Bar None

Right now I have alcoholic vapors emanating from my pores. I haven't been home since yesterday morning. No wonder my phone is dying. Anyway, last night was the office Christmas party. Still hungover from Wednesday, I had decided that I would skip the festivities in favor of a quiet night watching "Grey's Anatomy." But at the eleventh hour, I rallied, threw on the requisite amount of make up necessary to mask the overall feeling-like-shit appearance my coworkers (at the broadcast PR firm) had commented on all day.

Bad move. There was not only an open bar but wait staff circulating with all sorts of alcoholic concoctions making it difficult to keep tally of my drinks and, consequently, my sobriety. Seeing HPG was oddly awkward and I can only attribute this to a series of passive-aggressive emails that had transpired in the days preceding this event. For some reason, our mutual decision to be friends was completely lost on me given that he was a.) offering to set me up- not cool and b.) I'm just annoyed by the whole thing in general. The other issue was Howard with whom I had started a flirtatious text play that was going to end badly especially in light of the copious amounts of liquor at my disposal. And, I had a cold. The above mentioned factors combined to create the perfect storm of drunken mayhem.

My boss. Very sweet and very happy to see me but my attempt was to avoid her at all costs once I had downed my first sangria. My dangerously low tolerance and gravitation towards inappropriate remarks when buzzed (i.e. "I need to get laid") had taught me to steer clear of embarassing myself in front of the person who delved out my freelance assignments in perhaps the only newsroom left in America with any real integrity. Unfortunately, my friend whom we shall call Gladys as in Gladys Kravitz, the meddling neighbor from "Bewitched" had not learned the lesson about loose lips at work functions. Gladys is a very gifted and talented writer who early on recognized that I, too, was a great storyteller even if they were harrowing accounts of loves lost... or found, then told to get lost.

Several weeks ago, Gladys sent me an email telling me that she missed my "stories." I responded by giving her access to this blog. She was amused and shared it with her boyfriend, who was also entertained if not shocked by my candor. Fast forward to last night when her boyfriend who is a staffer at this network, cornered me and demanded, "Who's HPG?" Shit. I knew this day would come when a vague acronym would lend itself to an uncomfortable reveal. I told him that I would position myself in front of HPG and then step on his foot to single that he was behind me. This plan, when combined with liquor on both our parts, failed miserably. Apparently, subtlety is a trait we both lacked. And Gladys is no exception but I will get to her in a moment.

I did as I had promised but before I could stomp on his foot, he craned his neck around me, zeroed in on HPG like a sniper his target and declared, "He's not all that." Loudly. Fortunately, HPG was out of earshot but I'm sure it was obvious we were talking about him. Am I right, HPG? We all know you read this blog. But that was minor compared to what would transpire at the "after party." Why do we call it that? Let's call it what it is: the "I'm-too-drunk-to-go-home-and-have-lost-the-mental-capacity-to-cut-my-losses place." OK, after party is much more pithy.

I walk in and am first and foremost informed that the man on the make is no other than HPG. At this point, I'm too busy trying to figure out how to convince Howard I'm not as drunk as my latest texts reveal. (Me: R u up?/Howard: It's 8:30. R u OK?) Then, to my horror, Gladys decides to confront HPG. I'm not exactly sure about what was said because I was hiding behind her, she's 5'10", and praying that by some miracle the ground would open up and swallow me whole. I finally pulled a Clay Aiken and covered her mouth with my hand to stop the horror that was unfolding before me.
"What did you say?!" I asked after I had physically turned her to face away from HPG. This was beyond embarassing. I can't even find an adequate metaphor.
"I just asked why HPG thought he was too good for you," she responded with the confidence of a loyal friend who had just defended my honor. In reality, honor was the least of my problems at the moment. Not only was my blog being discussed openly but with HPG no less who already resents me for cutting and pasting our texts. What was his response, I wanted to know.
"He said I'm not and then I said, 'why are you pulling away?' and he said, 'because you're freaking me out'." Lovely.

Those Damn Italians

I was acually enjoying the global warming that provided for an unseasonably mild winter. Then old man winter decided to make a comeback with a vengeance. It's amazing how resourceful I become at using mass transit when I'm trying to avoid freezing my ass off. Today I had to get to The Times before my friend left for two weeks in Bombay. It wasn't so imperative that I see him off before his trip but he had my freaking ATM credit card. Ten blocks doesn't seem that far until you realize what arctic winds are. Mercifully, a bus pulled up as I walked out of work and I jumped on. "Do you stop at 43rd Street?," I asked the bus driver. "For you I will," he replied with a flirtatious smile. I'm so glad someone recognizes my importance.

After retreiving my credit card, I took the subway back to the office, stopping to get some desperately needed hangover food for lunch. For me, this is anything hot and greasy, much like some of the men I'm attracted to. I'd like to think that it's more the former than the latter in the men department, but my friends often grimace when they finally see who I deem "hot." My hotness meter is way off. Not only do I fail to recognize it in myself, I've been told that I'm way too generous in awarding others that title. Many of you may think this is a thinly veiled attempt to diss HPG. On the contrary, I suppose he technically retains his designation even if aspects of his personality have made him less appealing. But who really comes to mind is Luigi.

This guy was so hot... to me. He was a bartender I met when I was on a blind date. I walked over to the bar after meeting my date clearly dismayed at yet another reminder that I am indeed the love pariah. He was 6'1", olive skin and clearly took to the gym often enough to have the toned physique to prove it.
"Tell me you don't have a boyfriend," he said with such force that it threw me.
"Umm, no.. he's a blind date and I was hoping you could make me something to help numb my senses," I said.
He laughed revealing perfectly straight teeth. We talked long enough to make my date suspicious but not jealous. When I started to head back over to the pool table where my date had asked me to meet him and some of his I-banker friends, he offered me a shot on the house with a napkin that had a phone number.
"Call me," he said. "Or better yet, ditch your date, I'm off in an hour."
Too much a lady to diss my date even though he was devoid of any potential, I declined. "I think I'm going to cut my losses and head home," I said and then handed him my business card.

We dated for about two months during which time I gushed about the boy toy I had scored so effortlessly. My girlfriends finally met him one night when he caught up with us after a girls night out. "He's hot but he's a bartender slash real estate agent. You can't be serious," said one way-too-pragmatic friend.
"I didn't say he's Mr. Right. Just Mr. Right Now," I retorted defensively. What part of booty call had led these girls to believe I had met my soul mate?! But in the end, I was made painfully aware that his looks were God's way of compensating for his lack of intellectual fortitude. (If that's not really a term, don't tell me. I've also been awakened to the fact that I've been using SAT words and terms inappropriately lately. I'd like to blame it on sleep deprivation, stress and my overindulgence in alcohol.) Our short-lived romance came to a screeching halt when he called me from jail in Miami.

"Hey, babe, do you know any good lawyers in Florida?" he casually asked FROM A PAYPHONE IN JAIL!
"Why are you calling me collect?" I demanded still clueless that Einstein was incarcerated.
"Listen. I'm in jail, they found some coke when I was going through security at the airport." According to Luigi, he had an "empty baggy" with cocaine residue in his back pocket when he went through airport security, still drunker than an Irish man at a wake, and the drug dog started barking.
"I'm actually more disturbed that you were doing coke than I am that you're in jail," I said and I meant it. What the fuck? I knew he was a bit of a pot head but didn't think he had the inclination or disposable income for this kind of high jinx. He claimed he just needed a "bump" because he hadn't seen his boys in so long and they were partying so hard. Whatever, that was the end of my fling with the half Italian-half Colombian hottie who was more trouble than he was worth. Aren't they all?

Well said!

This is divine. A woman after my own heart. My favorite is: "I will not play it cool."
http://lifestyle.msn.com/Relationships/Dating/ArticleIV2.aspx?cp-documentid=1286684>1=8881&wa=wsignin1.0

Drunk Blogging

Sometimes it's necessary to blow off steam. I've accumulated enough this week to power a small locomotive. Tonight I went to a holiday party and had two drinks. That's all it takes for a light weight like me. Two kettel one and cranberries and I was well on my way to becoming an a-hole. Upon my arrival, I was greeted with the good news that I had been elected to the board which I was actually sweating prior to my mom's lump. That scare has pretty much knocked everything off my radar.

I met a really hot guy who was dressed to the nines, half Parisian and half Italian, "Bon soir, monsieur" but after talking to him for 20 minutes, I realized that his looks were inversely proportional to his intellect. I'm too blitzed to remember what they were, but he kept using words that didn't exist as if he were a pimp on the Jerry Springer Show. "We were conversating about it before she took off with my money!" Something to that effect but much more subtle. Almost subtle enough for me to overlook given his hotness but, alas, I am a bit of a nerd when it comes to words.

I left my tab open and my credit card at the bar. Then I called one of my friends to retrieve it on my behalf so I wouldn't have to schlep back to the West Village. Tomorrow night, I'm going to another Christmas party. HPG will be there but he's mad at me right now. This is interesting. He's annoyed with me because he offered to set me up and I accused him of "pawning me off" on someone else. His response was, "I give up." So do I! It's one thing to reject someone but then to have the audacity to offer to set them up is just, well, it's kind of embarrassing, no? I mean I haven't done anything to warrant deflecting my attention. Granted, finding your texts recorded verbatim in a blog can be a tad disturbing but he went looking for that information then opted to share it with his friends. Friends who include coworkers so now I look like a really big jackass to several AP's and PA's at the office.

I just sent Howard an email. It said, "Where are you?" Here's another question: who cares?! Do I really want to open that can of worms, right now? The answer is no but my rational side fails miserably when pitted against the drunken lush who has a "just add alcohol" directive connected with activation of obnoxious behavior. I don't think I should drink. This is very unbecoming. Shit. Where's my credit card?

One lump or two?

Two. The one in my mother's breast has left me with a lump in my throat. I couldn't sleep last night and today at work every time someone would ask me what was wrong, my eyes brimmed with tears. I lost a childhood friend to breast cancer earlier this year. She was 33, married to her high school sweetheart with two adorable boys. I gave the eulogy at her funeral, I was pragmatic and together. I tried to convince her to record messages to her sons but she couldn't bring herself to do that because she wasn't a quitter and taping a good-bye was tantamount to throwing in the towel.

I'm not pragmatic now, I'm a mess. And I'm the only one who's a mess. My sister and grandmother who are with my mom are both slightly amused and surprised at my reaction. When I talked to my mom today, she shared their reaction. "What's wrong with my strong daughter?!" she demanded. "You're the one who's supposed to reassure me. Hello?" I couldn't talk, too busy trying to ebb the tide of tears. I can be pretty melodramatic at times, I get it from my mom. Whenever we would attempt to illustrate how a point she was making was inherently flawed, she would yell, "Stop ridiculing me!" I'll never forget the time I told her she was being '"condescending." I was 16 and serious. "I'm your mother, I'm supposed to be," she retorted incredulously.

Work was busy today but I was justifiably preoccupied and prone to bursting into tears at the slightest provocation. I left my security pass upstairs when I ducked out to meet Howard for a cup of coffee and when the guard claimed he didn't recognize me (which is bullshit because Barney Fife totally knows who I am), I exploded. "Where's your supervisor?" I roared.
"I am the supervisor," he said.
"How pathetic is that?!" I responded before storming to the elevators. Seeing him again will most likely be a tad awkward.

I didn't intend on seeing Howard but he offered to meet me halfway between his office and mine for a cup of coffee. Had I known the two avenue walk would leave me with frozen toes, I might have stayed put but his email had been oddly comforting:
It is likely nothing but it is still scary.I had a lump on one of my testicles. Had to have a scan in summer.The only good bit of the whole thing was the black humour when he callibrated his ultrasound machine to "small objects"!
It was rough but the relief when I got the all clear was worth it!

The lump is small and could be a myriad of things. My friends who are doctors have all rallied to pull whatever strings necessary to get her the requisite tests. Everyone else is optimistic. I am too but won't be able to get any real rest until we get the all clear. Then I'll finally be able to breath a sigh of relief.

Parental Guidance

I love my mother. She is an amazing, wonderful, eternally optimistic woman. But, like many mothers who are desperately seeking a son-in-law, her matchmaking skills suck. Tonight I got a call from a guy who was given my number by my mother. I was told that he was divorced, too! This news was delivered with as much excitement and promise as if we had both visited the same African village in an effort to find ourselves.

"And," my mother gushed with just enough pause (for anyone who didn't know better) to think she was going to say he won the Pulitzer or, even better, was a George Clooney look alike. "He went to school here." Now by "here" my mother means in the United States but "school" could mean college or grad school but never high school. To think that my family had uncovered an American-raised prospect for me would be giving them credit for understanding what a "cultural disconnect" is. As far as they're concerned, I'm a big snob with an ego that could fill a football stadium.

When a 5'4" cardiologist showed up at my house wearing white jeans and my sister couldn't even deliver the description as I put on my Eastern garb for the big reveal without crying because she was laughing so hard, my dad told me I was too picky. "Any man who marries you will commit suicide," he deadpanned. Pun intended. But he wasn't joking and for years, I kept thinking I would be another Joan Rivers, coming home to find that my hubby had kicked the chair out from under him. That was then, this is now. Now, my parents not so subtly suggest that I'm not getting any younger and "beggars can't be choosers." WHO'S BEGGING?!

I am. I'm begging them to stop with the email forwards containing glamour shots ("The red velvet jacket looks fantastic, Mr. Choudhrey!") and bio data. Ugh, I don't care if he was at the top of his class in Karachi. So tonight this guy calls me and I can't even remember his freaking name but he's like, "Did you know someone from Atlanta would be calling you?"
"Umm, I thought someone from Chicago was calling me," I admitted. How many men had my mother given my cell number to? Is there an online graffiti board for desperate mothers with old maids as first daughters?
He laughed, "Well, maybe he will but it's me for now." OK, so far so good. This guy has a personality. Let's hope he just has one. Then he started talking and boy was he chatty. First he asked me about my trip to Paris and then spent about ten minutes explaining why it didn't matter if I wasn't caught up with how romantic the city was because the history and architecture I said I focused on instead was what really made it so romantic. Good point, I generously offered. I need a manicure. He kept talking and talking and, "That's where I put that book!" I thought to myself as I walked around my bedroom hoping this painful exercise in first exploratory conversations was winding down.

"You sound really tired," he said suddenly. How does he know what I sound like? I haven't been able to get a word in edgewise. I took the bait. "Yes," I yawned while saying, "It's been a long day." My mom hates it when I yawn-talk which I do frequently and usually when I'm talking to her. It must be a psychosomatic thing. OK, he said and then kept talking. He worked in IT, ooh how very F.O.B. of you! "But," he offered, "I'm really passionate about cars and would like to own my own dealership someday. Probably after I get green card." Cue needle scratching record player here. And. We're done.

Now I get to call my mom and tell her why this guy won't work out. Then, she'll tell me why all of my reasons are dumb and lecture me on making room in my life for love. Perfect. Because that's why I'm the love pariah, eligible men keep lining up to be rejected by me. That's it. And I wave them off because of all the great sex I'm not having with, oh that's right, NO ONE!

I'm touched

So many of you seem outraged at the idea of my early retirement. It's so earnest and sweet, my sardonic self keeps wondering if it's a big put-on. "Go on... no really, go on."
In addition to the comments posted here, I received a string of emails from friends who thought it was ridiculous that the threat of losing my anonymity would push me into the fringes of society. In other words, joining the ranks of the normal people who don't feel compelled to share their life via a blog.

I may be hitting the road again for work anyway, possibly limiting how much time I can allow my musings to take center stage. The break from all the travel has been a bit of a relief and I was looking forward to actually spending the last few weeks of 2006 in New York. I find out in a couple of days what exciting place I'll see next. Ann Arbor? I hear Fargo's nice this time of year. If it's the latter, I'll have to feign illness to keep from being shipped off to the Siberia of the western hemisphere. Actually, we never go to Fargo for anything. I've never heard of anyone, except a foreign medical grad, going to Fargo. God love him, that guy never knew what hit him. One minute he was headed to the "land of opportunity", the next he's seeing patients who are so accustomed to harsh winters they chuckle at frostbite, saying things like, "Go ahead and take that toe off, Doc. I've got nine more."

The ex-boyfriend is calling. He went to Tao for dinner and now wants me to meet him for coffee at his hotel. My first thought was, why the fuck did you go to Tao without me? Wouldn't an apology entail a nice dinner? Then I remembered what other lovely qualities he possessed in addition to his penchant for good wine, beer, rubbing alcohol... he's cheap! And apparently, that's a British export as well. I remember the time he lost his wallet in a New Orleans cab and missed his flight back to New York on the morning his father was travelling from Brussels to visit him. I got a panicked call pleading with me to pick him up at the airport or else the poor man would be lost. We were broken up at the time and the idea of being stuck in a cab to JFK on a beautiful Sunday wasn't a prospect I relished. "Fuck, Howard, do you really think he can't figure it out on his own?"
"No bloody chance, he's expecting me to pick him up and doesn't have a cell phone," he pleaded.
I relented. I was given this description: "He looks like my dad, you know an older version of me minus the devilishly handsome part." Great. I'm on the lookout for a man with an inflated sense of self-worth. Somehow, I found him and he was perturbed to say the least.
"That arse! I thought I raised him better than that. Probably got wankered, didn't he?" he demanded without any regard for the South Asian young woman who was clearly uncomfortable with everything his son had engineered to create her presence at this terminal on a beautiful freakin' Sunday!
"Umm, he lost his keys.." I stammered. This was beyond uncomfortable. We hailed a cab and got to Howard's apartment- a high rise in the date rape district, also known as Murray Hill where former frat boys abound. And Howard was so grateful for me sweeping in and rescuing his dear old dad that it took him three months to pay me back the $60 in cab fare. Nice. Maybe I won't be having coffee this evening.

The Dinner Experiment

Success! A triumph unrivaled by any other social enterprise I've ever attempted. Saturday's soiree was superb. An evening where wine and conversation flowed freely and, while domestic diva I am not, my hors d'oeuvres and cupcakes were a hit.

The concept I alluded to in a prior post was a dinner party where all the guests would be vetted by moi and selected based on a balanced boy-girl ratio. While I witnessed several crackberries whipped out to exchange information, I can't say definitively that there was a love connection. Unless you count what transpired between several guests and my super moist cupcakes. I'm being literal, how bout you get your mind out of the gutter, whack job?!

The ex-boyfriend who is evidence that I am indeed both a love pariah and a glutton for punishment has surfaced yet again. He moved back to London last year and finally checked himself into rehab. Hey, what did we say about being judgemental on this space? It's my job to judge, yours to vacillate between shock and awe. Anyhoo, he comes to New York every so often but I haven't seen him since our pathetic New Year's Eve. We toasted hot chocolate at his flat in London while he sulked about how much he had fucked up his life and made me feel like the IRS at a casino: not too welcomed. He was here for the marathon but after some suggestive emails admitted that he had gotten back together with Sara (I'd elaborate but I don't know either). Yesterday, he sent me a text informing me that Sara, like his drinking, was history and he wants to see me to "apologize."

For what? I don't want to bore you with the details of how a Brit conceals his alcoholism by maintaining its European to drink heavily at every meal including breakfast. I mean we've all seen the movies, it's just like that except most people probably catch on sooner than I did. When his benders would cause him to inexplicably disappear for hours, sometimes days on end, I convinced myself he was simply afraid of commitment. On several occasions, I suspected something was remiss ("Aww, he's drinking my Gatorade out of a glass, how civilized"..2 hours later..."where's my gin?") but my girlfriends said, "He's not an alcoholic, he's just British." Wrong again, girls. So he's in town and he's kind of a mess but still sober and wants to tell me he's sorry for all the crap he's put me through. I'm trying to steer clear in an effort to maintain some semblance of peace and quiet in my life but I've been told that I'm only happy when it rains. And, well, he is the rainmaker and the Love Pariah has been in the throes of a drought.

The Love Pariah Ponders Early Retirement

What started out as a guilty pleasure, poured out in blog-form for the like-minded girlfriends who have told me for years that I "should write a book!" has turned into the bain of my existence as of late.

In the past three or four days, I have been bombarded with defensive, unjustified emails from people who have called my blog a "pity party", told me that my alarm at showing pictures of me was an overreaction to an innocuous gesture and then, perhaps the final straw, an email that reminded me that I'm in my thirties and yada, yada, yada, bottom line: people are going to figure it out. Really? How?

I don't understand why my assertion of my anonymity is being construed as a self-aggrandizing effort to put on airs. I am a journalist by profession. In other words, it's how I make a living and occasionally, I am in front of the camera doing it. Is it so hard to understand that I don't want people thinking the new freelancer doing a live shot for them is the infamous "Love Pariah?" And while it may seem counter intuitive to post a blog if my privacy is important to me, I didn't think it was a leap in logic that my friends, many of whom are reporters, would understand the need to keep who I am under wraps. Instead, I'm the bitch who can't get a grip. How the hell did that happen?

She's 'happy', now leave her alone!

I'm happy. Stop asking if I'm happy. In the absence of male distractions, I have been spending a lot of time with me, myself, and I. I like them. All of me. I may be a spitfire, but I'm also fun and generous and I care about my friends, perhaps too much sometimes. So even though it may sound like I think I'm a martyr, I know I'm not. I'm not with Mo because I didn't love him. He didn't stimulate me intellectually or physically and I wasn't willing to settle no matter how much love and money he threw at me. And that's what he did, he flung his love at me without any regard for whether I was ready, willing or able to accept. Consequently, I would often get knocked in the head with an "I love you so much it hurts" when I was least expecting it. This after I had been accused of flirting with the waiter or some other ludicrous notion he had.

And the lop-sided former friend from an "unknown country" did break my heart because I allowed myself to feel vulnerable and let him in. I thought I was being brave when in fact, I was being blindly foolish. So, yeah, there have been some bumps in the road, but life's a journey and I'm enjoying it for the most part. You ride out the waves of loneliness when they come but most of the time, you're too busy living your life to feel anything but the occasional self-satisfaction of being true to yourself. And that's what no man can ever take, my integrity to myself.

Unknown Country

Hey, do you really think if you conceal your ISP after I outed your lazy-eye that I'm not going to conclude it's you? All of a sudden, I'm seeing several views that are conspicuously labeled "unknown country." Hmmm, wonder who that is? Could it be, oh, I don't know, let's see... SATAN?! lol. Couldn't resist, as I began channeling the church lady. Get a life, nothing to see here besides the occasional rants of a jaded woman (lately inspired by you).
Drive-thru please.

"I am going away to an unknown country, where I shall have no past and no name, and where I shall be born again with a new face and an untried heart." Colette

Infidels...

If seeing is believing and you can only ascertain the full picture of the Love Pariah by knowing who I am or what I look like, then by all means, Don't Believe! And Don't Read! And friends, stop telling people who the fuck I am! What part of "secret blog" didn't you get?!

This message was brought to you by the PMS Coalition, helping women vent and preventing homicides worldwide.

terror is stronger than horror, though it usually lasts for a shorter time

So a bit obsessed with my own blog and curious to see who else is, I went on my sitemeter today and made a terrifying discovery. The man whose blatant rejection inspired one of the first entries has been reading. I have no fucking idea how he found it, why he found it and why he's a loyal reader. Well, the last one I can only assume is morbid curiousity. But, what the fuck? How did you even know I had a blog, you weirdo!

I don't know what would possess someone to seek out the rants of a woman they dismissed for being neurotic and needy. That's all this blog is. Why? HOW?! First my blood ran cold, then as I began regaining feeling in my face (is that the Topamax?), I felt a bit guilty for describing him as "lazy-eyed." To be honest, I never saw his so-called lazy-eye, this was something he said he suspected but found too maddening to confirm. As for the fact that one leg was shorter than the other, this was evident in his gait. And calling him a midget, that was just because I was bitter. I mean AM bitter. You are a wanker without a spine- a spineless wanker. And a tosser! My ire requires British insults. How do you conspire (I realize a conspiracy needs more than one person but in this case I'm referring to Mr.Hyde who lurks beneath) to cross the line with your friend, repeatedly blow her off, cancel the plans for a budding romance and then... I'm on a roll, when she has a heart big enough to forgive you and resume a platonic friendship, shut her out completely- AGAIN?!

And since I have your attention, you should know that the second time I went on holiday with two boys, it was actually fun. They didn't sneak off and get high or drop me off at the restaurant to wait 25 minutes for a table by myself while they jacked off or did whatever with each other in the car. They had FUN! Ironic considering, they're about five years younger than you and your "best friend" but are light years ahead in terms of both chivalry and emotional growth. Jackhole!

I need a cigarette. But I don't smoke. Then what's that coming out of my ears?

Let me tell you one thing, only..

That's how so many sentences that came out of one of my beloved travel companions would begin. "Let me tell you one thing- you must wake up or we will see the Louvre 2000 without you." Now imagine that being said with the utmost earnestness in a thick Indian accent and you'll understand why my entire trip to Paris was spent doubled over in laughter.

At the risk of copyright infringement, I must, MUST, share the email from one of the guys I went to Paris with. This was his response after being granted access to my blog. He, like HPG, was threatening to go mining the internet for it so I thought I'd spare him the trouble. Anyway, this is Louvre 2000's reaction to the Love Pariah after having spent 5 days and nights with her in gay Parhee:

Well -- our Internet has been down for a few hours (not a good thing for a newspaper that wants to occasionally maybe publish online), so I just read it. Let me tell you more than one thing.

1) It was not a brothel!

2) Traveling with a girly was a nice idea, and I guess you get credit for that. We would've bored each other staring at guidebooks the whole time, or perhaps him staring at a guidebook while I tripped over something, and we would've ended up in a tiny hotel room where I might've smothered him to death for the snoring. He's a wonderful person and I'd give him my spare kidney if he ever needed one, but I owe you for being the one to sleep by him.

3) I haven't really read through the other stuff, but with a quick glance I see (a) a photo of food that appears to be shot with a digital camera (ahem, not a bad idea) and (b) a picture of a barely clothed woman. How oh how could you complain about walking by Moulin Rouge? (And we weren't actually planning to go to the Louvre 2000 that day, madame.)

4) This is a really damn fine blog and I'm looking forward to reading more of it when I'm done with dinner.

5) I will not divulge it to anyone, even (3rd traveler's name omitted here). Secrets are always safe with me.

6) It wasn't a fucking brothel!

7) I hope you feel better from the flu-like symptoms.

Thank you, Louvre 2000. Yes, that is your code name on the Love Pariah's blog, deal with it. A couple of points of clarification. Our "junior suite", as it was so generously described online when we were booking it, technically had three beds. One queen size bed, with a twin bed across from it, and another twin bed upstairs in a loft fit for a hobbit. The first couple of nights, I awoke in sheer horror because I thought our travel companion was asphyxiating in his sleep. His snoring had segued from a lawn-mower to a loud wheezing that sounded like he was gasping for his last breath. By the third night, I was tired of trying to avoid touching the grimy wall my bed was fit snugly against and I decided to sleep in the real bed occupied by the lawnmower. I pushed my earplugs to dangerous depths in my ear canals and put on an eye mask. The wheezing was muted enough to resemble the faint whir of a loud generator.

Second point of clarification: "photo of food that appears to be shot with a digital camera (ahem, not a bad idea)". Louvre 2000 had a penchant for taking photos of everything. Never was this more evident than when he would whip out the camera before we dove into whatever food we had ordered. Good or bad, Louvre 2000 was poised and ready to document the culinary experience.

And finally, the "Short Bus" was a movie poster I had to document to show Americans that riding the short bus isn't always a bad thing.

Voila!

Voila! In English, we use this word sparingly. It usually precedes a big reveal. You asked for a home makeover- voila! Your newly-decorated abode awaits. In Paris, this word is used more often and with less emphasis. It was a bit disconcerting when I was at a boutique and asked if they had my size in something.

The snooty clerk surprised me as she showed me where by saying, "Voila." Clearly, for Parisians, voila is the equivalent of "here" as in "here it is."

That's all I got. I'm fighting flu-like symptoms and trying to defy my carb-cravings. This makes for a dull love pariah. I should be a stress grenade given my upcoming dinner party for 16 people. Calm down. If you weren't invited it's either because, A. I don't know you and object to you reading my blog anyway, or B. you are not single.

That's right, it's a party for eligible singletons only so we can "network, circulate, socialize" and any other euphemisms for "desperately seeking partner to spare us from future social engagements restricted to sad singles." It will be fun, no doubt, because it's at mine... but I've only invited compatible partners for my friends, working diligently to balance the guest list so there are attractive options for both genders. However, in my selfless endeavor, I neglected to consider if there will be anyone for me. I'm hoping that if a union does come from my little dinner experiment, the newly-coupled singletons will feel charitable and set me up with someone perhaps outside of my existing social circle.

In the meantime, I'm fending off suitors thrust into my email inbox from

my mother and grandmother.

"He's not handsome, handsome, but he's good-looking."

I don't even want to know what that means. No doubt a frog who morphs into a troll instead of a prince with my luck. Voila! Your gnome awaits...

Cabin fever

If my trip to Paris was a dream, then the voyage home was a nightmare. My sister had given me explicit instructions on how to get reimbursed for the European taxes I was charged during my short but expensive shopping spree. I was only too happy to jump through whatever hoops necessary to get my tax dollars back. After all, why should I pay for Europeans to have health care when I don't pay for my own?

I get to Air France only to learn that there are no more seats in Business class- fine. There are no more window seats- fine. I get my boarding pass and an aisle seat assignment and head to the booth marked "Detax." The angry French man tells me that I have to produce the goods I purchased to get my refund. Merde! I just checked my bags. I go back and the Air France people attempt to retreive my bag but no go. Defeated, I head towards my gate to board. That's when I realized the "detax" was the least of my worries.

I make it to my row and stare in disbelief at what fate and the Air France personnel have conspired to do. I have a middle seat in a row that does not recline, next to a cluster of lavatories. Dear God. I look at the guy sitting in the window seat, "They've got to be kidding."

He laughs. "I know. They screwed me, too," he says in a Texas accent. He's big and burly and looks very out of place on a flight from Paris to New York. I call the head purser, "This won't do. In fact, I can't believe you don't warn people before you assign them this seat."

The flight attendant looks confused.

"I'm in a middle seat in a row that doesn't recline on an 8 hour flight- that's unacceptable."

"But mademoiselle, the flight is full and you're boarding card says you were the 238th person to check in." How does she know that? I take the boarding card and look at it, so that's what that number means.

"You can't seriously expect someone to sit confined in an upright position for 8 hours. I mean, unless, I got my ticket at a reduced rate because of the horrible seat I was in or if I was stand-by. I'll take the next flight but I won't- I can't sit here." I know I was being a bitch but whatever- the French are always bitchy and this was a travesty of something. I know airline comfort is an oxymoron but this was-

"I have spoken to the Captain and he says you may disembark but you must do so quickly."

"What about my bags?"

"We cannot guarantee when they will arrive," she replied matter-of-factly as if I had just asked if we were having fish or chicken for dinner. So faced with the option of parting with my bags for an indefinite period of time and languishing at the Charled de Gaulle airport for even longer, I opted to take my seat.

"I'm glad you gave them Hell," said the Burly Texan who did turn out to be from Austin and was travelling on business as he did private security work for dignitaries.

Now my whole back is knotted like a pretzel and I can't afford a desperately needed massage.

***As I had feared, random people are reading my blog now. People I don't know who live in strange places. Fine. I'm a blogger, I guess. But they're leaving dumb comments like, "Who is Josephine Baker?" You're online, jackass, GOOGLE her!

Ou'est Josephine Baker

I'm leaving gay Parhee in a matter of hours. It has been an amazing trip from start to finish although, as if on cue, this morning I woke up with a terrible sore throat. At least my health waited until my iminent departure to decline.
My last day was lovely, spent ruminating about Paris, its history, architecture, and class conflicts. My friend served as an excellent source of all this information not to mention where to score the best bloody Bloody Mary. It was an insider's view of Paris. He took me to a cemetary which sounds morbid and it was but it was also very cool. My friend and I were both journalism majors in college with an emphasis in broadcast news. When we graduated, I went to CNN and he to The New York Times to participate in what was being called the advent of the "Digital Age" and those of us who knew better regarded as a sadly doomed venture. Ten some odd years later, he travels to places like Cambodia to free sex slaves and Darfur to chronicle the "next Rwanda." loser. Anyway, he's like a big brother, always trying to push me to live up to my potential, become the foreign correspondent I was destined to be or at least pick up and read something non-fiction. As we wandered through the cemetary, he attempted to point out famous Parisians buried there and all I could say was, "Ou'est Josephine Baker?!"

Upon my return, I must first get off topamax for it failed miserably as an apetite suppressant and secondly go on a crash diet. From afar, the plan is to give up everything white, all carbs, creams, and carbs! Off with their heads, those pesky carbs! LET THEM EAT CAKE, for I will abstain and become the true news vixen I once was. Sigh... I can already tell that up close my fragile will give way to the first carb craving that rears its ugly head. Must find a man who appreciates the Renaissance woman, a modern Venus di Milo with fashion sense. That way, he'll complain about my love handles being too thin and insist on feeding me carbs to plumpen me up. Will temporarily enjoy this reverie until reality jolts me awake.

Flying Solo

My male companions and I parted ways this morning. They called it going back to work, I called it abandoning me just like every other man has and WILL!
Nonplussed, I quickly replaced the two print reporters with one super media reporter, my old college buddy who also works for the New York Times but is based in Paris. However, before meeting up with him, I took advantage of the now missing male obstacles that had heretofore prevented me from shopping freely. First, I hit a few boutiques in Marais but soon realized that time was of the essence and if I was to spend any time with my friend and check one more locale on my must-see list, I would have to expedite the process of Parisian purchasing. Mango. My girlfriends had schooled me on this fashion triumph where high-end styles were available at "accessible prices."
When I'm shopping alone, I have a constant internal dialogue going. Here's what it sounded like today.
"Holy MOTHER of God- this coat was made for you!"
"No they don't. They don't have the most awesome white overcoat. Fuck off. That is not only 94 euros. If you don't buy this, you don't deserve to live."
I know it sounds harsh, but when I'm really surprised or excited, I lack the creativity or inclination to use proper vocabulary, choosing instead to curse like a sailor.
This is how the next hour went until I was overloaded with two wool overcoats, one black and one cream, both GORGEOUS, and a chic sweater, pull-over, blouse thingy. Then, they gave me two pairs of sunglasses for free because I spent so much money.
I fucking love this city.

postcards from the edge

Bonjour! Have decided that I must find a way to spend at least a year living and working in Parhee! I have ducked into an iternet cafe just long enough to ease your withdrawal symptoms but am having considerable difficulty typing on this french keyboard.
Quick update: travelling with boys is sooo much more fun than any gal trip I have ever taken. I havent had a chance to shop because everyti,e we pass a boutique and my eyes widen, theyll say; you have 90 seconds. Its OK because Im still on a high from the Dolce and Gabbana corduroy fatigued jeans I found for 80 euros my first night here.
I almost bought a chiffon top for 169 euro yesterday but my uber practical male compânions wouldnt hear of it. "For that price you could purchase a small Cambodian child to sew one for you."
Last night we went to a fab restaurant with a group of Europeans (friends of friend who has been our evening acitivities director) and overdosed on wine and fondue. I dont want to see or hear the word fromage (cheese) for a good 24 hours. The Europeans were in awe of my sarcasm. They said they had never met an American who could get sarcasm much less delve it out so deftly. "I don't know what you mean," I deadpanned.
OK off to see the Louvre! We should hqve seen it yesterday but my friend insisted we go to a whore house instead, "It's the Moulin Rouge, it's not a brothel," he said. Then we get there and there's all these pictures of nude women dancing on stage, oh yeah, this is sooo much more high brow. So we put off seeing Louvre for whores, but we qre in France, c'est la vie.
gotta run, one last thing before I forget. this is punctuated all wrong!
my sister taught me how to say "ill have the same" when ordering after my firend provided I WILL have the same but she didnt spell it phonetically so I might as well be speaking ebonics. People have literally laughed in my face, "Stupeed Americain."

Breaking and Entering

Is it just my building or does everyone's heater sound like someone is using a crow bar to break into their apartment? Every night this week, the loud pounding, grating and pathetic groans of the heating system would jolt me awake.
"Is it a burglar?!" I would wonder. "Is he single?"
And what's really ironic here is that I don't reside in a rent-stabilized, slum lord, tenement on the lower East side. Not that there's anything wrong with that. I live in a freaking Trump building. Donald needs to spend a little less time on his doomed clothing line and worry about our heating pipes.

I didn't get much sleep because of that. When the symphony of alarms I had orchestrated went off this morning, I seriously considered calling in sick. Then I realized today's assignment would pay for my plane ticket to Paris. So functioning on little sleep and my head swimming with missed wardrobe opportunities still in my closet instead of my suitcase, I made my way in to the company where I'm working this week. I love these guys but their clients are PR firms. I hate PR and I hate PR girls. They are all former "MRS" majors from college who live on the Upper East Side and work for peanuts because daddy subsidizes their income. They are sooo annoying. They manage to combine just enough ignorance and arrogance to make you want to crawl through the phone line on a conference call and knock their nose job back to high school. But this firm, the only one where I have ever whored myself out and actually enjoyed it, is different. They play the game but don't drink the company kool-aid. At least not my bosses who sarcastically yell, "Nice of you to finally fucking show up!" to each other one second and laugh about the client who had a meltdown over something as earth-shattering as the world's largest latte missing the mark the next. I do voice-over work here and this week actually recorded a fake breaking news segment for a corporate client. No, I didn't feel dirty because the "anchor" on last year's "crisis communication" version is currently a reporter at WABC and it will never air... I hope.

I digress, a lot. But you seem to enjoy the meanderings, me thinks. So moving slowly but deliberately towards work this morning, I ducked into a Starbuck's for a caffeine fix. The line coiled through the store. How is it that a city full of commitment-phobes is so loyal to a chain? So I decided to buck the system and go to a less prominent Starbuck's across the street. This one was much smaller, tucked between The Late Show studios and the theater showing The Color Purple. Damn. Another line, someone had leaked the clandestine location.

Coffee in hand, I finally show up at work only to have my friend Larry do a double-take when he sees me in my new Prada glasses. "Are you impressed or afraid?" I demanded.
"It's a little severe," he said without missing a beat, Larry doesn't give a shit if he hurts my feelings because, like many men I meet, he assumes I've always been treated like a princess and could use some "tough love."
"I was hoping for sexy librarian," I confessed. Oh well.

HPG says he's "addicted" to the blog and will soon be weighing in with comments. Can't wait. It's not enough that he rejected the love pariah by casting her aside like yesterday's sports page but now he has to try to one up me on my own blog. Cruel HPG.

Tarter is a Non-starter

My trip to McDonald's has had a domino effect. No asian chicken salad meant I didn't get the healthy start to my evening. I was hoping to have a carb-councious meal and then hit the gym downstairs. The extent of my laziness is beyond belief at the moment. Did I mention the gym is in the building? I had a 400 calorie filet o'fish and haven't left my couch for hours. I mean four hours. I have a to-do list before I get on my plane to Paris tomorrow night.

I've limited myself to those items that can be accomplished without leaving my sofa. Change outgoing voicemail to say I'll be out of the country until November 28th- check. File auto-reply's on email accounts with activation time- I'll get to it. Pay bills online. I'll be back next week. OK, so far the only thing I've done is record an outgoing message for all the men who won't be wondering where I am. Everyone else knows I'll be in Paris with two men who have no romantic potential. The whole trip is a fluke really.

These two acquaintances, soon-to-be best guy friends, are on a journalism board with me. One is a business writer for the New York Times, ooohhh, fancy. And the other, a D.C.-based business reporter for The Dallas Morning News, holla. Then there's me. The high maintenance diva whose chosen medium is TV and who has never balanced a checkbook. When I found out they were going to Paris for Thanksigiving, I threatened to crash their boys' trip and they simply shrugged. Then they forwarded me their itineraries and extended a formal invitation. I guilted my mom into letting me skip the only American holiday we actually observe. "I always wanted to go to Paris on my honeymoon but who knows when that will be," I said.
"Oh, honey," my mom replied, sadly stepping right into my trap. "Go, have fun."

I'm not one to always do what my parents say but this time I think I'll make an exception. Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

Encore!

Tom foolery of late has given rise to questions, I'm not inclined to answer.. again. So at the risk of inflating HPG's ego more than I already have, I am re-posting an old post. This will shed some light on the high jinx that led to the mayhem that gave way to the drama that became the unfolding horror also known as my life.
Originally posted 'eons' ago, this is now what we refer to as "ancient history":

Apparently, I'm not the only love pariah. Of course I'm not! But what's surprising is how many women have created the same blog. (Sigh) I can't even bask in the creation of a neoteric blog because it's far from unique, it's cliche. As hard as I tried to be tragic, I was in fact constantly reminded of my good fortune with friends popping out of the woodwork to praise me for random things like my great shoes, choice of nail polish and cynical musings.

I had been sharing my plight with various coworkers who only knew me as the freelance field producer who flits in and out of the newsroom every several weeks. One of those colleagues, who will henceforth be known as hot printer guy, was the hot research assistant who sits next to the printer. At the risk of sounding redundant, allow me to elaborate- he's hot and his desk is next to my my assigned printer. What? I said redundant.

Anyway, I had been sharing my trials and tribulations with him regarding the lazy-eyed guy who had dissed me after I checked every don't on the list of dating do's and don't's. Then, in a flash of brilliance or blatant stupidity (for now I'll choose to characterize it as genius), I thought, "why are you putting hot printer guy in the friend zone, HELLO?" So I started flirting with him via email and we ended up going out for drinks. Yes, it's Ramadan, what are you, the Taliban? Add kafir to my list of flaws, see if I care.

We talked for about three and a half hours over vodka tonics and established the following:
1) hot printer guy thought I was hot from day one whereas he popped up on my radar just 24 hours prior to our pseudo-date, 2) hot printer guy is squeamish about office romance, 3) I'm not really inter-office material since I'm usually on the road and rotate desks vacated by staffers who are ooto ('out of the office' for those of you blessed with ignorance of corporate acronyms) and, 4) he was not a 'quick fix.'

At one point, he came dangerously close to kissing me and I leaned in and whispered, "we're not having our first kiss in this bar." He relented and then suggested he kiss me in the rain outside which was romantic but that plan was thwarted by an endless stream of Cliff Claven-esque babble I opted to spout off instead of appearing demure and well, kissable. So then he was going to kiss me in the subway station and that was just sordid so we decided to wait until our first date. That was Thursday and despite my less than subtle attempts at discovering when that date may come ("so when are we going out?" I know. CRINGE), I still don't know. I just don't know. But I'm going to play by the rules. Stand-by for upcoming update on how long that sadly doomed plan will last.

UPDATE: HPG and I opted to go our separate ways and he ended up not being the man on my arm at the gala. However, earlier this week, HPG made good on his threat to find my secret blog. His triumph was short-lived, tho, because he soon discovered that our banter had been immortalized in the love pariah's annals of rejection.

Service with a Sneer

That's what you get in New York. I know New Yorkers get a bad rap for our less than friendly demeanor but I'm gonna go out on a limb and say, we deserve it. And I get it. I understand why this 13 mile island teeming with millions doesn’t have time to say “Please” and “Thank you” and “Y’all come back now” like I used to hear in Texas. But here’s what I don’t get. Why is the fastest city in the world have the slowest fucking McDonald’s?

I used to avoid the fast food eatery like the plague when I moved to Manhattan and, quite frankly, it was easy given how many other, equally cheap and more enticing options were available. But then I moved to the Upper West Side and there’s one right across the street from the 72nd Street subway station. So at the end of a long day, as I trudge up the subterranean steps into the bustling streets of my neighborhood, I’m faced with the looming task of going through a stack of Chinese, Italian, and sushi menus or simply giving in to the lure of the golden arches. Tonight was one of those nights.

After my pupils adjusted to the blinding, fluorescent lights- Mother of GOD, do we need to see every pore as we stuff our fat faces?- I noticed the guy in front of me in line. He was wearing a tailored, wool overcoat and Salvatore Ferragamo shoes. He was mixed, black and something else- maybe Latin?, and yeah, I say black not “African-American” because not all blacks are from Africa nor are they all necesarily American and that PC label is the last thing they want your cracker ass to worry about. So, anyway, hot guy in line in front of me waiting for his food and I was just picturing him turning and asking me out, when he opened his mouth. “I don’t need a bag,” he sang. Sang. He couldn’t have sounded more gay if he had said, “I like men.”

“What do you want?” the manager asked. That’s right, this was how the world’s fastest McDonald’s manager was choosing to address a customer. This place was stellar from top down.
“I’ll have an Asian chicken salad, fried chicken,” WHAT? I’m already ordering a salad, Rome wasn’t built in a day.
“We’re out of salads,” he replied clearly torn up about not having my selection in stock. How the hell do you run out of salads? ALL of your salads? I ordered a fish filet and only had to wait ten minutes for it to be microwaved and drowned in tartar sauce.

Tomorrow at this time, I will be preparing to board a flight to gay Paree! No fair that world’s most romantic city is named after world’s skankiest ho.

Burying the lead

In journalism school, one of the first things you learn is how a poorly-worded, compound sentence can bury the lead. Sometimes, we're guilty of that in our everyday conversations. My mother, who I will concede is not a journalist, does this. We talk several times a day and, on more than one occasion, the conversation has gone like this:
"So I'm just waiting in the car for your dad while he picks up some things at Home Depot," she'll start offhandedly.
"Yeah? What's he buying now?"
"A ceiling fan and some sheet rock."

This isn't surprising as my father is a jack of all trades and counts builder as one of his areas of expertise. He suffers from the worst kind of do-it-yourselferism, the type where you think you can do everything better and cheaper than others. As a result, he often falls into the trap of "cutting out the middle man" and purchasing supplies for his contractors on his own. Despite being burned by shady roofers, electricians, plumbers, my dad still miscalculates that he's one step ahead of the unscrupulous labor he chooses to hire. We've tried explaining it's no coincidence that entire stoves and refrigerators in his properties turn up missing when he employs ex-cons. He bristles at our unfair accusations.

"If no one will hire them then how they'll contribute to society?" he valiantly insists.
"But, Dad...they were the only ones with a ke-"
"I'll NOT LISTEN!" he shouts and storms off. That's another thing my dad does. He combines the wrong words to make contractions. Instead of "I won't" it's "I'll not" and "you'll not." "You'll not sit babies!" Yeah, I wasn't even allowed to babysit. And you wonder why I have issues.
But I digress. Back to the conversation with my mother.

"Yeah? What's he buying now?"
"A ceiling fan and some sheet rock." (we didn't repeat ourselves, this is called a "recap")
"What for?"
"Oh, didn't I tell you?" I can hear my mother's nail file stop. "The electrician fell through the ceiling." Here's another one.

One of my dear friends who works at Children's Hospital in New Orleans was recently made privy to my blog. Here's the reaction I got via email:
hey am on call....dealing with alot of dead/dying kids....and have had a rough day to say the least...i had a few minutes to eat and just read your blog...or parts of it.....THANK YOU for making me laugh....i laughed out loud!!!!!! :) you need to write a book and become a millionnaire :) !!!!!!!!!!!!!!(lots of exclamations)Conjulations!!!!!!!!!

I'd like to take this opportunity to thank the Academy... But, seriously, the fact that my follies are fuel for laughter on days like the one my friend described above makes HPG's humiliating discovery and the unexpected outing all worth it.

Shoot Me.

Not with a camera. Find a deadly weapon, preferably one that fires silver bullets in case the love pariah is immortal. HPG is reading this blog. It's all my fault. I couldn't keep my big trap shut. He knew I had a blog and kept threatening to go searching for it. I likened the task to finding a needle in a haystack. But don't underestimate the ingenuity of a bored researcher who often wonders if he's discovered the "end of the internet."

Have your fun, HPG. But know this. You were but a blip on my radar, a fleeting interest that waxed and waned depending on the frequency and proximity of our contact. I am horrified. Death, embrace me.

I'm on a ROLL

I'm on a roll but when I was inspired to illustrate this with an image, these roll-arounds were all I could come up with. They're kind of cute, but kind of creepy, too. Appropo considering that so are some of the men I've dated. Right now, I might just take creepy and cute cause it sure beats crappy! And that's what you get when you got nothing- crap. This may be the longest stretch I've had with no male interest. I've got zero prospects. No one is calling, texting or emailing and even thought I'm enjoying the respite from my usual angst-ridden existence, all this silence is deafening!

In an effort to appear more approachable, I've taken to making eye-contact and smiling broadly at men on the subway. This, I'm sad to report, is not working. In fact, I suspect it's having the opposite of its intended effect. The objects of my attention either take sudden interest in the bunion-correction advertisement overhead or do the half-smile/half sigh thing that says, "Okaaayyy..."

Whatever, strap hangers! I've got news for you: this suddenly single (OK, not so 'sudden' but the alliteration works) 30-something would rather be alone than stuck in a suffocating relationship with a man who thinks you can ask a woman out via text or send her virtual flowers. I had a boyfriend who sent me virtual flowers on my birthday. And do you know what I did? I married him! Let that be a lesson to you!

Steady as she goes...

Between the off-label drug I'm taking and my new prescription glasses, I'm having trouble with the most mundane task- WALKING. Here's some background. Wait. Before I fill you in on the background, indulge me momentarily while I preface that with a smidgen of more info. that may serve to amuse if not enlighten you about my propensity for self-medicating.

Almost all of my exposure to drugs- of medicinal or recreational value- has been through my physician friends. That's right, of all the people I meet it's not journos or lawyers BUT doctors who abuse drugs most liberally. And here's the real irony, they will convince you or at least try to in a pot-induced state that everyone else has got it all wrong and their knowledge of medicine insulates them from the pitfalls exhibited by the mere mortals who don't have M.D. after their name. But LOVE THEM. LOVE you guys. And I don't think they're wrong about that either but I'm not getting into a discourse on legalizing marijuana. Not here, not now. Foundation layed. Laid? I don't know.

Several months ago, I was having dinner with three very accomplished physicians who were discussing the off-label benefits of an anti-seizure medication called Topamax. One of the doctors had seen tremendous success with overweight patients who had lost weight when prescribed nominal dosages. I was more than a little intrigued. "What are the side effects?" None, really, he said. "They reported more energy and a feeling of satiety." Really? So, let me get this straight. There's a drug that can allow you to feel full so that you don't gorge yourself at regular intervals and the only side effect is that it puts a spring in your step? SIGN ME UP!

One month ago, he did. At first, I didn't feel anything and in anticipation of the weight loss, I started eating often and badly. Anything smothered or fried, I ordered without batting an eye, pausing only to confirm there was no bacon or lard, for religious reasons. Then it hit me. One day at work as I was talking up hot printer guy, I noticed that my extremities were all tingly and my lips were numb. "Maybe you're drunk," he offered. No, that wasn't it. My roommate said it was stress manifesting itself like it can with the twitching of an eye. Finally, it occurred to me that it was the Topamax. I looked it up online and discovered that Topamax causes those symptoms and bouts of confusion, read stupidity, which may explain going to see my therapist crosstown in the rain only to be reminded that she was on vacation. I think the real trick of the weight loss is the fact that Topamax makes colas taste like ass. You don't want to drink something that tastes like that so as a consequence I'm abstaining from one of my most high caloric culprits. So there's that and then there's my new glasses.

I finally got a new prescription for my glasses which I only wear when I'm going to be on a plane for more than three hours or too hungover to care about how fabulous my sunglasses make me look. The optometrist told me that I had a stigmatism and gave me new contacts and a Rx for new glasses as well. Once I finally found a pair of glasses that fit my face, were chic but not too trendy, and Prada (this was difficult, mind you), I was in business. Or not. Everything is slanted forward! I first noticed it with my laptop, then when I went to place a glass on my coffee table, but it really posed a problem as I attempted to navigate the Upper West Side towards brunch this afternoon. I got a few curious stares as I attempted to climb slopes that weren't there and a few times, I caught my self stumbling over curbs. I looked like a freak trying to get up the few steps to Mozart's where we were meeting for brunch. My friend laughed as I abruptly attempted to keep my glass from sliding off the perfectly horizontal table. Tomorrow I will have to go back to Optician to see about seeing again.

I've Been Outed

A friend of a friend mass-forwarded the link to my blog so now a bunch of people in Lousiana and Arkansas are reading it. I think. Scary stuff, it's an anonymous blog, folks. A Clark Kent-esque analogy may be appropriate here but I'm too mortified to be creative. I feel like I'm naked in public which, unless you're too drunk to care, can be very unnerving.

Well, if you don't know the author of this blog, know this. We don't judge here. The love pariah's misadventures were never intended for public consumption. Check your holier-than-thou, judgemental inclinations at the door before you enter this blog.

And if you think you know who I am, keep it on the DL, because, as I've just mentioned here, on every email with a link and in previous posts, IT'S AN ANONYMOUS BLOG!!

I Can See Clearly Now

If there was any doubt, tonight's encounter confirmed that I'm cursed. Defying both conventional wisdom and common sense, I opted to give this guy a chance even though he didn't provide a picture. I know. I deserve whatever havoc fate and the Gods of dating conspire to wreak upon my pathetic existence. On my profile, I specifically state: No pic, No response. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, I decided that this would be the time I would be pleasantly surprised. It's incomprehensible to me but perhaps these details will help you help me understand.

In his first email to me he took the time to quote poetry, Longfellow or Thoreau, I forget or I'm ignorant, you pick. I was intrigued. Then he told me about his many businesses and how he divides his time between the UK and Australia,his penchant for good wine and long conversations about nothing and everything. Hmmm...

I asked, "Why no pic?" He said between his traveling around the world and moving from remote site to desktop, he simply didn't have the time or inclination to offer a two-dimensional image. Red flag. I was skeptical but undaunted and gave him my cell number. He enthusiastically replied with a series of heavily punctuated texts: "How are you today?!!! :) Hope you are enjoying this wonderful day!!! ;) "

Good. God. I thought, what is up with this freak? I told him to chill out with all the exclamation marks. "Calm down over there." My sister, in turn, scolded me telling me that Australians were by their very nature sprightly people and I shouldn't be such a bitch. So I apologized and got this response:
"Like a babe still born,
Like a beast with its horns,
I have torn everyone,
Who reached out to me" - from a song by Leonard Cohen
Thank you for the message... Umm.... Well I have to say that was like experiencing "baptism by fire", not too often one is shot down even before one takes off!.............

Fast forward to this week when his globetrotting brought him to New York. My mother begged me not to go. That was another omen. My mom is always telling me I'm too picky and even she was worried about what the phantom date would look like. We agreed to meet at Divine Bar in midtown. I walked in, he saw me and walked up and I prayed for divine intervention. He was so unattractive, it made me angry. This asshole deliberately hid his looks because he knew he couldn't bank on them. I know that's mean. I know I'm going to hell but I'm admittedly shallow. And still, I'm willing to settle. I dated a guy who had a huge mole with more hair on it than on his entire head for God's sake! I dated a guy with one leg shorter than the other and, quite possibly, a lazy-eye! But this one, this Shrek made my dad (who bears a striking resemblance to Saddam Hussein) seem like Brad Pitt. It was so awful but I stuck it out, swallowed the bile rising in my throat, summoned the courage and class to stay half an hour and pretend my low-key demeanor was more a symptom of my long week/day than the deflation that comes with wishing you couldn't see your blind date.

Conjulations

That's what my dad says instead of "Congratulations." No, he's not retarded, he's actually a successful, self-made real estate mogul who has yet to master the English language. This despite, 30 some odd years in the U.S. This deficiency would manifest itself in the most devastating ways when I was growing up here in East Texas. I say "here" because I am currently in East Texas visiting my family who have continued their sentence since my departure.
Yesterday, I was having breakfast with my mother after she picked me up from the airport and my dad popped in to say hello. I told him about how I got called to the podium for an unexpected upgrade to first class because of my newly minted "Elite" status on Continental. It was actually a funny story because, after years of flying stand-by as a kid (my parents owned a travel agency and we were always "Non-revenue" passengers, a term I came to equate with cheap bastards), I was terrified of being bumped from a flight no matter what the circumstances. My dad chuckled and said, "Conjulations." My sister, currently camped out at my parent's house as she bitterly awaits her California Bar results, almost choked on her baguette. My mom rolled her eyes and my dad cleared his throat and in what I can only assume was an attempt to rectify his gaffe added, "Good luck."
I could go on but why? Why make the man who is responsible for my birth (not to mention a myriad of issues I'm told I have about men)sound like Apu from "The Simpsons?" Because it's funny. But I'll stop. For now, I'll relent.

Dalliance with "The Daily Show"

I have a crush on a "correspondent" on The Daily Show. I know that sounds ridiculous. It reminds me of the time I had a crush on my Philosophy Professor in College. I was such a hick my freshman year that I walked into my undergrad philosophy class and almost walked right out because the title of the course on the board threw me for a loop. I had just unzipped my backpack and sat down next to some frat boy when I literally saw the writing on the wall: "Contemporary moral problems." "Oh," I said aloud, "I thought this was Philosophy 301." He looked at me as if I had just declared that a football player scored a homerun. "It is," he said with as much contempt as two syllables could convey.
Chastened, I stayed and a glorious one-sided love affair spanned an entire spring semester. He was hardly my type. Tall, disheveled, mid to late thirties with a mop of curly hair and the kind of 5 o'clock shadow that makes someone look more tired than sexy. But, he would wax philosophic and I would pretend he was framing the justification for our scandalous relationship.
This crush has more potential for both success and disaster. The pseudo-correspondent is obviously clever and sharp as a tack when he's going back and forth with Jon Stewart but I have yet to surmise if those attributes exist unscripted, one on one. Furthermore, we're meeting under the pretense of business. I had worked with him on a charity project and asked him to speak on a panel for journalists, he resisted at first, intimidated by the idea of being questioned by so-called "real journalists" in an arena he only pretends to occupy. In the end, tho, he agreed and gave me his phone number. My intrepid reporting skills also led to the discovery that he lives two blocks away from me in the city. Lest you wonder if I'm stalking him, he volunteered the cross streets of his home and I was able to do the basic math to determine the proximity. He's not married but that doesn't mean he's single. And there's still the possibility that he plays for the other team. Although I think that info. would have surfaced on one of the many blogs that post his work. So we'll see. For the time being, I'll simply bask in the brilliance of my ingenuity that has not only opened the door to a potential date but definitely tickets to The Daily Show.

Democrats take back the House!

For someone who didn't even bother to fill out an absentee ballot in time, I sure am excited about tonight's election results. I'm just thrilled that the fucking Republicans got their asses handed to them tonight. The era of "smear and fear" as Kerry so aptly characterized has ended, we hope. The great thing about not being a local news reporter is the opportunity to channel-surf and view history unfolding. Otherwise, I'd be running around like a chicken with its head cut off trying to interview the candidates while my frenzied producers demanded "verbatims" for my SOTs all the while staying tethered to the camera. Good times. Instead, I'm watching Wolf Blitzer cringe everytime Jeff Greenfield offers an antecdote about a candidate. I actually prefer Greenfield's insight to Blitzer's monotone, I've been repeatedly told by CNNers that "he's sooo nice" but his voice, his fucking voice. Make it stop. For the first time in a decade, the Democrats are taking back the House from under the helm of a Republican President. And as of 12:46 am EST, control of the Senate literally hangs in the balance. Who takes the Senate boils down to one word macaca. Remember the incumbant hick who referred to a South Asian college guy videotaping his campaign rally with an outdated racial slur? Asshole is winning by less than a margin of 1%. Still, the election shows that the democratic process still works, something I doubted after Bush was reelected. OK, maybe he wasn't really reelected but enough people in Ohio voted for him for some people to think he was. Anyway, this time Katherine Harris couldn't use her pull to manipulate shit, she lost her bid for the Florida Senate seat. Sorry, hon', maybe you should have counted that hanging chad in Gore's favor, karma's a bitch.

Talk Soup

"I loved you on Talk Soup but what have you done since then?" That was my opening line to Greg Kinnear. News kitten had pointed him out an hour earlier and I had suppressed my celebrity-stalking impulses for a good 60 minutes. His friend, who told me he "Founded E! Entertainment", and I had been trading quips about the slut factor in the club. Correction: I deemed it slut factor, he called it odds in his favor.

Greg laughed at my observation and we started talking about me. He acted impressed but he's an actor, hello? The next day, as I ruminated about the night I was bombarded with flashbacks of random, inappropriate things I said. To Matt Armstrong, whose brother I accosted in an Austin restaurant by parking myself in his booth and declaring, "Lance?! Fancy meeting you here."; I shared the story of that horrific encounter. "You gotta understand, he gets that all the time. This summer he hung out with Jake Gyllenhal and Matthew Mcconaughey." Umm, why is he namedropping? He's Lance Armstrong's brother. I nodded pretending to relate and then invited him to be my date at the gala. He declined and gave me his business card. Not sure what I'm supposed to do with it given he's clearly a blonde bombshell chaser. Apparently, I had no misigivings about asking any of the B or A list celebrities I encountered. I asked Greg Kinnear and he, too, politely changed the topic of conversation to my work in Africa. "Yeah, those kids are starving and stuff," I said before reaching for my camera phone. Just then, some skanky ho appeared out of nowhere and took my phone. "No pictures!" she exclaimed. Greg took my phone from her, put his arm around me and snapped a picture of both of us. God help anyone who had to use those pics in a line-up but it's Academy-award nominated Greg Kinnear and me, smiling like two newfound friends. Good times.


I returned to New York to find that HPG had totally cooled his heels where I was concerned. He didn't even get out of his freakin' desk to walk over and wish me a happy birthday. Jackass. Still, too pathetic to allow subtle rejection to go lightly, I demanded to know why he hadn't bought me a card. "I'm a guy," he replied banally. This guy couldn't even be bothered to come up with a cute excuse. You're not that good-looking, I thought to myself. Yes, you are. Focker. I'm dateless to the gala but have a fabulous dress! Will look fabulous and probably spend the night sitting next to some rich socialite who thinks paying $500 a plate at an overpriced dinner absolves her of the guilt she may otherwise be apt to feel when she blows her nose with an Hermes handkerchief. Focker.

Rules of the Table

I decided the perfect way to wrap up my trip out west was a tryst in Vegas. And by "tryst" I mean the latest nightclub to take Sin City by storm, Tryst at the Wynn Hotel. The club has a two-story waterfall in the back. But what really amazed me was the VIP status my friends had. Before entering the hot spot, I met up with my friends who are both on-air talent at a local TV station. My girlfriend had sent me a few texts during the day and stated in no uncertain terms that "the girls" needed to make an appearance because we weren't waiting in line. This, after she called the Jose Ebert salon (it's a pronounced joe-zay for my fellow neophytes) and got me an appointment with the top colorist. My roots were showing and I wasn't about to hang out with her newfound club-connection without my boobs on display. "He's a boob-guy," she pointed out as she threw on her orange Tahari suit while holding for the salon manager, "and for a limo pick-up and free drinks in the VIP room, you'll deal with it." Fine. As long as I know up front that my face is NOT up here, I'm cool. He's the owner of The Palms for the love of God.
But I didn't have a thing to wear and my gray roots made me look like Jane Gooddall minus the Gorillas in the mist. Mist. I needed a facial, too.
With instructions on getting a slutty shirt and new do courtesy of Jose Hebert, I was off to the mall. Four hours and $350 later, I was in serious sticker shock and in awe of my fantastic fucking hairstyle. Was this really my hair? I looked hot. Now I just needed to find an empire waisted, baby dollish, flowy top thingy that would accentuate the girls without clinging to my mom pouch. Easy enough. Bebe beckoned. Must resist. Arden B. called but it screamed Wet Seal on a slightly higher budget. I ducked into Neimen Marcus and glanced at my watch, 8:30?!! Where had the time gone? Quickly, I grabbed a few Marc Jacobs and Betsey Johnson tops and dashed into the dressing room. The Marc Jacobs top made me look like a stylish librarian. The Betsey Johnson tops had the fashionista price tag with the Forever 21 style. Desperate and delayed, I opted for a generic brand that was made of-- brace yourself-- nylon and some other synthetic material. Whatever, it was black and that can pass for chic. Plus, my girls were smiling proudly at the world. This will have to do.
I arrived at the station newly coiffed but wearing a black, drapey blousy thingy that I had picked up at Anthropologie the week before. It wasn't exactly slutty but my cleavage could be prominently displayed.
My friends were disappointed. "Why are you wearing a blanket?" my friend demanded. "Doesn't she look like a nun?" she asked her friend, the svelte news kitten that was kinda, sorta but not really dating the VIP. (It should be noted here they had a huge falling out before our big night out so now my girls were instrumental in line avoidance) "Ummm," she stalled not wanting to offend the girl she had just met. "It's cute but you're going to be hot," she offered. But I wasn't about to wear flammable fabric out in public. I looked cheap and pregnant. Enough about my clothes.
Upon our arrival, there was a line winding through the lobby filled with hot girls and guys. Sadly, not all the girls were in their 20s (sad because I couldn't blame the marked difference in our abs on age). Many of them were well-heeled 30-somethings. Had I pursued my career in Vegas, I would have had a serious eating disorder.
Now, I'll cut to the chase.
News kitten dropped someone's name at the door and suddenly we were led to an area in the middle of the jam-packed club. A velvet rope was lifted and voila! VIP access. We met a hot Middle-Eastern guy with a 5 o'clock shadow. His appeal was muted by his awareness of said hotness. He was surrounded by a motley crew of two guidos ("How YOU doin?"), one elderly man in a cardigan, another elderly gentleman wearing black and lots of gold jewelry and an overweight white guy who I was told, "made the Terminator movies." I told HPG that and he was like, "James Cameron?" and I realized that no, that wasn't him at all. This one had Santa's belly. Introductions were made and I looked at the table covered with carafes of liquor and mixers. A tiered platter was filled with strawberries and chocolates- score. But to my surprise, no one made a move towards the alcohol and that's when my girlfriend schooled me on the "Rules of the table." Far from table manners, these were guidelines on Do's and Don'ts when partying with rich, otherwise unattractive, men.
"OK, girlfriend, these are the rules of the table." She really talks like that, I swear. "You don't reach for the alcohol. It must be poured for you and it's at their (the men's) suggestion. You do not flirt with guys outside of the velvet rope nor do you go outside and bring men back inside the rope." The problem was, no one was pouring and no one was asking if we wanted anything to drink. They were just ogling, and pawing news kitten who seemed to be enjoying the attention. Finally, a waitress showed up and began pouring. That’s when the fun started.

Smarminess

I sent hot printer guy a text today. I know I shouldn't have made the first move but if I were to even feign sincerity regarding the friendship I had forged, it wasn't out of line. I simply wanted him to check into some scuttlebutt I had heard about being regarded as high maintenance by an assignment editor. I thought it may also shed some light on the curmudgeon who sat next to HPG and his acerbic tone with me (curmudgeon was known to take frequent smoke breaks with the editor in question).
ME: I have an assignment for you.
HPG: What is it? How is az?
ME: Get the scoop on me. Why (those guys) don't like me.
HPG: They don't dislike you, you silly girl.
ME: (major passive aggressive tone)Some reporter u r. Ok now u can go back to pretending I don't exist.
What?! He hasn't emailed or texted since last Thursday, he deserves some grief.
HPG: You are a weird...
ME: That's not very nice
HPG: You made snide comments...
I struggled with this part. I had made snide remarks but were they out of line? Was I coming across like a.. a girl?
ME: I'm sorry
HPG: Ha...ha.. For what?
See! You can't be too hard on a player, they need to be checked. Here I was putting aside a myriad of cleverly cutting quips and he was toying with me. I'll see your mockery and raise you..
ME: Forget it. You're mean
in the absence of wit I chose to be wimpy
HPG: I'm being sincere!
ME: By Laughing at my apology? And snide wasn't even my intent.
HPG: I wasn't laughing at your apology I was laughing at the misunderstanding...
again with the ellipses. it is cute, tho, yeah? no? Jealous
ME: What 'misunderstanding'?
HPG: Where you felt the need to apologize
ME: I'm fighting the urge to be snide
HPG: You be as snide as you like
ME: U can't handle it
HPG: I think you are just trying to buy time to think of something snide to say
Damn! He's right, I'm suddenly afflicted with writer's block
ME: LOL! You're hotter when you keep your smarminess in check
HPG: I have no smarminess! That was snide!
ME: Thank you. Thank you very much. U epitomize smarminess.
HPG: Smarmy is for country club polo players.. i am a very humble man
ME: U, my dear, possess at times the unctuous air of a self-assured Casanova.
THE END. No more texts from very HPG. But it was also past midnight when I sent my last text so he may have opted to turn in after being called on his hubris. I figure if men like a challenge, I'm definitely not sending sweet nothings. He can think I'm toying with him or bored as long as neither assumption means I'm really interested. Because I'm not really interested. Unless he is. Then, I would reconsider my interest.

Verbal mentions

That's what a local reporter wanted in exchange for file footage. This after his retarded (no offense to the mentally-challenged)actions almost resulted in all of the broadcast media being booted from the courtroom. The MacArthur genius candidate was listening to testimony (as it was being recorded) outside of the courtroom where witnesses were waiting to testify. So the whole rule about excluding witnesses from the courtroom to prevent them from hearing proceedings was undermined. First he apologizes to us profusely for his actions and we generously act like it's no big deal. A few hours pass by, another network goes live with the story, the yocal goes live. Then we ask for file and he says, "Sure if you give me AND my station a verbal and visual mention." WTF?! Who gives verbal mentions? Have you ever heard a reporter and/or anchor say, "this video is due to the courtesy of the dumbass who almost got us kicked off this story." OK, seriously, who says "this video is provided by blah blah blah"?? No one. It doesn't happen. And I'm not adding the five seconds of audio track required to set the stupid precedent. I had a verbal mention for him alright but the knowledge that his facelift was gonna give soon provided temporary comfort. Verbal mention. Jackass.
Speaking of jackasses, hot printer guy has yet to reach out and touch someone namely me. Tonight my cameraman asked, "so what's up with all the self-deprecating stuff? you know you're a hottie." ME: Awww, that's so sweet but I'm still fat. Don't make me lift my shirt and scare you with my mom pouch. My cameraman told me I was crazy which was news to neither one of us. Then the conversation veered into dating do's and don'ts and he said that men LOVE aggressive women. Men want us to take the wheel and the guessing out of the dating game. OK, I'll buy that.. right after it jives with the notion of men enjoying the chase. If men want us to be in the driver's seat, why do they get turned off when the chase is over? My cameraman pondered this for a moment and replied, "you're right. Once I get a woman, I'm done, moved on to the next. We do enjoy the thrill of the chase." My point precisely. I've never been more upset about being right.

Happy Eid Mubarak

For those of you familiar with the term "Eid Mubarak", you can see why saying "Happy Eid Mubarak" is tantamount to "Happy Merry Christmas." That's what mandals texted me today. Mandals is the freelance still photographer who I have gone out on two dates with. What's white on the outside but brown on the inside? Mandals. He's a white boy who lives in Jackson Heights and loves all things South Asian. I'd elaborate but would end up exposing myself.

Anyway, Eid Mubarak, everyone! Hooray, Ramadan is over! 30 days of fasting from sunrise to sunset during the holy month of Ramadan observed by Muslims. Not all Muslims. Not me. For me, Ramadan is like a month of being Catholic, abstaining and indulging while feeling guilty the entire time, it's exhausting! Finally, I can go back to feeling guilty about eating not because of God but because of the carbs that are turning my 20-something waistline into a "mom pouch." It's bad enough I've been accused of dressing like a soccer mom on the weekends but to have the slight protrusion characterized by women who have given birth, adds insult to injury.

My sister accused me of dressing like a mom. This was about six years ago and, as a result of the upbraiding, I ceremoniously destroyed my Ann Taylor card. OK, so it was overdrawn, details.. Then I went to the opposite extreme and started shopping at Bebe and that was a page from a fashion victim's diary. (Note to self: if it's lace and spandex, it's not for you.) One $100 leather bolero later, I had learned my lesson. OK, one leather bolero and two sequins tops later, I had learned my lesson. Oh, speaking of fashion fatalities, can we observe a moment of silence for the death of the low-rise jeans?! Hallelujah!

I found out that my younger sister has a blog but she wouldn't let me look at it. She said if anyone who knew her read it, she couldn't allow her readers the unfettered access into her world. My sister is BRILLIANT. She makes me feel like a dumb blonde. Anyway, it got me thinking about the amount of trust I've instilled in my girlfriends who are privy to this blog. So at the risk of sounding self-important, please feel free to share but do NOT disclose my true identity. Cool. I suddenly feel like a super hero. Only I have no secret powers. Just a secret blog.

I'm currently out west covering a high-profile case involving a sex offender. Sorry, alleged sex offender. Hot printer guy has not emailed or texted which doesn't surprise me because he was in Upstate NY all weekend for a wedding and got back to work today. Why am I making excuses for him? He's lame, I'm out of his league and far too sophisticated to be bothered by men who don't have the wisdom to see my value. Why won't he call? Focker.

Weltschmerz

There is a word that perfectly encapsulates any given emotion. It's just a matter of discovering it. For instance, who knew that I was actually in a weltschmerz? That's what hit me like a ton of bricks and weighed me down like an anchor in a deep lake of remorse when I found out that Mo had not only found someone else to date him but that she was attractive, smart and into him?! Behold, weltschmerz \VELT-shmairts\:*1 : a mental depression or apathy caused by comparison of the actual state of the world with an ideal state 2 : a mood of sentimental sadness
But today as I drove down the Las Vegas Strip on a gorgeous Sunday afternoon to meet one of my best gal pals, it occurred to me that it had lifted. Even as I stood in the beautiful Bellagio atrium where my ex-husband had haphazardly proposed, I felt no pang of nostalgia, not tug of tormented what-if's? And when I drove through the Nevada mountains, over the Hoover Dam, I made a point of stopping at the scenic overlooks because that's what life is. The scenic overlooks. I wax poetic and promise that just as soon as I gain the fodder for folly, I'll wax sardonic once again.

lucie monday

It occurred to me that I didn't give the 411 on the 'text-saver' girl a.k.a. Lucie. After I had developed a crush on hot printer guy, I went to a party for a work colleague. Too much wine led to that giddy feeling I get right before I unwittingly blurt out potentially dangerous information to virtual strangers (I once told a girl I had two orgasms while waiting in line for the bathroom at a bar. Innocuous? I turned to face the boyfriend-elect, i.e.elected but not yet in office, who was not the purveyor of the big O, yeah, UGLY. Anyway, on this occasion, the mixture of alcohol and opportunity resulted in the acquisition of info regarding hot printer guy. HPG was a player, said Lucie and to prove it, she whipped out her cell phone and showed us text messages he had sent her... IN JUNE! At first we were alarmed that HPG would go for Lucie but then we realized we should be equally alarmed at the fact that she had been saving his texts, harmless banter, for five months. Anyway, that's what he meant by "Lucie Monday all over again" in the previous post.

Today I spent the day with my friend Frankie who was visiting from Denver. She brought her friend from Seattle and we literally shopped til we dropped although I was more than a tad annoyed when everything I grabbed at Century 21 ended up being $299.99 as opposed to $29.99. Retail therapy just isn't doing it for me lately which could mean that I have everything I need- NOT- or I'm growing up- doubtful- or possibly, that I'm just plum bored of shopping (GASP). On one hand, I'm grateful for the quietude afforded in the absence of male drama. Yes, despite the HPG posts that appear to consume me, they're not nearly the caliber of high jinx and angst supplied by the emotionally unavailable men I usually find. I currently don't have male companionship. No one is calling or texting, emailing or asking me out. It's the fleeting moments of serenity I should use for self-analysis but I'm just too tired. Tired of thinking, tired of beating myself up for being too (choose one) honest, neurotic, needy, angry. Anyway, this post is getting a bit too introspective for a blog that's intended to serve as comic relief. And as the sad clown cried, the crowd roared with laughter...

Gossip Guzzler

Apparently, the newsroom where hot printer guy and I work is a cesspool for office gossip. We had been deftly skirting the issue of dating while maintaining an email rapport when he dropped a bomb on me. I was happily scavenging the clearance racks at Daffy's (ick) and Bloomie's for a dress for the upcoming gala (need a formal that makes me look effortlessly chic and sophisticated, sexy but not slutty-read- tall order), when he rang. Below is the stomach-churning text exchange that transpired:
HPG: I am not thrilled with you right now...whoever you told has told others...and it is lucie monday all over again...How is vegas?
(note his overuse of the ellipses, a trait he endearingly calls charming. Also, 'lucie'- name has not been changed to protect the not-so-innocent, is the aforementioned gossip monger)
ME: Told who what? (I fumbled with my phone as I pulled an ill-fitting silk and lace gown over my head)
HPG: Told someone something
ME:Well my conscience is clear and i need more info 2 help solve this mystery (WHAT THE FUCK IS HE TALKING ABOUT?? AND WHAT'S HE DOING COMPARING ME TO WEIRD TEXT-SAVER? so then I added)
ME: Don't compare me to the headcase.
HPG: It was the most recent parallel..but now you see why i don't cross the line..they are all gossips!
ME: I have to be completely honest that i find this whole cryptic exchange annoying. Tell me what u heard.
HPG: I heard that i made out with you the other night
(I was flabbergasted. The only person I had told was my roommate and those of you who read my blog and that group is smaller than the one that thinks Nicole Ritchie has a high metabolism)
ME: WHAT?! I SWEAR THE ONLY PERSON WHO I TOLD WAS MY ROMMATE. WTF?!!
HPG: I told nobody... You see why this place is psycho?
I was beginning to think hot printer guy was psycho but I still needed a date to the gala.
ME: But that's so f'ed up bc someone just made it up and happened to be rt. What else could it be? And WHY didn't you tell anyone? I'm def worth telling someone.

He didn't reply but I spoke to him later that day where he remained evasive about his source.
At this juncture, I don't know what was said to him via what medium. But I do know this. Hot printer guy is younger than my little sister who is currently visiting with her sweet, tall, handsome, witty boyfriend who loves her inspite of her flaws (you think I have baggage?!). I don't even know if he's my type. I mean, sure, if tall, good-looking, smart and borderline witty is my type, then he may be. But do I really want to embark on an investigation into the mole who may or may not have alluded to a tryst that didn't really occur? My intellect is going to say no... for the time being (pregnant pause)