, I opted to stay on the perimeter of the table, looking like a snob and apathetic to what kind of an impression that might make. Meanwhile my friends chatted up our host if for no other reason than to kill time while downing one vodka cranberry and its impending refill.

"He's married," I said to Denise when she noticed my distant behavior and raised her eyebrows as if to say, "What's up?" I nodded in the direction of the blond. She gave a knowing look. "Yeah. She likes it," Denise said. I was perplexed and repulsed. Then he leaned over my friend and said to me, "You're stunning." Bourge laughed. "And she doesn't even know it." That's when I filled her in on our host. Moments later, he decided to come clean.

"I'm in the middle of a divorce and that's my soon-to-be ex-wife," he admitted. "This is our one last hurrah before we call it quits." We were stunned. What did that make us? At first I felt a tug of sympathy. Having been divorced, I know it's not easy. "Why Vegas?" I asked. "It's her 40th birthday and it's not mutual," he said. "But we planned it a while ago." Suddenly Bourge announced that she needed to go to the ladies room and since women do this in groups when out and about, Denise and I trailed behind her. "Now I've seen it ALL!" she yelled. Denise told us that she saw the blond wipe away a tear as her wayward husband was confessing their marital woes to three women he had just met in a Vegas nightclub.

So that's my first post back after a short hiatus. See? You weren't missing much.

Red Eyes and Surviving the Knight

I took the red eye flight back to New York from Las Vegas. I love that in an industry with rampant euphemisms (EconomyPlus, oversold), this one term for that brutal cross-country, overnight flight is on point.

Work hard, play hard. It's what so many unimaginative guys put on their online profiles be it myspace or the dating site du jour. But it perfectly describes the last 24 hours of my life. I was in Las Vegas for one last hurrah with a good friend who I met when we worked together at a local TV station. It was my last full-time on-air gig before moving to New York City. Now she's moving here, too, where she's rightfully earned her network stripes.

Friday night, I sat next to a strapping, young, real estate mogul on the flight from JFK to McCarran. When I realized that the seat between us was empty, I said, "I'm going to be stretching out and I hope you don't mind-" and as he said "no problem" he heard the last of my sentence,"if I put my feet in your lap." He laughed and we had a nice conversation before I fell asleep. He was en route to a buddy's bachelor party and I was planning my own weekend debauchery.

Saturday, my girlfriend whose nickname is "Bourge" short for bourgeois for reasons too obvious to delineate, had to go in to work. Her cousin, Denise, and I were invited by one of her boy toys to hang out at the Bare Pool at the Mirage Casino and Hotel. This pool has exclusive access and the female patrons are first screened then encouraged to go topless. Unlike some of my Mardi Gras appearances, this time I abstained from following suit. But the guys we met at the pool were HOT. At one point, Denise and I agreed that we were on the real life version of Entourage and needless to say, I felt fat. After our afternoon frolic, we took power naps. Denise was visiting from Atlanta and both of us were a tad bit jet lagged.

That night, we met Bourge at The Palms. The owner is her friend so we bypassed the proletariat line and were fast tracked upstairs and told by the "host" to go to Tommie Lee's table. But we never made it over there (that's another blog entry me thinks). However, Gwen Stefani was there as was Paris Hilton, a permanent fixture in the Vegas nightlife, along with Nicolette Sheridan, Luke Wilson and some guys from No Doubt. First the DJ asked us to give it up for Gwen Stefani in "da how-us" and played one of her singles. Then he did the same for Paris Hilton. Not to be out shined by her superior, Paris got up on a table and gave an impromptu, um, performance. I took pictures that were later offered to Life and Style Magazine. My friend, one of the editors, thought I was kidding. "We get Paris sightings every week." Apparently, the celebrity sex kitten's antics are often caught on film and even the tabloids are tired of them.

We had a few drinks at what we thought was the owner's table. But a few minutes later, I was asked to down my drink because we had inadvertantly ended up at the table reserved by Bruce Willis. After a peculiar encounter with a man vying for Keith Olberman's "Worst Person in the World" anointment (see next blog entry) we were ready to move on to another club. But in order to do this, we had to wait for the elevator and that was a formidable hurdle in itself. At one point, I was being pushed and I turned to look at this huge, bodyguard-type black guy behind me. "You can keep pushing me but I've got nowhere to go," I said indicating the mob ahead of me. "I ain't pushing you, baby," he said moving past me to another room. Denise looked at me with shock and awe, "You're one brave girl to talk to Tupac's killer that way," she said. "That was Suge Knight!" she pointed out. Gulp.

The highlight of the evening was Denise. Besides mortifying her cousin with inappropriate disclosures of how domestic bliss in Georgia is contingent on swinging with other couples, she provided her own shock and awe with her post-marital flirtation techniques. As we dined at The Wynn at 5am, she casually mentioned how the guy she was dancing with was "really turned on." She said she told him as much when she grabbed his package and confirmed his state of arousal. Bourge and I choked on our fries. "What?" she protested. "It's no different from you slapping someone's ass," she said referring to Bourge's tendency to accost men in that manner and then point at me. Also, my friend has the charming quality of not disclosing this fact until after they've chatted me up. Then as my low self-esteem wonders aloud what ignited their interest, she fills me in. Nice. Anyway, back to Denise. "It is different!" Bourge and I exclaimed in unison. She simply shrugged and plowed into her hash browns.

I wrapped up my short visit with a charming dinner at Bouchon, a French restaurant in The Venetian. Afterwards the girls dropped me off at the airport where I boarded my uneventful overnight flight home. If you've been following some of my travel nightmares, you'll understand why uneventful is a blessing. At 7 am ET, I disembarked and boarded another flight from DC to New York. Two rows ahead of me was Senator Ted Kennedy. I was too tired to get really starstruck. I'm impressed for no other reason than his relation to JFK. And I was surprised that he was flying coach. But it's an election year and he's a Democrat. Plus, it was the shuttle from DC to New York, an hour in coach doesn't really count.

Now it's 3am ET and I'm awake because after a really hectic Monday at work, I came home at 6pm and slept until 10:30pm. I know. As usual, I opted for instant gratification over more strategic self-restraint.

Morbid Obesity Pays

Me! Below is the response I got from JetBlue. Below that is the letter I sent them. And underneath it all is a very happy LP :)

We deeply regret the uncomfortable situation you and were faced with on your flight from New York to Chicago.

We can not force a customer to purchase two seats. When morbidly obese people choose to travel with JetBlue they usually do choose to purchase an extra seat for their own comfort, and this is not an issue. If we denied customers passage due to their size the discrimination issues would be endless.

We make every attempt to seat our larger customers in a row that might allow them to have two seats. However, when a flight like yours is full, we do not always have that option.

As a gesture of goodwill, and an invitation for you to give us another try , we have issued you electronic vouchers which is equivalent to the fare you paid.

Although we know that travel vouchers can never compensate for your discomfort, and inconvenience you experienced, we hope you will accept it as a token of our appreciation for your understanding.

Original Message Follows:
------------------------
Comments submitted from Speak Up Forms
Departure City: JFK
Destination City: ORD
Flight Date: 3/29/07
Flight Number: 919

Last week I was on the 8pm JetBlue flight from JFK to Chicago O'Hare. I paid $250 for a oneway ticket due to a last minute business trip. Upon boarding, I saw that the woman sitting next to me was morbidly obese, taking up both her and my seat. I discreetly informed the flight attendant that I couldn't fit but due to the sold out flight, I was asked to await a gate agent's arrival to handle the situation.

When he arrived, he told the woman that she should move to the aisle seat from the window seat. She did so but even with that and much maneuvering on my part, she was still overflowing into my seat.

We managed and amicably because it's not my nature to humiliate people for the physical abnoramalities. However, upon disembarking, another flight attendant stopped the third passenger in my row, who was sitting on the other side of me. I saw this happen as I was getting off the plane and he found me in baggage claim and informed me that he was given a voucher for HIS inconvenience.
What about my discomfort and inconvenience?!

The Fallout From the Frugal Fight

The response from readers about the Cheap Skate has been mixed. Some said I should have split it three ways because an innocent was involved. Others simply told me to steer clear of dumbasses like DSG.

I felt bad for it, if only because I still clung to the hope of meeting Bono. So I sent an email apologizing.
Hey,
I know you're pissed at me but I just wanted to tell you I'm sorry for last night.
I should have been gracious and split it three ways.
You were right to be angry. Sorry for being a jerk.

He didn't respond. The reverie of rubbing elbows with my benevolent Bono appears to be a pipe dream and I will pursue my boss's contacts for Daily Show tickets. But the best response to that entry would have to be Janice's. Behold:

Oh, Stop your WHINING!

So the Love Pariah finally made good on her threat to go underground. And it's those of you who have exclusive access to the blog who are up in arms about this recent development. I'm not sure I understand all this whining. Please tell me why a secret window isn't as much fun as an open door.

The reason I chose to limit access to less than a dozen readers was quite simply motivated by fear. Fear of reprisal from those anonymously mentioned, fear of being outed by one of the dozens of indiscreet readers who couldn't keep a secret if their life depended on it. And then there were my fellow journos who questioned my quest for "anonymity." More than once an eye roll was accompanied by a comment such as, "Your blog is the worst kept secret since Clay Aiken's sexual preference." And, finally, fear that my outing would take a significant toll on something as intangible and invaluable as my credibility.

I suspect more than a few friendships have been damaged by this blog. HPG was mad at me for a while. Then I severed ties with a girlfriend I had known since my first reporting gig because she couldn't get it through her thick skull that I was serious about my secret identity, choosing to mock me for it and telling mutual friends and REFERENCES about it. I think the friend poacher read it before it went underground because I haven't heard a peep from her since. So if writing really is equivalent to blood-letting, I've spilled plenty. But again, if there's a compromise I've neglected, feel free to awaken me to new possibilities. If not, pipe down and read!

Friend Poacher

What is it with these people? Am I the only one who has encountered this problem? I have a lot of friends. Part of it is my engaging personality, part of it my ability to adapt to new environments quickly and make friends easily. And I think it's great that my friends, who meet through me, get along. I mean everyone wants their friends to get along, right?

But what I don't want are people who surreptitiously forge friendships through me. How can I explain this? It keeps happening and there's more than one poacher but one who's especially determined to make all my friends hers. Poaching may be the wrong word because it's not illegal but it is socially repugnant.. to me. Allow me to elaborate.

We'll call her Clare like the fake poster who annoyed me to no end. Clare has reached out to every single girl that she has met through me and invited them to socialize in my absence. And most of the friends she's done this with have been gracious even flattered by her extending her hand on the heels of a chance meeting through moi. However, a few of them have thought it a bit odd that she would exclude me. At first, I didn't think much of it. But it happens a lot and she never mentions it to me. I find out because the girls she's contacting tell me. She even emailed my roommate. Then she texts my friends when they're out with me inviting them to hang out. Is this weird or is it just me? It's made me suspicious and, well, annoyed.

I know I may sound petty but there's something to this. Were she upfront about her activities, I'd be less likely to be irked but under the circumstances, I am. I think there's a line between being social and being sneaky and I feel it's being repeatedly crossed here.

Frost smitten

I just saw a fantastic play tonight. It's called "Frost/Nixon" and chronicles the series of interviews by British talk show host David Frost of disgraced President Richard Nixon. The playwright is the incomparable Peter Morgan ("The Queen" and "The Last King of Scotland"). Michael Sheen who channeled Tony Blair in "The Queen" stars opposite Frank Langella who morphs into Nixon for an amazing performance.

No, this blog hasn't suddenly turned into a theater critic's column but I'm just so friggin' psyched to be moved by theater! I should disclose that my senior thesis was on Watergate and my all-time favorite movie is "All The President's Men" so I have an uncommon affinity for this subject matter. I thought "The Vertical Hour" was good but it pales in comparison to the writing, pacing, and execution of this moment in history when a reluctant subject bore his soul to an unlikely "reporter." I hope they take this to the big screen because it's really powerful.

Speaking of the big screen, I ran into Glenn Close as we were leaving the theater. I reminded her that we met at a soup kitchen on Christmas Eve and of course she remembered me. I think we're destined to be brunch pals although I can't actually confirm that without appearing as though I'm stalking her. Hmm, conundrum.

It's Raining Men

There has been a slew of gentlemen callers this past week. Correction: male suitors. And I use the latter half of that term loosely. In addition to a steady stream of texts from Dallas, I've had three other boys unexpectedly surface with the intent of dating or at least bedding me.

One of them is actually a friend of Dallas. When he sent me a text message identifying himself, I asked Dallas if he had passed the LP baton to his boy. "No," he said, "you gave him your card, too. Apparently, you gave all of us your card." Classy. I told the friend that Dallas has beat him to the punch. He bowed out. Bachelor Number three is a lawyer I met online months ago who is now motivated to meet and soon but our schedules aren't aligning.

Next on deck was a real estate agent I dated last summer. But business travel had me crisscrossing the country at a frenetic and relentless pace so I let that fizzle out. When I gave him a referral recently, he thanked me and invited me out for a drink. But my shoot for CNN went pretty late last night and we ended up meeting at my place while I packed for my trip to Mexico. We ordered in, familiarity and other factors intervened, yada, yada, yada... But before things got out of hand, I stopped him. This guy hadn't earned that kind of lovin'. His response solidified the wisdom of my decision. "What do I do with THIS?" he asked referring to his package. I had to look away because I knew he would just get more agitated if I laughed in his face.

Today he sent me an email asking if we could just be friends and while I responded in the affirmative I was a bit irked that this hapless Romeo would have the nerve to put ME in the friend zone. In an effort to regain my perception of the upper hand, I relayed the story to two male coworkers/friends and barely glossed over the details including his last comment. They were horrified and amused to no end. "He said WHAT?" one of them asked. "I don't even say shit like that to my girlfriend," said the other. It got me thinking and, due to both a lack of discretion and anything better to do, talking about other equally offensive things crass Casanovas had said to me in the past.

Exhibit A: "Can I feel some fur?" No matter how hard I try, I will never be able to erase this crude comment from my memory. By the way, the answer was no.

Exhibit B: "Kiss it." A command from the man who had shown so much promise, whisking me away in a private plane he chartered and piloted for a romantic dinner in a nearby city. After our third date, I emerged from the bathroom to find him wearing nothing, armed with an erection and the two words every woman longs to hear: "kiss it."

Exhibit C: Once when I fell asleep while watching a movie, another misguided man whore woke me up to inquire, "Would you mind if I jacked off next to you?" Again, the answer was no.

These memories had my coworkers wiping away tears of unbridled joy at my sad love life and the dork magnet I so clearly am. And it got me ruminating about something I'm often accused of lacking: restraint. But what about these losers? Where was their dignity and restraint? Or is it OK to abdicate those qualities when the prospect of lifting cars seems imminent?

Oh my Gad!

That's what my baby cousin said to me several years ago as I descended the long winding staircase at my grandparent's house. I was all dolled up for a wedding we were going to. She was three. It's not uncommon for my relatives to declare, "Oh my GOD!" when someone is all dressed up. It's a tad disingenuous but intended to make the object of their feigned awe-struck expression feel special. It's embarrassing but sweet.

In fact, that sums up my family: embarrassing but sweet. Once my parents recovered from the fact that I wasn't headed straight for an arranged marriage post-college, they consoled themselves with the idea of their eldest daughter being a "TV star." This is perhaps the greatest set-up for failure anyone can imagine. My arrogance proved a dubious asset because while it contributed to my delusions of grandeur it also enabled me to distance myself from the reality of my status. In reality, I was a lowly paid news reporter at a TV station that was the laughing stock of a small town. Our anchor was narcoleptic and would fall asleep while our stories were airing. His co-anchor often had to kick him awake to read the story's tag. I remember treating myself to a chilito at Taco Bell and the employees stared in awe and confusion as they saw me on the restaurant's TV while I was placing my order. I wanted to tell them that we were on the same pay scale, in fact, theirs was possibly higher given the fact that I had no health benefits.

But if you asked my folks, I was a TV star. My dad would introduce me to friends and business associates by saying, "She's an anchorwoman for CBS." This was such a blatant exaggeration/lie that I didn't know how to react. "Actually, I'm a reporter for a CBS affiliate," I would point out only to be silenced by my dad's fire and brimstone glare. Out of earshot, he would exclaim, "Why don't you shut your mouths when I'm speaking? What I said that's wrong?!" I attempted to explain the difference between the network and an affiliate only to be cut off with, "You don't think big. To be big, you must think big." Maybe he was right but even years later when I funded my own foreign assignments, I was still stonewalled by unimaginative network execs who wanted to know why I left local news without the security of full time employment. I wanted to freelance, I said. I was tired of office politics and enjoyed the freedom of picking my own assignments.

And once I did get my mug on CNN, the barrage of accusations from my father about me selling myself short continued. "Why don't you work for CNN?" he would ask, clearly agitated that I was encroaching on his bragging rights. I told him that they didn't have positions available that I wanted. "Tell them I'll adwertize on their channel and then they'll hire you. I'll call my friend the mayor and tell him he should make them hire you." Is it any wonder it took years of therapy for me to come down to planet earth?

The Self-Aware Sadist

Masochist: someone who obtains pleasure from receiving punishment

Sadist: someone who obtains pleasure from inflicting punishment

If you've ever been really mean to someone and enjoyed it, you have donned the hat of a sadist. I remember the first time I saw the word. I was in grade school and thought it meant someone who was sad. As an adult with a love of the vernacular, I don't think I was too far off the mark. Unless you have some sexual fetish, most people behave in sadistic ways subconsciously. The ones who don't are psychopaths and either locked up or government leaders (see Rumsfeld, Cheney, Bush).

But what if you met someone and for whatever reason decided to cultivate a friendship with them only to learn, fairly early on that they inexplicably derived some sick pleasure from berating you? It's perplexing. And it's one thing if this person was simply insensitive which is what I chalked it up to at first. But it's another thing altogether if they admit that they like being verbally and emotionally abusive to you in particular.

For all my talk about self-love and loathing, I honestly didn't believe I was a masochist. However, a series of recent encounters have proven otherwise. But this new friend, one whose opinion I valued kept telling me that the reason he was dismissive, dogmatic and, well just plain mean was because I enjoyed the abuse. I found this absolutely maddening. I vacillated between completely ignoring this person and trying to be genuinely nice to them in an effort to reverse this abusive “dynamic” we had established.

Don’t get me wrong. I love a good debate and certainly don’t mind being challenged. But I was accused of being a self-loathing human being on a constant basis and on a couple of occasions told I was an alcoholic. I found the former disturbing and the latter ludicrous. All of my friends disagreed with the assessment and encouraged me to cut off the friendship or fulfill my abuser’s desire to have a pathetic punching bag available at whim.


So I did. I stood up for myself for the umpteenth time but with the resolve of burying this bully once and for all. And now that I have, I feel so hurt and resentful which is actually the same as I felt when we were friends. If there’s any truth to his accusations about me being a masochist they probably stem from the fact that having “been there, done that” in all sorts of relationships, my threshold for bad behavior is pretty high. But what I can’t wrap my head around is what kind of a person knowingly inflicts pain and then proudly stands behind his handiwork. My sister put it best when she said, “You need to distance yourself from this guy who is sending you to a very bad place where the monsters live.”

She’s right. We all have monsters or the ability to become them. In this case, I allowed self-doubt to stand in the way of self-preservation. And what I’ve learned is this: friends don’t make friends feel like shit and mean people suck.

Typhoid Mary

As you may have read, my trip to Chicago was pretty eventful. Friday night I opted to stay with my dad's side of the family, the crazy side, before heading back to New York. I took the train from Chicago to the burbs and was entertained by a squirrely stock broker who claimed he was related to Jeremy Irons. He was funny and carried my suitcase so I gave him my email.

My cousin spent the night at her folk's house so we could catch up. We were up until 5am, this in addition to the sleep deprivation I had accumulated the night before. I got into New York only to hop into the smelly cab that reeked of curry. I sent my roommate a text telling her as much. "Be nice," she wrote back, "They're your people." Yes, my people. The night before I was actually eating curry on Devon Street- Chicago's hub of Indian and Pakistani restaurants. My cousin and I were delighted to see a sign advertising the menu of one establishment. In addition to the traditional fare, they offered "Gyros and Homos." "Look," my cousin exclaimed, "They serve homos, how progressive of them."

New York is the only city I've ever lived in where I'm excited to come home. However, this time around the anticipation was twofold because a couple of my best friends were in town. We made plans to grab dinner and head to the meatpacking district for some debauchery. Typically, when I have grand plans of painting the town red, I end up staying at home and painting my nails instead. But this time, mission accomplished.

DSG met us at the corner near our respective apartments to go downtown for dinner. However, we had no reservations at any restaurant. Not for lack of trying. But every maitre d'from Buddakkan to Kittichai gave me the finger when I asked for a table at the last minute on a Saturday night. We ended up at a Vietnamese restaurant near Union Square. I ate little and had an espresso martini. Then DSG was off to a party on the Lower East Side and we headed to the meatpacking district. We were at a rooftop bar when our friend sent us a text telling us the Sopranos were having a cast party across the street. My friends were instantly game, anxious to see Big Pussy in real life.

The thing I hate about the velvet rope is the people behind it. In daylight, they're losers who think a 401K is a computer part and tight black tees are a wardrobe staple. At night, they're suddenly anointed the gatekeepers of clubs with fleeting popularity. This time, however, the man in charge didn't fit the mold. In fact, his gender was a mystery. If Conan were to morph the pictures of Mick Jagger and Scarlet Johanssen in his "If they made it" segment, this hermaphrodite would be the offspring. His name was Kenny and even though the line was relatively short, he was barring entrance in order to make it longer and lend to the perception of exclusivity. He suggested we buy a bottle for $300. We declined. Then a group of people in front of us approached us with a merger. They were 20-somethings, cute Asian girls and guys with a couple of frat boys sprinkled in the mix.

We agreed and I was chosen as the group leader. I told Kenny we wanted to buy a bottle. "OK," it said, "How many people?" Ten, I replied. "All of you weren't together," he protested to which I retorted, "We're all Asian!" It rolled its eyes and lifted the rope, "Fine," it sighed, "They'll need your credit card and license at the door." Once inside, we collected the money and ordered a bottle of Absolut Citron. That's right. It wasn't even Belvedere or Grey Goose. Rip-off.

And, the Sopranos people were gone. However, infamous Typhoid Mary made an appearance. I'm referring to a certain person who just discovered last week that she had a contagious cold sore on her mouth. The sore had taken exactly 8 days to heal and had just crusted over an fallen off in time for our Saturday soiree. One of the Asian guys, tall and attractive asked me to dance. I'm a really good dancer when I've been drinking and by now I had two martinis and a vodka cranberry in my system. Then another guy in the group asked me out. "How's Wednesday work for you?" I was suspicious. I asked my friend what was going on. "If you were a whale and you were perplexed by the attention, I could help you solve this riddle," he said. OK, so I'm not fat but I haven't been hit on in a while so it was a bit disconcerting.

Then DSG texted to find out if our party was any better than his dud. I said yes and he asked where I was, "Upstairs," I wrote back. "Address, dumbass." Oh, yeah. Just as he showed up, one of the frat boys from the group I had finagled into the club surfaced. We'll call him Dallas since he was named after a city in my home state. He asked if DSG was my boyfriend. I denied the vicious allegation and DSG confirmed my denial. Then we went to "talk." I think I'm pretty clever when I want to be but my disappearing act didn't fool anyone. The next day my friend made a comment that proved my drunken antics didn't go unnoticed. "While LP was off playing Typhoid Mary.." I don't remember what the rest of the sentence was because I pulled the covers over my head and curled into the fetal position.

The rest of the day was spent nursing my hangover and attempting to sleep. Why is it that when you try to take an afternoon nap, everyone decides to call? My fucking cell phone was on vibrate and I felt like I was in one of those coin-operated "massage" beds. I awoke just in time to meet some friends for a groundbreaking new show. But I slept through the last act of "The Road to Al Qaeda," a play I had paid good money to see prompting them to ask what the hell my problem was. I was ready for bed at 7:30 when my phone buzzed. It was a text message from Dallas. "Hey, it's Dallas from last night. Just wanted to say hi. I had a good time last night. Hope you did too." Boy, did I. Now if I could just get some freakin' sleep!