A Good Nights Sleep

In my 27 years on earth, I have woken up to some pretty fucked up scenes.

Ive woken up in the street, I’ve woken up in my parents front yard in a wig and a bathrobe, Ive woken up in the lost and found of airports in foreign cities. If you live long enough and drink hard enough, its almost inevitable that this happens to you. Often, I cant remember how I got there... but usually if I try hard enough, look around, and listen to the full police report, I can more or less piece together my evening.

This morning was a landmark moment for me. Try as I might, I can not for the life of me figure out what the hell I did last night. What kind of crazy night did I have to blackout to this degree, you ask? I had a few cocktails, came home around 10, made some tea and took an Ambien.

One fucking Ambien. A five fucking milligram Ambien. I have NEVER once blacked out like this before in my life. I remember more about the evening I drank so much I thought it was a good idea to snort a crushed Aspirin.

The last thing I remember was sitting down on the couch to watch the Daily Show. The next thing I remember is waking up at 4:00 am, fully clothed, in bed, COMPLETELY covered from head to toe in chocolate and marzipan (neither of which I was aware I had in the apartment). Confused as hell, I got up, stripped the sheets, took a shower, and did a load of laundry in the middle of the night. Then I went back to sleep.

When I woke up at 9:00 this morning (after several hours of restless sleep filled with sexual nightmares and profuse sweating out of only ONE of my armpits), I was still totally confused about the dessert orgy I had apparently decided to have. It was the oddest thing I had ever woken up to... that is, until I walked out into the living room.

Some time between taking the Ambien and waking up covered in candy, I had apparently 1) taken a vegetable peeler and used it to finely slice an entire block of cheese which I did not eat. 2) unplugged all of the wiring on the television speaker 3) called a guy I dated YEARS ago four times at 1:00 AM, each time for exactly 17 seconds according to my blackberry 4) read (or attempted to read, since I found the book on the kitchen table) Nietzsche’s Beyond Good and Evil, and best of all 4) probably made some misguided attempt to do the dishes, but possibly urinated in the dishwasher.

Apparently Ambien puts ME to sleep, but awakens the performance artist in me.

After several hours of cleaning, Ive mostly undone the damage of my sleep escapades, and am now crawling back into a freshly cleaned bed. So let this be a warning to you all: Ambien is the most dangerous drug known to man kind.

Eugoogoly

The Heathcliffe story is this: When I was 17 and living with my 30-year-old-married-drug-addict-artist-boyfriend in his house on Venice beach, I wasn’t exactly what you might call "emotionally mature". Nor was I really what you might call "stable". I was, however, what you what you might call "high out of my f-ing mind at least 96% of the time".

To give you an idea of what constitutes being "high out of my f-ing mind at least 96% of the time", our one kitchen cabinet consisted of oil paints and thinner, and our other consisted of mason jars filled with every drug known to man. Neither cabinet had any food in it. When the drug cabinet was empty, we usually resorted to huffing the paint thinner. Those were good days.

Since our household was pretty much identical to every other house in Venice, and almost all of our neighbors were in the same constantly drug addled state as we were, it goes without saying that all of my friendships were pretty much identical to the relationship between Julianne Moore and Heather Graham in Boogie Nights.

Of all of these relationships, the only one that consisted of anything more than coked out declarations of undying love (my relationship with my boyfriend included) was my relationship with Heathcliffe. Heahcliffe was our next door neighbor and I met him when he attended our Summer Solstice Ecstasy Party. I was instantly in love. He was tall, dark, brooding and handsome, he brought a guitar and played us all some songs he had written while we were peaking. Maybe it was the Ecstasy, but it was some of the most beautiful music Ive ever heard... I distinctly remember the sand applauding him when he was finished playing.

Of course he was gay. And not, like, kind of gay, like full time job gay, like a day he didn’t sleep with a stranger didn’t count as a real day gay. Regardless, we spent every waking second together. While my boyfriend was out selling his art on the boardwalk (seriously), I was at Heathcliffe’s, being his "muse", as he put it.

Being a muse, in case you’ve never been one yourself, consists mostly of smoking pot, complaining about your relationship, napping on the sundeck and paying for lunch.

When things with my boyfriend (miraculously) didn’t work out, Heathcliffe and I got in my car and ran away to San Francisco together. We spent a couple of days living out of my car, openly laundry listing the things that were wrong with our lives. We didn’t have any money, so we charged gas, and mostly stole food. It was amazing.

Since we didn’t have any money, we also didn’t have any drugs, which meant, for both of us, sobering up for the first time in well over three full months. An overly emotional gay guy and a hormonal adolescent girl going through withdrawal while living together in a Volkswagen bug... If one were given the task of visually depicting the phrase "rock bottom", Im pretty sure a picture from that week would be more than sufficient.

That was it for me. I bounced out of Venice and crawled back to NY within a week of returning from that road trip. Heathcliffe and I stayed in touch for a while after I moved, but eventually we lost touch. That was 1999, an Ive been trying to find him again ever since. He wasn’t of Friendster, or Myspace so my assumption was that he was either dead or had never really existed.

Finally, I found him on Facebook just this summer and wrote to him. I never heard back. Finally I got desperate and started emailing his friends on Facebook, one of whom was kind enough to inform me that he was dead.

I was crushed, of course. I was going to tell Big Big about it, but I assumed her response would be "Awww, that’s so sad! I know what loss feels like. I lost my Chanel purse once and I didn’t think I would ever love again." So instead I told my fiancé the story and he said "Oh, that’s really sad. Did you hear how much the market was down today?" Which I thought was insensitive until I told my father the news and he asked me "Are you talking about that cartoon cat?".

I thought was pretty much as insensitive as it could get until I told Alabaster the news and he said "That guy you lived in your car with? Of COURSE he’s dead. I still don’t understand why YOU aren’t."

Big Bigisms

Sooo… due to (inexplicable) requests for me to open my blog back up to the public (requests from people including but not limited to my mom and dad, I might add), I have decided to do just that.

I haven’t written anything in a long time for a variety of reasons. Some personal, some political... all imaginary. Anyway, now it’s back and Ill probably contribute to it on a semi regular basis.

I’ve had a lot of misadventures since last I posted, but I cant share them with you all just quite yet because of... reasons. But rest assured, they will soon be available to you, and they’re at least 37% more ridiculous than my previous exploits.

What better way to get back into the blog writing spirit than to share with you some words of great and zen-like wisdom? And who better to turn to for this than my favorite fodder supplier, my sister Big Big.

Now, just to refresh your memories, Big Big is my baby sister. Alabaster gave her the name Big Big.It’s short for Big Big Moron. Though she is an intelligent girl, she says what are, by far, some of the stupidest fucking things ever said by anyone in the history of life on earth. Just so you know Im not exaggerating... the image above is of her right after she was "hit by an epiphany".

My lack of blogging has kept me from sharing with a wider audience some of her more recent Big Bigisms. Let me correct that right now.

On Father’s Day (aka, the only day of the year I cant get a date to save my life), Big Big picked me up in her giant BMW a mere half an hour late, and managed to double park her car in a way that both prevents other drivers from getting by AND pedestrians from passing her. I open the passenger side to see what looks a girl who was beaten within an inch of her life, deprived of sleep and makeup removal for a week, dipped in liquor and put behind the wheel of a luxury vehicle. The first thing she slurred at me was "you have to drive."

This was just as well, because to sit in the passenger seat, I would have had to remove the plastic Burger King tray that she had stolen because her take out order was too massive for the paper bags alone to support. The ride started off well enough, with her sleeping and snoring loudly, but eventually she regained consciousness as she always does.

Apparently, she was quite hungry when she woke up because she reached in to her giant Channel purse and pulled out a back of Chinese food take out ribs. I guess the bright red goo they marinate those in wasn’t quite tasty enough for Big Big, because she followed this by reaching back in to her purse and pulling out a bottle of BBQ sauce. Already knowing it was a mistake, I asked her "Big, are you eating ribs on the way to dinner?" Her response was "Because I felt like eating something... Which reminds me, I wanted to ask you... have you ever tried eating someone’s ass?" After careful consideration, I answered "No... and PLEASE tell me that’s not why you have BBQ sauce in your bag."

Eventually, talked turned to her budding relationship with her new boyfriend Stu. She was explaining how she felt uncomfortable because they were nearing that point in the relationship where they had to have 'the talk'. "I’m scared," Big told me "How do I go about having ‘the talk?’".I spent the next 20 minutes explaining to her different ways she could approach the subject, and aside from the occasional pause to devour a rib whole, she gave me her rapt attention. When I was done with my speech she asked me... "Ok, great, but... What if I forget?" "What if you forget which part?" "What if I forget to bring it up?"

Not really sure what type of response this warranted I said "Well, if you forget to bring it up, you probably didn’t care that much in the first place." She thought about this for several moments, and said "Remind me later I’m not wearing any underwear."

Later in the summer, Alabaster and I decided to go out to dinner with Big. The day before we tried to decide on a mutually agreeable restaurant, when Big informed us...

Big: It has to be somewhere Atkins friendly, because Im on Atkins as of today.
Alabaster: Ok, how about sushi, and you can have sashimi?
Big: Eww,no. I cant eat sushi. Water animals bug me out.
Me: Whats a water animal?
Big: You know, like fish.
Me: Big, that’s not a water animal...its an entirely different species of being.
Big: Well, what is a perfect acronym for fish if not water animal?
Me: What?!?
Alabaster: No, lets explore this... Big what qualifies as a water animal? Do seals? Do crabs? Does Kevin Costner in Waterworld? Does a wet puppy? Does a mermaid?
Big: Whatever. Im not eating sushi.

We select an Atkins friendly restaurant, and a mer e 15 minutes late, Big strolls in... pouring Pringles from the can into her mouth.
Me: What happened to Atkins?
Liz: It didn’t make me skinny. Besides, I don’t have to diet or go to the gym, I have a boyfriend. Anyway, theres this new book that just came out. I want to buy it, but it’s like, really expensive.
Alabaster: So, why don’t you just take it out of the library?
Big: No way! I have no idea what’s on those books!
Alabaster: What would be on a library book?
Big: Well, you know, like, when youre reading a book and you pick your nose, and then you use that finger to turn the page?
Me and Alabaster: stunned silence.
She then ordered a large bowl of rice, and a bowl of bread for dinner.

Finally, Big called me when I was in the Hamptons for the weekend...

Big: Im really scared.
Me: Why? Did you see a water animal?
Big No, you know how I eat in my sleep all the time?
Me: Um, no.
Big: Well, I do, and last night... I ate a Tide spot remover stick.
Me: well, if it was going to effect you it probably would have by now. But did you ever think about doing something about the fact that you sleep eat?
Big: No... I think its totally normal that I cant make it through the night on an empty stomach.
Me: Well, maybe you should keep healthy snacks by your bed than. Because even if whatever you eat next isn’t poisonous, itll probably be really caloric.
Big: No, I don’t have any food in the house that has chlorine in it.
Big’s Coworker: Big, what was that clients name from this morning?
Big: Oh, it was Hmmmm Blahblahblah.
Coworker: Excuse me?
Big: It was Hmmm Blahblahblah.
Coworker: What?
Big (very aggravated): Ugh, I cant pronounce his name so Im just mumbling.
Me: Big, do you need to go?
Big: No, whatever. So what’s even worse is I got a parking ticket last ngiht for NO reason.
Me: Well, where’d you park?
Big: Right in front of my building!
Me: You mean, in the taxi stand?
Big: No, there were, like, a million other cars parked right there!
Me: Were those other cars... Taxis?
Big: Oh...

I could go on, but frankly Im developing carpel tunnel from this. Ill leave you, as Big left Alabaster and me after dinner, with this parting thought.. "Awwww... I love when dogs pee!"

Pesach

For far too long, I’ve neglected my blogging. I do, however, have an excellent excuse. I haven’t been able to write lately because of... reasons.

Now that we’ve cleared that up, let me say that this Passover weekend was completely inspirational. This was due largely to spending an extended period of time with my sister, Big Big.

As well we all know, Passover celebrates the day when the Angel of Death descended from heaven and slaughtered all the non Jewish babies! And also, to quote the haggadah, to celebrate the day when god “led us out of the house of bondage”. I don’t know how god did that... but my guess would be he agreed to pay our rent so we wouldn’t have to work there anymore.

After spending Passover with Big, it became clear that while the Angel of Death spared the Jewish babies, it would seem that the Angel of Brains may have skipped over a few Jewish households as well. To remind you, Big Big established herself as the star of the Seder last year by asking if Gefilte fish had fish in it. This year, she really outdid herself.

Before the Seder at my cousins house, Big Big and I decided to honor this holiday by making a pilgrimage to the holy land... Woodbury Commons. The car ride up was pretty much what you’d expect... Big drove her massive BMW at unheard of speeds while applying makeup, texting, and, of course, rapping.

The highlight of the day was when we went into Ralph Lauren, and Big walked up to an older, well dressed gentleman, got between him and the jacket he was looking at and said “Where’s the children’s section?”. After his shock wore off, he explained to Big “Um, I don’t work here”, to which Big responded by rolling her eyes in disgust and saying “Oh. My bad” as she wandered off to assault more customers.

At the Seder, Big continued her streak of brilliance. First she told us the guy she’s dating, we’ll cal him Stu, had complimented her. “Stu told me I have a great ass... just like Kim Kardashian’s! No... wait... I told him that”.

Later in the evening, she retreated to my cousin’s porch to partake in the traditional Passover joint smoking. My mother walked out during this, and being the strict disciplinarian that she is, asked Big Big “Are you at least going to eat some of the chocolate cake I made after you finish that joint?” Big Big nodded. I took this opportunity to remind my mother that generally when you find your daughter doing drugs at a family holiday you’re supposed to reprimand her or give her some sort of warning. My mother processed this for a minute, turned to Big Big and said “You know... by the time you get back down stairs, there won’t be any ice cream left.”

For me, the icing on the unleavened cake was when I was driving home with my father and I mentioned to him that mom had been talking to me about her will a lot lately. I asked if there was something I should know, like maybe she was suffering from some horrible illness. My father, not wanting me to worry, explained “No, mom’s totally fine. I, however, could go at any minute. You should probably be prepared to grab the wheel.”

All in all, Passover went better than I expected. Fortunately for me, that’s the last major Jewish holiday of the year.

Big Big Birthday Bash

Today, January 15th, is a very important day for the family Machiato... it is my sister Big Big's birthday. Or, as I think of it, the day everyone stopped paying attention to me. Or, as Big Big thinks of it, the 15th day of her month long self-involvement festival. It's a very big day... Woodbury Commons closes in order to celebrate, and a small shrine is erected at the Westchester Mall where people can go worship Big Big in effigy.

The first celebratory event I was forced to participate in was her models and bottles event at some club in midtown. Now, bear in mind that ig Big was the social chair of her jappy-jew sorority, so no birthday celebration would be complete without her 3,000 best friends, all of whom look and act exactly like her. I can't remember who any of them are aside from one named Becky... and thus I refer to all of them as Becky.

All the Becky's were at Big Big's party. There was Room Mate Becky, who is very nice, and then there was Blonde Becky who is very short and didn't stay very long, then there was Other Becky who I think is named Rachel.

Part two of the celebration was this evening when we went out for a family dinner. Big Big, who can spend $5,000 on a purse the size of an egg without batting an eye, has such a refined palette that the only foods she can eat are Chinese and McDonalds. Thus, her birthday dinner was at Joe's Shanghai in Chinatown. Famously, this is the restaurant where Big held her soup filled dumpling up to her ear to see if she could hear the ocean. Tonight she gave us a repeat performance.

On the candle shoved in an orange which passed for her birthday cake, Big wished for a boyfriend to buy her an i-touch.

This, although there is heavy competition, may be the dumbest thing she said tonight. Because... if she had a boyfriend she wouldn't need to wish for an i-touch she could just ASK for one... and a boyfriend isn't something you wish for, it's something you achieve by suppressing your scary creepy jappy side for the first few months of dating.

It's a skill most of have acquired... yet Big fails to understand why telling a guy what you're going to name your future children might not be the best thing to bring up on a first date. Or why asking a guy to rub your tummy until you fall asleep might be a bit intimate to request in a restaurant. Or that some might find it a bit off-putting if you ask them to put on surgical gloves before feeling you up. I knew she was in trouble when she explained she couldn't sleep with a guy she'd been dating for two months because she didn't know when last he'd been tested.

I assumed she meant the Series 7, but... no.

Big seemed to enjoy round two of her birthday celebration... that's her in the picture at the top displaying how she can "totally look totally Arabian!" The "Arabian" part being a clear indicator that her exposure to foreign politics is limited to the Disney version of Aladin.

J-Diet

Now that my fast decline to Creepy Old Cat Lady is no longer being decelerated, I feel that I may soon have to return to my favorite diet.

Coming from giant fat people and a variety of eating disorders, it should come as no surprise that I have extensive experience with diets. Only one (aside from bulimia) has ever rendered halfway decent results, and thusly I plan on returning to this one immediatly.

My choice to opt for a rigid diet as opposed to just trying to eat well was prompted by a recent trip grocery shopping (or as Cowboy Sex Angel used to call it, Super Market Shopping!). Whenever I unpack a bag of groceries, Im forced to realize that I really only buy two categories of food: non-food and cry-for-help food.

Non-food consistes of Single Jewish Girl staples such as miso soup packets, celery, non-fat yogurt and diet soda. I usully get a good two to three bags of that stuff; food that allows you to go through the motions of eating without actually having to consume anything. Then I get a bag or two of cry-for-help food, which is essentially the stuff you eat when you get back from a horrible date or have had a bit too much to drink and youre having a I-want-to-destroy-my-body-so-Ill-have-an-explanation-for-why-no-one-loves-me. This consists of... pretty much all the food I was raised on: ice cream, mac and cheese, deep fried lard wrapped in bacon dipped in sugar, etc. It gets hidden behind the non-food in the fridge incase people come over.

It’s depressing to purchase these items, and more importantly it’s expensive. Thus... my decision to return to my favorite all-time diet. It’s way cooler than Atkins and South Beach combined, and it's twice as effective. I call it The J-diet!

It’s a real breakthrough, and I ultimately plan on writing a book about it just as soon as I’m emaciated enough for the jacket photo.

What’s so amazing and unique about The J-diet is that you can eat whatever you want, whenever you want... just so long as someone on J-date buys it for you! Sound too good to be true? It isn’t. I went on the J-diet for 6 months and lost 30 pounds! This was back when I worked at Bergdorfs.A sample day on the J-diet looked like this...

Breakfast: leftover rock shrimp tempura from Nobu. Lunch: French onion soup during lunch date at Rue 57. Snack: 3 dirty martinis at Fredericks. Dinner: spring rolls and dumplings at TAO. Dessert: a CFO from Darrien. God, this diet is brilliant AND delicious!

The reason for my imminent return to this cheap and healthy way of life is threefold: A) I see now that I’m going to die alone and don’t want to die alone AND fat. B) I’m totally jealous of Alabaster and his insane weight loss, and most importantly C) people have been calling me fat A LOT lately. Like, more so than usual. Here are some of the more vicious examples...

My sister, referring to me, informed me “no one buys the cow when they can get the mild for free.” OUCH!! Obviously, she thinks I’m fat. Fat as a cow! It’s not like she said, I don’t know... no one buys the bean pole when they get the beans for free! Then she made a desperate attempt to backtrack and say she didn’t MEAN to imply that I was fat... merely that I was a huge slut that no one would ever marry, but I told her the damage was done, and there was no point in trying to make it sound like a compliment at this point.

Some waiter this week had the nerve to say to me “would you be interested in seeing the dessert tray?” That DICK! He may as well have said “Do you want to see a tray of lard and sugar? I bet you do, Fatty Fattenstein.”

Other atrocities this week have included being told... I’m “too much”, that I “haven’t changed a bit since High School”, that I “seem like a man-eater"... and perhaps the worst of all.. that I have “a lot on my plate right now”.

I hear you LOUD and CLEAR guys... it's Diet Coke and toothpast from here on out.

Playing Favorites

Every since this years Rosh Hashanah celebration, I’ve been creating a Greatest Hits reel in my head. It was motivated mostly by Big Big.

Now, we all know Big Big says some ridiculously stupid shit, but spending an extended period of time with her often necessitates taking some time alone to reflect on the zen-like nature of her idiocy.

It was at Rosh Hashanah that Big topped herself and gave me a new all time favorite Big quote. It’s this...

“Is Gefilte fish made of fish?”

This is one of the ones that requires a bit of reflection. Obviously, its a ridiculous question. It’s called Gefilte Fish. I mean, it says fish right in the name.

So one has to wonder, what could have possibly confused her? Was she thrown off by misnomers she had encountered in her past? Like the way Snoop Dogg isn’t really a dog? Was that a traumatic realization for her perhaps? Causing her to question everything she thought she knew about the world?

Secondly, it wasn’t even “Is Gefilte fish fish?” It was is it MADE of fish. Inferring that it couldn't just be fish, but rather the result of some complex manipulation of the fish. Perhaps the titular “gefilte-ing”?

Thirdly, she asked this to a total fucking stranger, not even a family member who wouldn't have been quite as baffled. Instead she asked my cousins friend whom she had never even met before.

Therefore, the reason for my selection of this quote is three fold. Previously, the title was held by her contribution to a conversation about the potential of life on other planets, which was an extremely reflective “I’m not saying I don’t believe in UFOs. I’m just saying.... I couldn’t possibly care less.”

Ultimately, all this got me thinking about the quintessential quotes of everyone else I know, and I have been compiling them ever since. Things that were not just funny and/or ridiculous, but that really captured the essence of the speakers personality. Thus far the winners are.....

My mom: I called her up one day a couple of years ago and said to her “Mom, I need my passport... I’m going to Argentina with a 42 guy I met on the internet last week.” and she said “Absolutely not! You CAN’T go!.... without travel Scrabble! I’ll buy you one and you can take it on the plane with you and you guys can play together!”

Alabaster: This was a tough one. Yesterdays “Carmela, you are the bees knees! The knees, of course, are notorious for being the fattest part of the bee.” was a real contender. As was when I tried on an outfit for this date I was really excited about and asked him what he thought and he said “It says Take Me! Take Me! Take Me.... to the circus.” But the prize ultimately went to when I told him I was depressed because I had severely low self esteem, and he told me “You have a lot of self esteem. Actually a surprising amount for someone... like you.”

A friend from school, after a date: “I forget what he said he did for a living. It definitely had the word hedge in it.... I think he was a gardner?”

Jenny: “You spend way too much time thinking about how much you hate Anoosh’s ex-wife. And it’s ALL time you could be spending obsessing about your weight.”

That’s the short list. Im always adding more.

Incidentally, I should add that the gefilte fish comment was the moronic icing on the cake of Big Big’s vapidity that day, since she had spent the entire week up until then stalking Alabaster and me, asking us “How does one sucker an investment banker into dating her against his will?” But no matter how many times we said “threeway”, she just kept asking. I’m actually a little worried she may be going deaf.

Put Me In Labor Day

The Brooklyn Labor Day Party of 2004 was not my idea. It’s actually quite repetitive to mention that it wasn’t my idea, since none of the Brooklyn parties were my idea. I was dead against each and every one of them.

Against the trips to Costco, where we spent hundreds of dollars for the privilege of attempting to wrestle bulk containers of tortilla chips out of the pale, bony fingers of the Hassid wives who had laid claim to the unleavened bread section of the store.

Against the Friendster invites passed along to maybe fifteen of Bootsy’s friends, all three of my friends and all five hundred and sixty three of Crazy Ho’s friends.

Against Crazy Ho printing out invitations and passing them out to the people hanging out on the stoops of the neighboring areas. Indiscriminately to seven foot tall, 400 pound black guys with “Thugz 4 Life” tattooed on their inner lips, to 18 year old Puerto Rican transvestites, oddly dressed in outfits eerily similar to the one Crazy Ho would be wearing herself, smelly Hasid's who would cross the street to avoid being handed the invitation from the hand of a woman who was not their wife, and then cat call her from across the street, assorted hipsters hanging out at the BQE Bar or the local Laundromat where they were making sure their trucker hats were perfectly laundered, to the Soprano wannabes playing poker on the astro turf lawn of their social club.

I was against all of it. Especially the Put me in Labor Day Party. Aside from the name, I was actually expected to wear underwear or a bikini to host this cast of characters in my own home. Why did I agree to this obvious disaster you ask? Well, for one, you couldn't really say no to Crazy Ho without risking being suffocated in your sleep, two, her argument was that my bedroom looked like the Wall St. chapter of an AA meeting 6 nights out of 7 anyway so it wasn't like I could pretend I didn't like to party and three, it was summer and I was unemployed. What else was I really going to do with my time?

Labor Day that year fell right after my triumphant return from Europe. I was crazy about talking to EVERYBODY since I had basically been restricted to speaking to my family and Alabaster for a month straight... meaning that unless I wanted to talk about food, Prada or how hot our bellboys ass was... I was silent.

As a result, I had invited maybe a dozen potential hookups that I had met since Id been back in the US, plus an old hook up from before I had left. Put Me in Labor may have been a perfect theme for that party in fact, despite my total lack of desire to be there.

The Put Me in Labor Day party also marked the premier of the massive sand pit we had created in our back yard. We had taken it upon ourselves upon moving in to fill the 8 by 8 backyard area with sand, a barbecue pit and tiki torches, much to the chagrin of our conservative Italian neighbors who favored the far more subtle plastic saint collection for their yards. When we created it it looked pretty decent, but by the end of the Labor Day party it looked more like Jones Beach... filled with cigarette butts and used condoms and smelling faintly but unmistakably of urine.

To be honest, I remember very little of the party itself. Perhaps it’s because it was so very long ago.... or perhaps it was that entire bottle of Malibu I downed before the first guest arrived. What I do remember seems pretty consistent with what Brooklyn parties usually entailed....

Crazy Ho’s underaged sister and a gaggle of her friends showed up and finished the first keg almost entirely on their own, after which the surviving member of Nada Surf (you remember them, yes? One hit wonders from the late nineties?) showed up. They were in their 40’s by then and apparently had been reduced to showing up at and party where drunken underage girls were assembled en mass.

Due to the fact that I was wearing underwear and nothing else, I had so much to drink, smoke and snort that by the time my guests arrived I was in perfect shape to vomit on their shoes.

I was sexiled from my own bedroom by my future roommate Teeny, who used it to hook up with some hot foreigner, as is her way.

My friend Gabby decided it would be in her best interest to go down on some total stranger in our second floor stairwell.... that was the day our upstairs neighbor decided to move out. (In our defense, when we moved in, she did say to us “the last girls who lived her were crack heads, so anything you guys do short of smoking crack will be an improvement”... and we knew a challenge when we heard one).

Sometime around three in the morning the cops showed up, and knowing that we had an apartment full of illegal drugs, underage girls we were plying with liquor, a bowl full of roofies punch and Im pretty sure a ring set up for midget wrestling, I decided to go out and talk to them. I have NO idea what it was I said, but I do know that it ended with one of them coming inside and doing a shot of tequila off of me.

Alabaster deciding he was “just drunk enough” to drive home, then stopping at the stop sign at the end of our block for an hour waiting for it to turn green.

Waking up on the couch the next morning next to some guy from Texas who was now wearing my underwear.

In retrospect, it was actually a pretty awesome party. My liver has almost completely recovered from it, too! And you’ll be happy to know, no one was actually “put in labor” at our Labor Day party.... although to be fair that may have had something to do with our Post Labor Day Scrambled Eggs and Emergency Contraception Brunch the following Tuesday.

The Old Man and the C.

Flipping through an old folder of papers from college, which I do on occasion when I feel nostalgic, I came across a term paper I wrote for this class I took, Great American Literature. The assignment was to write a response to your favorite work we had read during the semester, which in my case was Ernest Hemingways “The Sun Also Rises”. My essay was entitled “The Old Man and the C”.

The ten page essay is essentially a blog about this mid-40’s ibanker coke addict I was “dating” at the time, except since it was a scholarly endeavor, I used ALL of my big words. My justification was that Hemingway was basically an early Bret East-Ellis, and this novel withstood the test of time because it was about the ennui of the jaded upper classes. Really, it was just a way to turn a valid writing assignment into an opportunity to discus my sordid sex life.

Horrifically, I got an A. Theres a note at the end of the paper that says “Grade: A. Please see me.” I remember the meeting with that professor well... she told me I was a talented writer, albeit an insane one, and that she was required by law to ask me if intervention by student services was necessary. Bear in mind that this was the year that 3 or 4 undergrads at NYU had committed suicide before midterms. I assured her I was fine.

She told me my paper was fine as a rhetorical argument, but wanted to make sure it was largely fictional. I assured her it was.

She asked if there was any link between the essay and the week before, when I showed up to class half an hour late wearing stripper heals, a leather mini skirt and a tee-shirt from The Four Seasons, sat down for five minutes, got a nosebleed and left. I assured her the two were entirely unrelated.

Of all the As I’ve “earned” I think that one was my second favorite. My first favorite was the A I got for the “Interaction with Mythology” project I did for my projects class, for which I got a Phoenix tattoo on the back of neck. In all fairness, the professor was feeling a bit generous with the grades that semester, since he had been MIA for half of it while he recovered from his messy divorce, turning the class of 15 undergrad women over to his friend who took us to a field, got us drunk, and asked for advice on his love life.

To be fair, doing “real” work while at NYU was a bit of a challenge in and of itself. The one year I was foolish enough o take advantage of student housing, I was shoved in a tiny cell with a 400 hundred pound pre med students who did nothing with her days but eat Costco sized containers of Oreos, and fuck men she met online. I KNEW filling out the “interests” section of the housing forms was a bad idea.

It’s little wonder I was reduced to glorified blogs living with this girl... she had it in for me for no apparent reason and would constantly play mind games with me. Shes do things like steal stuff I could never prove shed stolen because I’d sound crazy for accusing her. Like shed steal my clothing... I mean, my clothing doesnt even fit ME, how could I accuse her? One of my skirts would have been a necklace on her.

Ultimately, I ended up seeking refuge at my then-boyfriends apartment in Williamsburg. While it was better than staying in the dorm, it wasn’t much better since his two room mates also hated me, and were just as passive-agressive about showing it. With them it was all subtle glares and general avoidance. Not one for passive aggression myself, I responded maturely by waiting for them to leave the apartment before going into their bedrooms and using their clothing as toilet paper.

In the end, the entire thing became fodder for my third favorite A paper “The Unbearable Lightness of Brooklyn”. Ahh NYU... why did I ever have to graduate?

The Last Supper

After reflecting on my cross country spree, I thought it would be wise to remind myself why it is that I opted at 17 to run screaming into the night rather than attend a local college like so many of my friends. Nothing serves as a faster reminder than some quality time with the family Machiato.

I went home last night for what I imagine to the untrained eye may have looked like a pork eating contest, but was in fact a family dinner at P.F. Changs.

Everyone was there; me, Big Big in her finest oversized Juicy sweatsuit covered in dog hair, my mom with her freshly polished diamond choke chain that she wears a as a ring, and my dad who inexplicably wasn’t wearing all black for the first time in several years, and seemed to be enjoying his new found role as my sisters “best best friend in the world” (a title previously held by our dog, Jack).

The evening started out well, with Big Big ordering for the entire table, adjusting each dish to her specific tastes (extra oil, more sauce, a side of salt for dipping) and then assuring the waiter “we may be annoying, but we tip well so don’t spit in our food”.

When the appetizers came, Big Big was displeased with the first bite he took, so she did what anyone would do... she spit her food out, rooted around in the chewed mass to find the object of her dissatisfaction, and then gave it to my father to chew for himself to see if he concurred with her findings. He did, and thus the offending item was placed in the center of the table, gallows style, for everyone to view with disdain.

This was followed by my mother showing off her freshly shined diamond ring, flanked on either side by... what else? Slightly smaller diamond rings. I suggested that she just have a mold made of her finger and than have a diamond overlay created that she could wear at all times, and we could all call her “Diamond Finger.” Horrifically, she seemed to think it was a phenomenal idea.

About that time the entrees came out. Big Big served herself and explained that no one could take food off her plate because she had already decided in which order she was going to eat everything, and removing any one food might inadvertently ruin her whole meal.

Then she told us about a guy she's going on a date with... a nice Indian boy from Derma.... except we eventually realized that by “Indian” she meant Iranian, and by “Derma” she meant Tehran.

Then she told us about her new job and her new boss, a recently divorced new dad whose schedule with this son she has already memorized. You can only imagine the joy it brings my parents to have raised two daughters who can recite a shared custody schedule by heart.

Eventually all nine dishes had been consumed and our terrified waiter brought over fortune cookies which Big Big handed out and forced everyone to read aloud (my mother was convinced her fortune was “December” until we explained that she had to read the reverse side).

Then I stole some Ambien from my fathers suicide stash and called it a night. A lovely evening was had by all.

East Meets West

You know the saying “a picture’s worth a thousand words”? Well, this picture is the entirety of my first novel. Let me tell you a little bit about it....

It’s entitled “East Meets West” and it was painted by my ex-boyfriend Brett as we road tripped across the country, low these many 8 years ago. He painted it in addition to shooting a video (the DVD of which I’m watching as I type) to chronicle our trip.

Being a naturally creative soul myself, I also opted to commemorate the experience in the less formal format of assorted scars and the occasional flashback.

In the upper left hand corner you’ll see the faint outline of the New York City skyline. This was painted when Brett first came to New York, a week before my high school graduation. He had never been to the city before, and spent his days in Manhattan while I finished up classes.

My family, perennially understanding folks that they are, dealt very well with the 30 year old stoner artist house guest. My mother met Brett.... baked brownies and openly wept, while my father mumbled something rather noncommittal about pressing statutory rape charges under his breath and retired to the basement to polish his gun, and Big Big said, and I quote “You are the most disgusting person on earth.” Although she failed to qualify whether it was directed at me, Brett, or both of us as a unified group.

Towards the right on the bottom, you’ll notice a small creak in a wooded area. This was stop one on our cross country adventure. We left the night of my senior prom, which I opted out of attending. We went to Pennsylvania, where Bretts neighbors Brady and Jessica were visiting family and celebrating Brady’s 21st birthday (which I thought was, like, just about when women went through menopause). While my classmates danced the night away to Mambo Number 5, I got hammered in some bar in small town Pennsylvania white some drunken blonde told me how much she wanted to make out with me before vomiting on my platforms.

Just above that is stop number two. The white dome structure that kind of looks like the capital building? Thats the town hall in No-teeth-marry-your-cousin, Alabama, home to Bretts father. Knowing Brett I assumed his father would be... well, Timothy Leary, pretty much, and his mom would be an alien. Amazingly, his dad was actually one of these salt-of-the-earth Steinbeck novel types. He seemed just as baffled by Brett as I was, although he fact that he was dating a 17 year old was pretty much par for the course in that part of town. We stayed there for a few days. Brett spent his days in the town painting, while I lay in bed, curled in the fetal position, wondering why no one had prevented me from doing this.

Incidentally, I should mention that when I left home, my “friends” at school placed bets on what the headline of the Post would read after I was found dead. The smart money was on “Lunatic Left For Dead off I-95, Parents Opt To Wait For Law and Order Episode Based on Incident Before Experiencing Emotion”. I was going to bet on that too, but I was informed that I could get 40 to 1 odds if I bet on my actually surviving to see California. Upon my return to New York, I collected my prize money... and used it to buy body glitter.

Moving right along to stop number three... in the upper right hand corner you can see the fountain in the French Quarter of New Orleans. New Orleans was awesome. They were apparently unaware that the legal drinking age was 21, and mistakenly seemed to believe that having boobs was a n acceptable substitute for a state issued ID. This made me extremely happy since the thrill of running away had started to wane and the crushing reality of moving to a strange place where I knew no one at a time in my life where I had JUST learned how to do laundry was beginning to sink in. In addition to this, on the ride into New Orleans, Brett had felt it was an ideal time to mention to me his marriage. Needless to say, the access to bars could not have been more welcome.

There is no part of the painting which correlates to the evening we get really really stoned in the car, then Brett passed out and I drove all night through Texas, taunted by the gigantic billboards warning me that I would spend my entire life in prison if I was caught with so much as a joint in the great state of Texas (we, of course, didn’t have a joint... but rather a dead babies worth of hash, a giant ziploc bag full of mushrooms, a few handles of Vodka.... oh, and I only had a junior license so technically I shouldn’t have been driving after 9:00).

That giant blob of paint that kind of looks like the final shot in the “this is your brain on drugs” ads from the eighties is stop four, the Grand Canyon. which part of the Grand Canyon looks like splattered brains, you ask? All of it... when you’re strung out on mushrooms. I was fully prepared for the Grand Canyon stop. I was dressed in an evening own with a print of the Grand Canyon on it. I wasn’t, however, prepared for the massive quantity of drugs Brett fed me. While he painted this segment, I tried to disprove what I felt was a totally unfair assumption that I couldn’t gracefully float to the canyon floor on a beam on sunshine.

Finally, at the top right corner, you’ll see the California sun. Brett and I were equally amazed to have made it all the way out to LA with killing each other or ourselves, and I was thrilled at the prospect of the death bet money awaiting me back in New York. It was quite the adventure.... it wasn’t for another two months that Brett and I moved in together... and a good three months before I found him naked in my clean laundry... but that's a story for another time.

Meet Ms. Machiato

Poor Big Big, I should mention, is not the only Machiato family member hard up for a job these days. After the traditional culmination of Yom Kippur services this year... the tearful announcement by my mother that were broke... everyone but my dad has been forced to look for work.

Now, when I got into Columbia, I was promised I was going to be treated like the five year old I act like and not forced to work. That’s out the window now though, since my mother has managed to blow through most of my fathers pension collecting overpriced, fat house pets and oversized handbags with clowns of them.

She would go back to work herself, except she refuses to work at a boring job or for people younger than her, dumber than her... and I think there were a few other reasonable stipulations like they couldn't be blonde or like the color green. Needless to say, she will be remaining unemployed. I give her about a week to find a way to blame this on diabetes.

I tried to do my part... I applied dot be a substitute teacher. It’s related to the career I’m pursuing, and it doesn’t involve me taking my clothes off, so all of my criteria were met. Of course, the agency I went through placed me on my very first (and very last) day.... at Anoosh’s kid Bailey’s school.

I suppose this shouldn't come as a surprise. It’s perfectly in line with the creul-irony as performance art that is my day to day existence. Still, when the time came, I was shaking like a leaf. The entire evening before I had nightmares about the substitute teachers we had in middle school. This one guy, Mr. Gentile, covered our seventh grade science class. Two hours of calling him “Mr. Genital” later, and he fled the room in tears. It was ugly.

The first class was fine... the kids were creepily well behaved. Like, Village of the Damned well behaved. I was starting to think the day was going to be ok. Then second period hit, and the polite little fifth graders were replaced by a sniveling, over hormonal group of preteens.

Oh my goodness. nothing on earth could have prepared me for this. All they did the whole class was say dirty words and then giggle, egg each other on, try to top each others inappropriate comments... they didn’t understand ‘no’, they didn’t understand ‘stop’, they DEFINITELY didn’t understand ‘don’t touch’.... it was pretty much like being put in charge of a room full of miniature ibankers.

The classes went downhill from there. I started the day with a strict ‘no biting’ policy, and ended it with a slightly more relaxed ‘if you must bite, I’d prefer you bite each other instead of me’ policy. The day culminated with me subbing for an 8th grade science class learning about venereal disease, which was nice because it allowed me to open the class with ‘if you have any questions... it’s probably illegal for me to answer them so just don't ask me.’

I ran into Bailey only once, when he grilled me about my inexplicable presence in his school. He definitely suspected sabotage, and could not be dissuaded from this notion. I came home and curled up in the fetal position until I had the strength to drink away the memories. I look forward to a promising career in education.

Big Big Graduates!

Can you believe it? It seems like only yesterday when Big Big was drooling on hreself and crawling around on the floor. But I guess that must have been at least a year ago since I just witnessed her graduate from college.

Now, this was a major event for the family Machiato, since to be honest, none of us really expected her to graduate to solid foods, let alone graduate from a real college with a great GPA. In honor of the event, a massive caravan of Machiatos and extended family members trecked up to Syracuse for the event. Knowing I would be spending time not only with Big Big, but also with a coupler dozen of her absolute total complete best best friends in the world forever and ever, also known as theotehr members of Sigma Delta Nosejob, I brought along a pad of paper and a pen in hopes of jotting down all the vapid comments I overheard. A week later, I've mostly recovered from the Carpel Tunnel Syndrome, and can type again.

It's hard to pick a favorite. Was it when Biggy gave us a tour of the Syracuse campus, first showing us all of her friends sorority houses, then gesturing towards a seperate off-campus dorm and saying "That's where the poor people live. Oh... and the athletes. So.... pretty much the black people."?

Was it when she regaled us with tales of explaining to one of her 'sisters' that no, it doesn't need to be hot outside for dogs to get pregnant... that's not what being 'in heat' means?

Was it when we arrived at her house and a room mate ran into the room, eyes aglow and declared "Oh my god you guys! You will NEVER believe what just happened!! Tiffany's mom came over, and I asked her if she was hot, and she said she was actually a little cold!!!!!" That's it. that was the whole story.

For me, it was when Biggy visited the hotel/casino where we were staying and came over to the blackjack table where our cousin Janey was attempting to explain the rules to me. The dealer at this table happened to be this giant butch lesbian. So Janey asks Big Big how she did this semester, and she says in her usual Long-Island-Loud tone "I did ok, aside from this one class and that's just because the teacher was this giant lesbian bitch." At this point, the deal stops shuffling cards and glares at her. I flinch, lean in, and whisper "Big, the dealer can hear you." She looks over at the dealer, looks at me in utter confusion, leans in and says "So? Why would he care?"

Oh Big Big... she will finally know the joys of being a college graduate. All the intellectual rewards (afternoons free to watch Oprah), the myriad job opportunities (stripping and/or waiting tables) and best of all, all the doorways a college degree opens up (namely the doors to graduate school, or the doors to the employees lounge at McDonalds).

Congrats Biggy!

The D Card

I have several memories that stay in the forefront of my mind when I think back to my family vacation to Europe a few years back. One is the image of Big Big cat-calling a large group of Italian men hanging out on the Ponte Vecchio... “Hey Guys! Whatcha doing later? ME??” she shouted at the confused but intrigued gaggle of Vinnys. The other is how many times my mother did what Alabaster and I came to refer to as “playing the D card”.

My mother has Diabetes. Now, I would never dream of mocking or belittling this ridiculous disease, but all I remember, all around Europe, was her constantly saying “We have to eat. I have diabetes.” “You have to seat us before these other people. I have diabetes.” “We need our food immediately. I have diabetes.” “We need to go back to the Prada outlet. I have diabetes.” It was insane. I dont know very much about diabetes, but from what I could tell, it’s the medical term for a person afflicted with a crippling need to get stuff the second they ask for it.

Now, we all have our own respective "cards". I often play the "J" card... like when I want a discount at Barney's, or when I want to accuse a major corporation of anti-semitism rather than pay whatever bills I owe them. But Man, my mom just took the cake. She had to. She has diabetes.

I hadn’t thought about that trip, or how often my mother played the D card until today when I had coffee with my mom. She opened her wallet to pay for our skim lattes... and thats when I discovered.... she actually HAS an ACTUAL D card. (see above)

In her wallet, amid drivers licences of her dead relatives, myriad credit cards, and frequent buyers cards from every store known to Jews... there it was; a diabetic alert card. I laughed so hard I almost cried. I begged her to give it to me, but she viciously refused. This thing is freaking brilliant. I NEED one.

Let’s take a look at it together... “I am not intoxicated” Ignore the slurred speech, the stumbling around, the humping peoples legs, making out with women and bottle of tequila in my hand... it’s totally just the diabetes.

“If I am able to swallow, give me sugar in some form”. First of all, I think my mother had a tee shirt that said this same exact thing LONG before the onset of diabetes. Secondly.... what’s the chain of events that occurs between discovering a semi-unconcious person, and realizing that they are able to swallow? What kind of “testing” are you doing to determine this exactly?

Needless to say, I will be dedicating the rest of my day to photo shopping my own D card. Mine will include the lesser know facts about insulin shock, such as instructing the reader to insert a black Amex in my mouth so I don’t swallow my tongue, giving me something that containsf sugar such as vodka, valium and gift cards.... and leaving money in my bra so I can buy some "sugar" for myself when I regain consciousness.

Gay, Straight or Taken?

There’s a phenomenal new show on TV these days, and I feel it’s my personal responsibility to tell everyone about it... it’s called Gay, Straight or Taken? and it’s pretty much the only thing I watch.

The premise of the show is simple, and awesome. Some chick goes out on a date with three guys, only to discover one is gay, one has a girlfriend or wife and the other is single, straight and available. If she guesses correctly which is which, she gets to go on vacation with the single straight guy, if she picks someone else as the single straight guy, he goes on vacation with his boyfriend or girlfriend.

The main reason I love this show is because it reminds me a great deal of a game I like to play, called Gay... or Can Probably Be Talked into Sleeping with Me. Unlike my game, the gay guys KNOW they're gay and you can’t go on vacation with the married guys.

At the end of the date, the girl takes each guy aside and says something like “Rob, I had a really good time with you, but I think you’re taken!” and then Rob says “Oh! You got me there! I’ve actually been married for five years!” then they laugh and laugh. Just like a real date.

As good as the show is, based on my own life experiences,I think there is still room for improvement. I suppose the format makes sense for LA, where it’s shot, but if they ever do a NY version, I think I could help them. Instead of Gay, Straight or Taken, I think it should be Gay, Taken or Straight and Single but with a Horrible Secret.

Three men vie for your affection, but ones gay, one’s taken and one is available and straight but has a criminal record for child molestation.

One has a husband, one has a wife, and one can only get turned on if you dress up like a clown and tickle his feet.

Gay, Taken, AIDS victim.

Still, I’d love to get in on the ground floor before this show gets any more vindictive. So, if any of you out there know anyone in anyway related to the production of this show... please put in a good word for me!

Bear in mind that I have extensive reality TV dating show experience. you may remember me as The Drunken Obnoxious Mess from Blind Date. Or perhaps from my Elimidate fame, where I played The Drunken Obnoxious Mess to great critical acclaim. Or perhaps from your own experience of dating me, which is doubtfully any different.

Thanks in advance.

He's Just Not That In To Jew

There are many things about myself that I’m not proud of.

My nose. My cruelty to children. The fact that, when I masturbate, I usually think about two or three of me making out with each other. But just be there's one unfortunate truth I’ve been denying for a while that I think it may be time to come to terms with.

Lately, Anoosh has taken to telling me that I’m a JAP. Can you imagine? Indignation aside, on further reflection, I realized that the past dozen or so men I’ve dated at one time or another have said the same exact thing to me. “Carmela, you are a spoiled brat.”

The first few times, I just let it slide but by the eighth or ninth guy who said it to me, it had started to hurt my feelings,. And now to have Anoosh say it to me too... well... there's just no way I can deny it any longer. It’s time to face the facts.

I really need to date richer men.

There. I said it. I’m not proud of it, but it’s something about myself that I just can’t deny any longer. If all the men I’ve dated in the past three years think I’m jappy, how can I possibly deny that there is something horribly, horribly wrong... with them?

What other explanation could there be? Clearly, I am not a JAP. I cut my own hair and do my own nails. I shop at Forever 21. Case closed. Obviously, it’s them. The best that I can figure is that what they are mistaking for spoiled behavior, isn’t me being a Jewish Princess... it’s just me being Jewish, period.

I don’t insist on a nose job because I’m spoiled, I insist on it because my nose is so gigantic it’s obscuring my view of the world. And I don’t ask for all expenses paid vacations because I’m a brat... it’s just that if I don’t get some sun in the winter months I get so pale that when I walk out in the sunlight you can see my brain through my forehead.

Anyway, this realization has inspired me to write a novel which speaks to other women suffering through this sort of challenge, entitled “He’s Just Not That In To Jew.” You can look for it in bookstores around summer. And I’m simultaneously working in the follow up novel, due out next fall, entitled “First Comes Love, Then Comes Nothing.” It’s going to be a series. Kind of like Harry Potter except without the awful children and dumb accents.

In this book, I also plan on explaining how it’s not really my fault that I choose these financially challenged men. You see, my parents did not prepare me for the completive world of dating.

Most young girls are taught to look for a mate with optimism and trust. I imagine most young girls get a talking to something along these lines:

Mom: Now Cindy, when youre old enough to date, it’s important that you look for a man who loves you, but also one who can support you financially.

Little Cindy: Gee mom, you’re right! Thanks for looking out for me!

Dad: Oh Cindy, you’re such a sweetheart. We just want to make sure you find the perfect match. He’s out there somewhere!

Little Cindy: Ok dad. You guys are the best parents ever!

The speech Big Big and I got was slightly different.

Mom, between mouthfuls of brownie: Listen guys, just remember, the only reason any man will ever be nice to you is because he wants to get in your pants.

Dad, while muttering racist epithets: And the only reason he wants to get in your pants is so that he can lull you into a false sense of security, and then harvest your internal organs for sale on the black market.

Big Big and Carmela: Stare blankly. Return to punching each other.

The closest I ever got to relationship advice was when my mother sat me down and told me “Carm, if you love something, let it go. Just don’t be surprised when it comes back with herpes."

So, you know, not really my fault. I’m the victim here.

God, I feel so much better now that I’ve gotten that off my chest! My ridiculously, pathetically flat chest that Anoosh refuses to buy me implants for. Cheap bastard.

Bangin'

I like to vacillate back and forth between two states of being. State A is having life experiences so overwhelming and terrifying I can’t even process them for weeks if not months. State B is sharing said experience with pretty much anyone who will listen.

After several weeks of State A existence, I am finally coming back around to State B. There is so very much drama to share with you people… but since I’m not out of the woods quite yet, I’ll start with some basics.

I gave myself swoopy bangs. The results were mixed. They look cute but they aren’t exactly what I had in mind. I guess I went a little too subtle with them because I was trying to avoid an encore of Middle School bangs. I’m sure you all remember middle school bangs, yes? A perfect 180 degree circle that ended right above your eyebrows? I had bad ones, but Cowboy Sex Angel’s were legendary. Her bangs were so rigid, she would sometimes store shit in them. Need an extra pencil? Check CSA’s bangs. Sometimes we'd use them to pass notes. They were amazing. Sadly, she eventually grew them out and turned them into a solid field to protect her face from the prying eyes of strangers.

Everyone had bangs back then. Bangs and Spandex as far as the eye could see. I almost felt bad for the boys in Middle School that they had so few options for hairstyle flair. They all just had that same, sad, prepubescent buzz cut thing. The only boy who took a real stand against this was Alabaster. In a sea of Jew-brunette crew cuts, Alabaster opted to rock bleach blond streaks, and what I could only describe as mini bangs.

I remember the day he premiered this look. It was in gym class. He sauntered onto the field with his luscious blonde locks, claiming, “the sun must have lightened my hair", while the rest of the gym class gaped in horror. It was quite a sight.

Ahhh, the scrawny gay kid with bleach blonde hair and the overweight girl with Eddie Munster eyebrows and giant bangs. We were like a pedophiles wet dream. Had there been any cults recruiting in Scarsdale at that time, I imagine them telling their followers to recruit anyone who looks so insecure and confused that they’ll fall for anything, then holding up a picture of Al and me and saying “Yeah, we’re pretty much going for anyone who looks kind of like this.”

Although, now that I think of it, there actually was such a cult. It was called SYF, and guess what? We both joined.

Theoretically, SYF was a group for young people where they could gather and talk about important issues affecting today’s youth. In reality, it was more or less a club for bored rich kids experimenting with sexuality and hair color. Often at the same time.

They held their meetings in a local church on Sunday nights from… maybe 7 to 9? It coincided exactly with a Sex Addicts Anonymous meeting that was held in the basement. Coincidence? Well, it worked out pretty well for everyone involved, needless to say.

I loved SYF. Pretty much every week someone would come out. It was at SYF that I met my first “girlfriend”. She was, like, the prettiest girl on earth. We would listen to Bikini Kill together and eat grilled tofu sandwiches. It was good times. Then one day, we disagreed about what constituted a “fun” plan for the weekend… she though Ani DiFrancio concert, I thought meeting up with Bob from the Sex Addicts meeting since his wife was taking the kids to Florida to visit Grandma all weekend.

That’s when she realized she was a “real” lesbian and dumped me for my friend Meghan… and I had to come to terms with the fact that I wasn’t a “real” lesbian. I was just “real” bored in Scarsdale.

I guess it was just something I just had to try to realize it wasn’t for me. Kind of like bangs.

(See what I did there? With the tie in back to the initial topic? Yeah, that why I go to Columbia.)

California State of Mindlessness

This is another Projects class gem....

My blanket had started moving again. I wasn’t touching it, it was moving of it’s own accord. I pretended not to notice. It seemed like the best thing to do.

I’m sprawled out on a couch. Who's couch? No idea. In who's apartment? Not a clue. It’s clean though, so... not mine. I have no idea how long I’ve been on the couch with the free moving blanket. I remember laying down on it when the balcony proved overwhelming.

The balcony overlooked the Pacific, massive and overwhelming enough when sober, so on four hits of Ecstasy it was more than enough to cause me to ruin for the shelter of the couch.

There’s a party going on around me. About 200 people, most of them as stoned as I am, mill about the massive, expensively decorated apartment. Some are out on the balcony, staring at the ocean and rubbing up against each other. Others are dancing/stumbling around the apartment or sprawled on furniture as I am. Some are watching the dazzling light show in the kitchen. One girl emerges from the he bathroom after at least an hour, cradling tube of Crest Whitening toothpaste in her arms like a small child. Awful techno music blares. I can’t tell if it’s skipping or not.

From the couch, I can see the door to the master bedroom upstairs, which is just now opening. Tara emerges, looking eerily ethereal as always, with Brad in tow. Following them is an extremely disheveled, disoriented looking blonde girl. She’s so shaken that Tara is assisting her down the stairs. Brad and Tara lead her back to the kitchen where her absence has not been noticed.

They survey the room. I hide under my blanket knowing that if they see me they’ll take me upstairs next and I do NOT want to go. I suddenly remember that this scene with the blonde has been repeated several times throughout the evening, each time with a different person, each leaving in the same state of traumatic shock. I keep meaning to find a better hiding place, but every time they disappear into the bedroom, I forget they exist. Fucking Ecstasy.

I peak out from under my cover to see Brad and Tara leading a young black dude up the stairs with them this time. Spared again. They close the door, and I completely forget they were ever there.

My attention is redirected to the light show in the kitchen. The light show, I should mention, consisted of one guy opening the door to the massive, stainless steel fridge and letting the white light shine on the stunned faces of the guests for several seconds before closing the door again. Each time the door is opened the guests near it are bathed in fluorescent light for several seconds. They applaud and giggle each time. This has been going on for literally hours.

My blanket is moving once again. It seems to have sensed that the danger has passed and is returning to a more relaxed position.
I rub my blanket intently. It feels sort of like a shag rug, all soft and warm. It’s the best feeling blanket on earth. It feels so good.

“That feels so good” said my blanket. I freeze. Blankets moving are one thing, but talking is a bit much, even in this state. I slowly look down. It takes a few moments for the realization to sink in, but eventually I realize my blanket is, in fact, a person. A total stranger with a nose ring and a wool sweater to be exact, draped over me exactly the way a blanket would be. This is a bit awkward.

“Lisa, why’d you stop? The deal was for me to e the blanket and for you to rub my hair.” The deal? What deal? I made a deal with this person? More importantly, I told him my name was Lisa? Blanket Guy and I continue to stare into each others massively dilated pupils in confusion. The crowd in the kitchen applauds as the fridge door opens again.

Blanket Guy and I don’t have much time to hammer out the finer points of our “deal” since the door to the master bedroom is opening again. Tara and Brad descend the stair case with the tall lack guy, now gently weeping, following behind. Just as Im about to hide, Brad spots me.

“Hey Carm” Brad says, looking directly at Blanket Guy and not at me. “Oh, hey babe.” I say as casually as a person rolling her face off and hiding beneath another human being can possibly sound. “Lisa, are you going to introduce me to your friend?” Blanket guy asks. “Oh, yeah, sorry, Brad, this is, uh...” “John” Blanket guy says. “Right. John, this is my boyfriend, Brad. Oh, and I’m Carmela. Not Lisa.”

“Nice to meet you.” Brad said. “Carm, could you come with me a minute?” He asks as he pulls me out from under John. I don’t want to go, but Brad is pulling me and Tara is following right behind me so it doesn't seem like I have much choice. Plus, the banister feels really good under my hand.

Trying not to show fear, I ask “So, what have you guys been up to all night?” No answer. “What the deal with the bedroom?” Nothing. I start to panic. We all three walk into the bedroom, and Tara closes the door behind us.

The room itself surprisingly non threatening. There are no whips or chains, the bed is made, the accessories very Pier One. I had been expecting an orgy, a dungeon, a dead body, an alien.... something to account for all the theatrics.

“Is this your room, Tara?” I ask. “Yes, but more importantly, it’s a portal into another dimension.” She explains, smiling. I nod and smile back as though she had just told me it was also decorated by Pottery Barn.

“Can you see it?” Brad asks, a massive stoned smile spreading across his face. I turn in the direction Brad and Tara are facing, and look out the window. Im scared to look; remembering how scary the landscape was even before I knew it was a portal into another dimension. I expect to see a giant black hole in the horizon, but all I see is three each, the sea, and a clam evening sky. I shrug, ut they are insistent.

“Um, I see... the ocean?” I offer. “No,” Brad says “look... deeper.” Deeper? I was hoping for something more like ‘to the right’. The Ecstasy is making everything look wavy so I try “I see waves?” “Carm, everyone else we’ve brought up here has seen it.” Brad informs me. For some reason this makes me feel insanely competitive, and I really focus.

Suddenly, I see a bright waterfall. “I see a waterfall!” “Yes!” Brad and Tara exclaim in unison. “That’s what everyone notices first.” Tara tells me. “What else?” “I see... a beautiful white horse with a fiery red mane. I see a glittery stream, and beautiful nymphs frolicking in it! It’s beautiful!” “Oh Carm, I’m so glad we could share this.” Brad says, kissing my cheek. “I love you.”

Exhausted and just past peaking, I allow myself to be lead back down the stairs. Brad and Tara deposit me on the couch next to John. Once I’m seated, they take a bewildered looking John by the arm and begin to lift him off the couch. “Hey where are we going?” John asks, passively. He is met only by smiles and silence.

I lean over and quickly whisper in his ear “They’re going to tell you there’s a portal to another dimension out the window, bu they’re actually looking at some tacky Lisa Frank looking cartoon beach blanket someone left by the shore, ok?” He nods, but I can tell he isn't fully processing. Oh well, I tried.

I curl back up on the couch and can see out on the balcony the sky slowly turning pink . Without my blanket, I curl up and fall asleep as the crowd in the kitchen breaks into another peal of applause.

Radioheadache

In preparation for school, I’ve been going through some old files from school. In the process I came across this piece I wrote for a Projects class at NYU, which recounts one of the more Carmela experiences of my life. How I’ve neglected to include it up to this point is beyond me...

It was right after winter break, Junior year of NYU. I had sworn I would get a job, and I had, making fruit smoothies for the east village for minimum wage. I was “seeing” this DJ... and when I say seeing, I mean going to listen to him spin at Beauty Bar then getting semi naked in the freezing party room in the back if it wasn’t booked that night. I need a change, so I agree to go to Mercury Lounge with Crazy Ho to see some awful Emo band after work one night.

The band is awful, just whiny and pale... they’re basically just kvetching to music. Crazy Ho goes to get us drinks, and I spot this super adorable Jew smoking up near the stage (this was back when you could smoke in bars, mind you). I bum a cigarette and we get to talking. His name is Dustin, and we exchange numbers before Crazy and I split for 2A.

Interesting postscript to that evening... Crazy Ho ended up going home with a D-lister from 2A that night... Gideon Yago, the once MTV VJ. He had a girlfriend at the time, but she decided she had to sleep with him when he referred to 9/11 as “the highlight” of his career.

About a week after we met, Dustin and I went out to dinner. I have him meet me at the art show one of my classmates is putting on on Ave B. The show consists of the student sitting in the corner, ripping pages out of a phone book, and eating them. Forty Thousand Dollars a year. Dustin meets me there. While shorter than I remember, he is adorable. A little too clean cut and a little too young, but I definitely wouldn’t kick him out of bed. We go to Avenue A Sushi. I zone out while he talks about whatever and watch Ice Age which is playing behind him.

Dustin and I proceed to play First Date. I order about half of what I actually want to eat, and chew with my mouth closed. He asks me a string of generic questions and I giggle where it seems appropriate and get sloppy wasted. What do I do? I’m a student and he works at Comedy Central. Where am I from? Scarsdale and he’s from Texas. What would my super power be if I could have one? I would read minds and Dustin would fly and by now I’m hammered.

And then he asks.... “So, what kind of music are you in to?” I run down the list, Liz Phair, Cake, etc. “Well, I am really, really really (yes, he said it three times) in to... Radiohead.” He said it and looked at me like he had just uttered a secret password I should pick up on immediately. So, I say “Yeah, they’re amazing, I have, like, all their CDs” (I have, maybe maybe the Karma Police LP if that). Dustin lights up like a Christmas tree, and I know I’ve answered correctly.

On the rare occasion I pay attention to the rest of the conversation, Dustin is talking about Radiohead. I’m only zoning back in every twenty minutes or so, so needless to say this went on for quite some time. Finally the bill comes and I’m free.

I’m about to bolt when Dustin asks “So... do you... like.... get high?” I stop in my tracks. I nod. Maybe I drool a little. “Well, do you... maybe want to go to a bar or something? Or... maybe... go back to my place and smoke?” I think he got through about “my place and smo....” of that sentence before I’m leading him by his arm in the direction of his apartment.

When we get to Dustin's place, his room mate Ryan and, oh about 9,000 of his friends are hanging out in the living room. I make some half assed introductions and make a B line for Dustin's room.

The relief I feel at making it to his bedroom is immediately replaced by shock and horror when I open the door to his room.

Even drunk, the room is terrifying. Every single inch of wall space is covered with Radiohead posters and pictures of Thom Yorke. Acrylic paintings of Radiohead covers are stacked in every corner. A giant box of magazines with articles about Radiohead takes up half of the floor. A pile of Radiohead DVD concerts sits next to the TV, a pile of Radiohead CDs are stacked next to the computer, which has a Thom Yorke screen saver. Three Amnesiac Critter stuffed animals sit on his bed. I am so, so scared.

I back slowly towards the door. My hand is on the knob when Dustin turns and looks at me and I freeze in my tracks and fake smile. “So...” he says “this is me.” “Mmmm. Mhmm. It’s, uh, very cohesive. You’ve really, uh, tied it together.” I say in a nice, calm voice. The kind you would you to try and persuade a mental patient to put down the knife. “So, Um, you wanna smoke?” Oh dear god yes. More than I’ve ever wanted anything in my entire life. “Sure”.

Dustin packs a bowl and offers it to me. This could make everything better. Or much, MUCH worse. At this point it’s really my only option anyway, so I smoke. “I’m just going to put on some music.” Dustin tells me. Mmm hmm, ‘some music’ indeed.

A few minutes later, Im far too high to move, and I figure, creeped out as I am, I may as well make the most of the situation while I’m here, I mean, he IS cute. I don’t know any Radiohead based come ons, so I just start rubbing Dustin's arm.

One thing leads to another and eventually we’re naked and, even better, no longer discussing Radiohead. I’m finally starting to relax, and can almost ignore the fact that Thiom Yorke and his lazy eye are staring at me from every visible surface.

Now, I didn’t learn much in high school, but I did learn these two things: 1) never compete with a cute, underage gay guy to see who can have the most anonymous sex, ‘cause you are NOT going to win. I mean.... even if you DO win, man, you lose. 2) You can train yourself to let hormones override fear and disgust. This is EXACTLY what I was doing right then.

It’s just about now then that Dustin goes for my belt. In stoned horror, I realize that I have a solid weeks worth of growth on my legs. This is due to the fact that as I was getting ready for this date, I thought, “Well, if I like him, I wont sleep with him tonight, and if I don’t like him I won’t want to sleep with him at all.” Instead of thinking “I’ll probably just get hammered and want to do him anyway”. AMATEUR mistake!

Realizing if I don’t have sex with Dustin right now, I never will... but my standards of hair maintenance are extremely high, so I excuse my self and shave my entire body in his bathroom using Dustin's razor which I try to ignore is the same exact hue as the cover of OK Computer.

The sex was surprising good.... but then again, when is sex with totally fucking crazy people NOT good? Afterwards we laid on his bed for a while, listening to an advance release copy of Hail to the Thief. Dustin asks if I want to borrow something to wear. I hadn’t planned on staying but I say sure. He hands me boxers and a tee shirt.

Once dressed I look down and realize with horror that the shirt he has given me has a gigantic picture of Thom Yorkes head on the front of it. “That looks great on you.” Dustin says. He puts his arm around and says “You’re amazing.” I start to say thank you, when I realize he's directing this comment to Thoms face on my chest. “I like you so much.” Oh my god! He’s not even talking to me. I think I’m going to cry.

With that, Dustin starts kissing me again. He takes my shorts off, but all but smacks me when I attempt to remove the shirt. It was so fucking creepy, I should have left... but I didn’t. I stayed for round two and snuck out while Dustin slept, cuddling one of his Radiohead pillows.

I went home, took a scalding shower, wept and chain smoked while listening to Creep until the sun came up.

Needless to say, we dated for five months, and he’s still my friend on Myspace.

Another Sucky Year of Death

I know I’ve neglected my blog for a while now, and for that I would like to apologize.

Between quitting my job, getting in to Columbia and traveling I haven’t had a moment to blog. But now that things have calmed down a bit, I promise never to neglect my loyal fans (mom) ever again. That will be my new New Years resolution!

I need a new one anyway since I just broke my original one.

In 2005, my new years resolutions were to not have any cocaine induced orgies with married investment bankers, and to quit smoking, both of which I managed to follow through with by summer.

This year my new years resolutions were to learn more about poison, and to make it through another year without meeting Anoosh’s wife. I haven’t learned a thing about poison and I just ran into Anoosh’s wife.... and not with a car, like in my fantasy.

I was walking down to get my cell phone fixed at the shack where Anoosh purchased it, which is right next to her lair. I figured it would be safe since she theoretically has a job of some sort... ritualistically bathing in the blood of slaughtered virgins... or selling real estate or something.

Just as I was nearing the store, little Bailey popped out of the bodega on the corner and excitedly said “Hi Carmela!” Being the mature and confident young woman that I am, I handled the situation with the utmost composure; I bolted around the nearest corner and vomited in the gutter, twice.

Then I cleaned up, waited what I was sure was long enough for Bailey and Wrinkly McFaketits to have left, and walked back around the corner.... just in time to all but walk into her.

Time stopped as I gazed into the gaping void of soullessness behind her droopy, crows feet surrounded eyes.

AWKWARD! How awkward? Somewhere between farting really loudly during sex, and exchanging filthy explicit e-mails with a stranger in a chat room only rto meet up with them at the local motel to find it's your dad. And closer to the second one.

We gave each other smiles so fake I’m fairly certain they would have gained us instant admission to my sisters sorority.

Then she said “You may be with Anoosh now, but I’ll always be the mother of his child, and there’s nothing you can ever do to compete with that, silly girl!” And laughed, maniacally.

Well, actually, she said “Hi.” But that’s what she meant.

I said “Well, that may be so but I’ll always be hotter, younger, more fun and better in bed, while you wasted the entirety of your youth in a doomed marriage and have nothing to show for it except a plastic nose and wrinkles.” Of course, it may have sounded more like “Hey.”

Then we stared each other down for a few seconds, before my eye started twitching and I had to excuse myself.

Then I smoked my first cigarette in six months. Then I bought a pack and a quart of Ben and Jerry’s.

It’s gonna be a good year.

Bi-Curious George

This morning I began my day at work much in the same way I begin everyday... looking for jobs on Craigslist.

Usually I just look in the "ETC" section, becuse I'm an et cetera kind of person. Like if someone were to ask me what field I was interested in working in... law, medicine, business, hospitality.... et cetera? I would pick et cetera everytime. There's just something so unique and... latin about it.

Anyway, most of the jobs on there are of zero interest to me... things like dog walking or promoting comedy clubs... you know, jobs for hippies. But every once in a while there'll be something that looks intriguing like "Get paid $500 just to take this survey on ice cream flavors!" Or "Let us harvest your eggs so some barren couple can incubate a science baby!" I'm paraphrasing here.

The one I saw this morning sounded awesome, except I had no idea what half of it meant. The headline was "Beautful Women: Make your Own Hours!" How great does that sound? I'm a beautiful woman... and I love makig my own stuff! It sounded so arts and craftsy, how could I resist?

So the body of the ad was something like "Midtown agency looking for attractive young women for all shifts. We cater to upscale businessmen looking for the GFE."

Huh? Ok, so this is some sort of... catering service? No, ok, obviously I knew it was an escort service, but what was this elusive GFE that these men are looking for? Apparently it was very valuable to them, so I thought it warented a bit of research.

A quick look through the erotic serives section helped me emensely. A lot of other posters were also looking for this GFE character, but no one mentioned what the fuck it was. They were all "In search of the ultimate GFE" "Looking for a great girl offering GFE". I started to feel like Harry Potter, trying to riddle out the cryptic message in his egg to get to the next level of the TriWizard Championship.

I thought maybe I could figure it out on my own... Gooey Finger Epidemic? Doubtful. Grand Father Emporium? Maybe....

Finally, one post said "500 Roses for a great GFE (Girl Friend Experience)". Success!

So THAT'S what was worth the extra cash... or "roses" or what have you. The "Girl Friend Experience". So simple! Except... what the fuck is a girlfriend experience? It sounds like some sort of fantastic ride in the Magic Kingdom. Step right up and check out Disney's latest addition! The magical, mystical Girl Friend Experience! That made sense. I would totally pay extra for that.

After a more thurough investigation... and no, to answer your question, I really do not have anything better to do with my time at work... I came to find that a "girl friend experience" means that, for an hour or two, you act like you're the guys girlfriend, instead of just some chick who's hanging out with him for money... what the difference between those two things is, no has been able to sufficiently explain, but that's another story all together.

So, that's all these guys were looking for? Wow guys, look no further! For $500 an hour I could definitely offer you an eerily lifelike girl friend experience. I could come over, lay on your couch, watch Scrubs, maybe order some sushi. Then we could zone each other out while we complaned about our respective jobs... and then I could pass out unfulfilled while you checked your emails. That's a thousand bucks right there! And just to think, I've been giving this amazing "girlfriend experience" away for free all this time like a sucker!

Just as I was about to embark on my exciting new career, I noticed that this "Total GFE" includes sex. Not quite as easy as I thought.

With this knowledge, I went back and looked through Craigslist again, and lo and behold, it turns out it's true. Top dollar in the sex industry these days is going to the whores who can act the LEAST like whores. Bizarre.

In addition the GFE listings, there was also a barrage of guys looking for "non-pros". Just to clarify, that means they are looking for a girl who IS NOT a hooker, who will have sex with them for money. Is that too much to ask for?

That's when it became crystal clear for me exactly what is going wrong in this city. Women are looking for men who treat them well and love them... as exemplified by calling them and wanting to spend time with them, without being clingy and needy... as exemplified by calling them and wanteing to spend time with them. And the men are looking for women who will have sex with them for money but who aren't whores.

I think this is going to work out really well for everyone involved.

I Left My Shirt in San Francisco

Isabelle is going to San Francisco this weekend. Jealous does not even begin to describe how I feel about this. This would be the second time an enamored suitor has flown my lovely room mate to the west coast this year.

Isabelle says that one business trip out of the country is equal to two trips stateside and now we’re equal, but I still say she’s ahead. Maybe the4re is some sort of rule delineating how much each comp trip you’re invited on “counts” for in Girl World. The rules seem to be unflinchingly rigid, like the rule that Isabelle and I have to be “equally skinny or equally fat”, which necessitates constant arm fat measurements on both our parts.

Even if we are only tied I’m still incredibly jealous. I love San Francisco and I want to go back NOW.

The first time I went it was secret rehab. My father took me there on a business trip and didn’t let me go out at night… Im pretty sure it was at my mothers bidding to make sure I got one solid week of detox in before my senior year finals at NYU. .It was still a great trip though, despite the fact that I had the shakes the majority of the time.

Magically, despite the fact that I barely left the hotel room other than to site-see from the car, listen to Fanny Pack, chain smoke and have my hair bleached blonde, I managed to lose one of my favorite tee shirts. A skin tight black number with a black lace back.

This is pretty much par for the course for me though, since I leave a beloved article of clothing almost everywhere I go. I then spend inordinate amounts of time desperately trying to replace these items, which I never seem to be able to do.

Of all the articles of clothes I’ve lost, I miss my silver velvet hoodie with reflective tape on the sides the most. It was pretty much my favorite thing to wear. I loved it the way you would love a child. A child that you left on the couch to go get laid at a beach party one summer, and was gone when you came back.

I may never know what happened to that hoodie, or my “Saturday” day of the week underwear for that matter, but here it is eight years later and I’m still thinking about it.

A close second is this mini dress I had that was silk-screened to look like the ocean and the sky. The horizon was right at my vag. It was pretty sweet. I wore it to this Fatboy Slim Concert one night… took some X… one thing led to another…. Long story short, I woke up the next morning curled up in my parent’s driveway, wrapped in a bathrobe. I had to go the ER to have my toe nails lasered off since there was so much congealed blood underneath them AND I have no idea what became of my dress.

I like to imagine there is a giant vat somewhere filled wit all the personal belongings I’ve lost over the years. My favorite tee-shirts, my dresses, my shoes, the majority of my brain cells.

At the very least, I’ll ask Isabelle to keep an eye out for my shirt this weekend.