SELFABSORBED.ME

Looking dapper young man, now where is Eduardo to get me another sassafrass on the rocks

There is nothing I like more then a good ol’ Thursday night happy hour….of course there is a good old fashioned spanking, but that is a whole other column altogether. Thursday may just be the perfect night to go out drinking. There is only one day left in the work week and everyone can show up and get sloshed in their suits and pantyhose. There is nothing better then a drunk person in loafers and an alligator sweater, or in my household we like to call it, ‘being Republican’. Dressing racy on a Thursday night involves unbuttoning your top two buttons and sometimes the naughtier girls even take off their tights. Saturday night you can show up half naked in a plastic bikini with tassels and it's perfectly fine, but Thursday you better show up in some slacks damnit and they better be pressed.

When I was without a job during the summer of 2004, otherwise known as ‘when life was good and suicide wasn’t an option’, I remember getting dressed up like I had a job just to go out to the bars. I would put on my khaki’s best and show up to meet my friends for drinks like I had just come from the office. I would even maybe spill a bit of coffee on the side of my knee, just for authenticity. Sometimes at the bar I would get on my cell phone and yell things like, “Yeah, those TPS reports, I need them, by tomorrow! And go fax me some…ugh, things…Eduardo! Yes boy stop questioning me and go do it now!..” And normally that was right about the time my grandpa would hang up the phone on me.

I was very insecure that summer about not having a job and when guys would ask me what I do for a living I had the whole, “a little bit of this, a little bit of that” speech down… Only later did I learn that is what most drug dealers say as well. I would also say I had “meetings” to go to with Ellen…and by “Ellen” I did mean, the actual show ‘Ellen’.

One of my good friends and I met through a love of gin and tonics in Midtown East. We bonded over Thursday night alcoholism and let me say, we have been friends ever since. And when we discovered we also shared a love for mozzarella sticks it was all I could do to not cry at the bar and give her a huge hug…but I didn’t, only because that might mess up the sweater tied around my neck...I mean hey, it was Thursday.

I was delayed on a flight out before Christmas during 2005 and then had layover in Philadelphia. When the plane finally boarded, we sat on the runway for an hour before the pilot came on with an overhead announcement “As some of you folks may be aware of, our flight crew is going to be unable to complete this trip due to overtime regulations…and ah soo ahh, you are going to have to get your bags and get off the plane...”

I sat straight up in my seat, which clearly was not erect enough. “WHAT! Are you kidding me? I don’t need a flight crew, I need a pilot! That’s all I need. I don’t need some retard to hand out pretzels ….who needs snack packs? If anyone doesn’t already know how to operate their goddamn air mask, get the fuck off the plane and let the rest of us go with the pilot!"
I was asked to get off the plane.

So I get emails from readers regarding things they have seen, heard or done that reminds them of me. Normally these emails I receive consist of bad-date stories, random musings and penis enlargements… As far as the last topic goes all I have to say is; HotAss69, how DO you know me so well?

One of the emails I received last week is from an avid reader of mine out of the great country of Los Angeles. She recently had a friend visit NY and sent her this email upon return. She then forwarded the email on to me, because, like I have always said before, when you think of horrible drunken nights and sexual embarrassment, I do hope you think of ME.

Email Below:

My sister was in New York a week or so ago and met this guy at some bar. They really seemed to hit it off, he works in some health-related field and graduated from Hopkins and my sister is attending Hopkins right now for her Masters in Public Health. They talk a lot and end up meeting the next night for dinner. He of course tries to get her to come back to his place. She says no, she really has to get back to her friend's house she's staying at in Hoboken. He asks if he can take the subway with her to Hoboken? She responds by saying this makes no sense. He then says, ‘what about a cab?’ Of course this makes even less sense, but he decides to take a cab with her to Hoboken to drop her off. During the cab ride, he whips it out and says, "Just a little kiss?" My sister responds, “You think I am giving you a blow job in a cab on my way to New Jersey? I don't think so!”

My response to the email above:

First off, let me start by saying I think it is rude, embarrassing, disgusting and gross…..that your sister did not give up the goods! I mean, did he not buy your sister dinner? Did he not sit and listen to her chat on and on about things like “her education” all night? Dinner is a lot. He must get something for that right? There are rules here and expectations to abide by. Questions I need to know the answer to might be- How much was the dinner? Was there any type of wine bought at dinner? Was it bought by bottle or by glass? For every ten dollars spent I believe one item of clothing does need to be removed. It is listed in some contract somewhere. You can start with socks. And once you get in the actual cab with a boy there is no turning back, you might as well throw all your clothes off now you whore and say goodbye to those dreams of ever working as head Sister Sally at the Mormon church in Utah because you are well on your way to a life of sin… and by a “life of sin” I do mean, “an apartment in Murray Hill”.

If you can spot which scene I am in, in the Trailer below, I will pay you a million dollars...I will give you a hint, I am white.

Dear Upstairs Neighbor;

I get it.
You have sex.
My understanding of your sex life is actually far more comprehensive then my understanding of my own sex life. Every night I wake up to the sound of your headboard slamming against the beams above my wall. Your sex is timely as well, always around 2am on the dot. Is it scheduled in your Blackberry? Normally I am right in the middle of my usual 2am dream which consists of Arctic Penguins and a bunch of British people in a pool. Regardless, you do have a consist rhythm which is, thankfully for me, only about eight pumps long, and then it is over. You also like to have sex at 7am, which has actually become a better tool for waking me up in the morning then my actual alarm now. But last Sunday, on the DAY OF JESUS MAY I REMIND YOU, at 2pm when I was trying to watch Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants, your bed was hitting the wall harder than a coke-heads jaw. I was sitting there thinking, OK, enough, I get it. I mean, for the love of Jesus, you must have sex what 14? Maybe even 18 times a week? 18 times A WEEK? I think 18 times would be a good YEAR for me. I was tempted that bright sunny Sunday afternoon to walk upstairs and bang on your door screaming, “I GET IT! YOU HAVE SEX! I GET IT, FOR THE LOVE OF CHRIST ALMIGHTY, LET THE WALL REST, THE WALL IS HURTING! THE BEAMS NEED A DAY OFF!” How much sex do you need to be having? I suggest one time a year. How about that? How about you read some books? Or invest in a hobby, such as darts, or chess? I also have some face masks and old teeth retainers that, when worn, I have found as a very preventative tool for ever having any sex ever again. Maybe you need a good show to watch at night? May I suggest CSI Miami? TLC’s A Baby Story? Or even ESPN’s How to Catch a Fish? And as much as I loved hearing your eight pumps in all their glory this morning, I have to say, I could do without. So please dear Neighbor, appease me and next time you feel like causing all the beams in my ceiling to shake and crack, remember that picking up a methamphetamine habit would be much more considerate.
Thank you,

Your Neighbor Below,

NYC Ponderings

Walking around Macy’s this morning, spraying myself with every perfume imaginable; until I had enough alcohol doused on me to be completely flammable, I realized something truly magical…being kid-free and husband-free is like winning the lottery. I have no one to spend my money on other than myself. If I want to skip out on buying groceries this month in lieu of the new Cole Han limited edition leather, then damnit all, I will….Because who cares, it’s my spending account. What else would I be spending my money on anyway? Donations to Darfur? Homeless children’s education? Feeding the supermodels?

See the problem with having a family, also known as, “people you care about”, is all your money goes right to them. Got a baby? And not one of those diaper-less, food-less babies (they make those now, right?) Well there goes that money you were saving for the new leather coat! That baby will prevent you and your new leather coat from ever having a lavish love affair together. Damn that baby! Doesn’t he know how greedy he is? Can he not eat for just one day?

Husbands are even worse. You have to dress them and feed them and pretend like you enjoy spending 200 bucks on mid season tickets to watch some loser throw some ball at some other loser wearing tight pants, while you aren’t even watching the game, because instead you are freezing your ass off in some enormous parking lot just because you decided to leave halfway through to pop a squat between two parked cars and then got your coathood strings stuck under the muffler of one of those alleged parked cars….I’m sorry..what? Wait? Were we talking about something? Um yes, so do you know what I enjoy spending my money on…things that don’t involve anyone else but myself. I like to know my bank account is exactly where it should be...tied up in plastic, lots and lots of plastic.

-When did they decide to let Hillary run for office? Women can’t run for office! They get menstruation! I read somewhere their periods attract bears. Bears can smell the menstruation. And well, that is just great, you hear that? Bears. Now you're putting the White House and presumably the whole country in jeopardy!

-Where did polyester go? What happened to that nice itchy fiber that shirts and some well priced slacks used to be made out of? I want to go to a nightclub, see some Latin person dancing and walk over like I know what I’m doing on the dance-floor because, hey, I am wearing polyester. And maybe this Latin guy doesn’t really want to dance with me just because of this synthetic fiber I am wearing. Maybe he hasn’t answered any of my calls, or respond to any of my letters, or even to the candy-gram…and God only knows what happened to the kitten I got for him…cause he definitely didn't keep it, and I know for sure I am not raising the goddamn thing.

-Why do women want to date guys who have experience? Why aren’t women going after guys who have never had any experience with a woman before, whose closest experience was the one time his dentist leaned so far over her chair that her boob almost knocked him in the face and he went home and told all his friends he got to second base during a root canal? I think all girls should want to have sex with virgins... I think a guy’s first time might be his best time too. You think that too right? Don’t you? Well I knew it… you know what? I knew that you'd react that way and I knew that you would want to lead him through his first sexual encounter will all the compassion and care that someone would give to their soulmate.


-Because I said so! I already mentioned on numerous occasions that I may not be the marrying type! Can't you understand! Do we all have to settle down? I don’t even like the phrase settling down. I don’t want to settle and especially not down. But then here comes all these boys who are wondering what I am doing for the rest of my life. Do you ever wonder how somebody could even like you? The biggest problem in marriage is that he wants me around. And I can't even accept that? I don't think I can accept pure love. Marriage is like a tense, unfunny version of Everybody Loves Raymond… only it doesn't last 22 minutes. It lasts forever.

In a quaint little bookstore downtown yesterday, I saw this little girl standing in front of the shelves. She was in raggedy clothes, holes in the bottom of her lace shoes. She was desperately trying to reach up to grab a pink-colored book from a middle shelf. Her mother, no-where in site. All alone she stood, her little hands reaching towards the cover, which was now almost in her grasp. And as I stood, watching her, all I could think was, "You're in my way bitch, get out of the fucking way before I throw that book at your dirty face."