So I'm in D.C. on a shoot for a client tomorrow on the Hill. I opted to come in tonight instead of taking the early train. Plus, my friend John just bought a house here and I wanted to see his new digs.
He picked me up at Union Station and we went to a hole in the wall noodle hut in Chinatown. Over dinner I shared a recent epiphany: I do hate myself. Faced with this allegation from a series of men I had pushed away or turned off, I was reluctant to accept this reality. But I cornered my therapist into confirming this theory and was feeling pretty shitty about it. John was surprised, citing my assertive nature and confidence I exude professionally. But I told him that personally, I was a mess. Frankly, I wondered how someone who had seen me unravel in Africa when Murphy's Law manifested itself at every juncture, would question how I might be a bit "off." Still, he was skeptical until we got into the cab.
A few days of glorious Spring like weather was simply a tease before a fucking Nor'easter reminded us that we lived on the East Coast. Temperatures plummeted and as the cold rain fell, we scrambled for a cab and found one. In D.C., cab drivers typically pick up various unrelated passengers and so when one stopped with a guy already in the back, I hopped in the front and John sat next to the stranger. As we made our way to his new house in Northeast section of the city, John asked if I had done any on-air work. I relayed the story of the murder-suicide I had covered in New Jersey where a mom had used a hatchet to kill her daughter then jumped in a creek and offed herself. "It was in Somerset County, John, million dollar homes- no crime," I said. The cab driver who was black and possibly Nigerian looked at me and asked, "Are you saying that rich people aren't crazy?" Here we go. "No, I'm just saying that it's surprising when it happens in a wealthy community because those people, if they're crazy, have access to psychiatric care." John murmured in agreement saying something about affording therapy. But the cabbie was poised for a debate. "Rich people are just as crazy as poor people. Crazy is crazy," he insisted. I said that yes but it wasn't as shocking when crime happened in an impoverished area due to the fact that drugs and consequently crime was more common there. He countered again and I cut him off. "Do you want to argue with me because I've had a really long day?" That was the end of that. Until we got out of the cab.
John, who is very mild-mannered blew a gasket. "Why did you go off on him like that? He was just asking you a question!" I said no, clearly his tone and the nature of his question implied he was challenging me and baiting me into an argument. "No, he wasn't and even if he was, you don't have to be such a bitch. You create negative energy that way," he concluded. This is true. I was trying to avoid an argument but in the process flippantly dismissed the opinion of a cab driver. That's not a capital crime (no pun intended) but there's something to creating negative energy. I fear I'm going to have to completely disassemble my personality and rewire my way of thinking. Why don't you just ask me to find a cure for cancer, that's probably easier.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Dirty Whore-tini's and Other Discoveries
Someone came out of the closet last night. Remember Clare, my nemesis who was leaving unsympathetic comments on my blog? Yes, she was a he. I promised I wouldn't disclose who it was but he confessed his ruse that drew my unexpected ire. So there's no Clare which makes me feel a lot better about my gender and our ability to be compassionate. It's also nice to know that I didn't really lose any fans by admonishing the rogue readers. And here's where I'm like my dad.
My dad gets all riled up about stupid shit. Once a friend called the house and my dad, who has zero phone etiquette, simply said, "No" when asked, "May I speak to LP?" Confused, my friend queried further and my dad exploded, "It's none of your business!" I think he may have used profanity, too, but I've tried to block the humiliating episode from my memory. In contrast, when something happens that warrants a meltdown, he's eerily calm. Like the time I totalled his Lexus because I was talking on my cell phone. "At least I wrecked the old car," I offered as he sadly surveyed the damage. "The new one has comprehensive insurance. This one has none," he said through gritted teeth. So when confronted with the knowledge of this unscrupulous transgression, posing as various commentators, I was more impressed and surprised than angry. Go figure.
The other night, I got an unexpected email from a Navy jet pilot I had a brief fling with several years ago.
FlyBoy: Hey you, I can't believe I found you on the internet! Hope all is well.
Me: Omg! That's insanity! (Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry after two too many martinis)
FlyBoy: Where are you, seems like yesterday...what happened to your hair?
You've changed, man...
I responded last night after I had recovered from my hangover. I asked him where he was, what he was doing, was he married and whether he had any kids. The response makes me grateful for being single:
FlyBoy: I googled you out of memory. Yes married with 3 boys (4,2, and 5 mo.). Very fertile, good thing we were careful
Me: Stop flirting with strange women on the Internet.
I mean his wife just gave birth to his third son less than six months ago! Is this the marital bliss I've been pining for?
Initially I was excited to get his random email. To think that ten years after our tryst he would choose to google me was a bit flattering. And the haze of alcohol that night probably added to my delight. Oh yeah, that. Some people have noted my propensity for drinking lately. I'm hardly on the same road fun Bobby once took but the hangover I had on Tuesday has definitely given me pause.
It started with a happy hour that I had organized for a group of journalists at a midtown bar. One of them emailed me before the gathering requesting ten minutes to garner interest for an Indian man in New Jersey who was being detained by INS without justification. I explained that a networking event was not the forum. Then he sent me a few more emails, each one doing its part to further expose the author's dementia. One was a blatant rant against Jews and the accumulation then abuse of power they weilded. Despite my firm refusal to give him a platform, he showed up anyway. He was annoying and cornered every colleague of mine who unwittingly made even fleeting eye contact. Every single person subjected to his rant walked away from the conversation ready for another drink. I was well on my way to numbing my senses.
"I'll have a dirty martini, extra olives, please," I said. The bartender suggested another drink that had stuffed olives in it. Sure, I was hungry, too. "So one whore-tini?" she confirmed. "That's dirty whore," my roommate, who had shown up for moral support, offered. Three whore-tini's later I'm in another bar, The Carnegie Club, with some other friends. My wing woman is my friend Git. Spunky, smart and sexy, she's quite the spitfire and a shitload of fun. We had been drinking since happy hour, it was getting late and we didn't have dinner. After devouring a plate of cheese and cured meats, Git, a recently corrupted vegetarian who had gone back to her carnivore ways, had an intense carb craving.
"Can I have some crackers?" she asked the waitress. The waitress wearing fake pearls and pumps from Payless looked as if we had just ordered wild boar on a rotisserie. "Umm, we don't just serve.. crackers," she stammered. Git looked at her like the idiot she was and said, "You don't have crackers?" The waitress shook her head no and looked oddly uncomfortable. What's her deal? Git even offered to pay for them but the waitress said they had to be ordered with something. This is not uncommon in New York. Often the wait staff is far more pretentious than any Bergdorff Blond. "Forget it," Git pouted, "I'll just go home." This struck me as very funny and I laughed, a little too much, causing everyone to look at me with that, "She's hammered" glance. I hate that glance. It's so dismissive. It reminds me of people who aren't secure enough to know it's OK to be slap happy and stupid sometimes so they just look at you and say in their boring way, "O-kaaay..."
So I went to bed without water or Advil and my disheveled appearance the next morning caused more than one coworker to observe, "Long night, huh?" Long night indeed.
My dad gets all riled up about stupid shit. Once a friend called the house and my dad, who has zero phone etiquette, simply said, "No" when asked, "May I speak to LP?" Confused, my friend queried further and my dad exploded, "It's none of your business!" I think he may have used profanity, too, but I've tried to block the humiliating episode from my memory. In contrast, when something happens that warrants a meltdown, he's eerily calm. Like the time I totalled his Lexus because I was talking on my cell phone. "At least I wrecked the old car," I offered as he sadly surveyed the damage. "The new one has comprehensive insurance. This one has none," he said through gritted teeth. So when confronted with the knowledge of this unscrupulous transgression, posing as various commentators, I was more impressed and surprised than angry. Go figure.
The other night, I got an unexpected email from a Navy jet pilot I had a brief fling with several years ago.
FlyBoy: Hey you, I can't believe I found you on the internet! Hope all is well.
Me: Omg! That's insanity! (Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry after two too many martinis)
FlyBoy: Where are you, seems like yesterday...what happened to your hair?
You've changed, man...
I responded last night after I had recovered from my hangover. I asked him where he was, what he was doing, was he married and whether he had any kids. The response makes me grateful for being single:
FlyBoy: I googled you out of memory. Yes married with 3 boys (4,2, and 5 mo.). Very fertile, good thing we were careful
Me: Stop flirting with strange women on the Internet.
I mean his wife just gave birth to his third son less than six months ago! Is this the marital bliss I've been pining for?
Initially I was excited to get his random email. To think that ten years after our tryst he would choose to google me was a bit flattering. And the haze of alcohol that night probably added to my delight. Oh yeah, that. Some people have noted my propensity for drinking lately. I'm hardly on the same road fun Bobby once took but the hangover I had on Tuesday has definitely given me pause.
It started with a happy hour that I had organized for a group of journalists at a midtown bar. One of them emailed me before the gathering requesting ten minutes to garner interest for an Indian man in New Jersey who was being detained by INS without justification. I explained that a networking event was not the forum. Then he sent me a few more emails, each one doing its part to further expose the author's dementia. One was a blatant rant against Jews and the accumulation then abuse of power they weilded. Despite my firm refusal to give him a platform, he showed up anyway. He was annoying and cornered every colleague of mine who unwittingly made even fleeting eye contact. Every single person subjected to his rant walked away from the conversation ready for another drink. I was well on my way to numbing my senses.
"I'll have a dirty martini, extra olives, please," I said. The bartender suggested another drink that had stuffed olives in it. Sure, I was hungry, too. "So one whore-tini?" she confirmed. "That's dirty whore," my roommate, who had shown up for moral support, offered. Three whore-tini's later I'm in another bar, The Carnegie Club, with some other friends. My wing woman is my friend Git. Spunky, smart and sexy, she's quite the spitfire and a shitload of fun. We had been drinking since happy hour, it was getting late and we didn't have dinner. After devouring a plate of cheese and cured meats, Git, a recently corrupted vegetarian who had gone back to her carnivore ways, had an intense carb craving.
"Can I have some crackers?" she asked the waitress. The waitress wearing fake pearls and pumps from Payless looked as if we had just ordered wild boar on a rotisserie. "Umm, we don't just serve.. crackers," she stammered. Git looked at her like the idiot she was and said, "You don't have crackers?" The waitress shook her head no and looked oddly uncomfortable. What's her deal? Git even offered to pay for them but the waitress said they had to be ordered with something. This is not uncommon in New York. Often the wait staff is far more pretentious than any Bergdorff Blond. "Forget it," Git pouted, "I'll just go home." This struck me as very funny and I laughed, a little too much, causing everyone to look at me with that, "She's hammered" glance. I hate that glance. It's so dismissive. It reminds me of people who aren't secure enough to know it's OK to be slap happy and stupid sometimes so they just look at you and say in their boring way, "O-kaaay..."
So I went to bed without water or Advil and my disheveled appearance the next morning caused more than one coworker to observe, "Long night, huh?" Long night indeed.
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