That Gave Me Pause.

Google searching "Skinny Ties" takes one to mostly rockabilly, vintage websites selling various sizes, colors, designs... it can get overwhelming when you're looking for a specific person.

I searched and searched, not sure exactly what for, until I found it. A one-of-a-kind navy, textured skinny tie with a small, silver shooting star.

I remember you wore it beaming with pride, every time, that I bought it for you-- that not only did the color compliment your soft blue eyes, but the star symbolized me with you. (You were one who actually understood my love of stars). Plus, you looked hip wearing it.

We were so cool.

I'd like to think my presents to you haven't gone in vain. But I wouldn't know. I haven't seen you in over two years... but one of the last times I did was a couple months after I moved to Hoboken, we went to concert in the city, got some dinner, you came here to see my new apartment but slept on the couch, of course.


In the midst of packing the last three years of my life, gearing up to move to Brooklyn, I found that perfect skinny tie hanging on a side hook in my closet.

What was it doing here? Why did I have it? Did you leave it here by mistake? Did you realize it wasn't with you anymore? Would you still wear it?

I held that skinny tie in my hands and outlined the star with my finger. Despite being worlds away, I am not sure if I'll ever get used to this. Us not being us. Us not being friends. Not having someone understand why I really love stars.

Discovering Awkward.

First impressions are crucial. In fact, if you think just how crucial it can make one a little nutty, no? 

Like all my life experiences, intelligence, and personality will boil down to the first ten minutes. Try as I might, any impression I made at you will always come back to those tedious minutes.

I don't remember when, I don't remember why, but within the last couple years a good friend of mine said I was "awkward." It wasn't meant as a mean statement, but simply, just that-- a statement. At first, I was taken back, could I really be socially inept? I always referred to myself as friendly -- and sure, insecure -- but never awkward.

Other people were awkward, I could point them out in a crowd. Did I have some weird tendencies or say strange things that made people uncomfortable? I guess sometimes I do share unnecessary or boring information. Maybe people think I say too much and it's difficult for me to distinguish a professional versus private self.

Factor in a pimple, weight gain, bad hair day... my high-pitched voice, horrible slouch... an endless list of nerves and doubts building until I convinced myself, I am awkward. I am a nerd, a bookworm, a drunk, a lame girl who lost her apartment, makes little to no money, and is stuck in an overgrown adolescent, awkward phrase.

I feel like a festering sore people just stare at, wondering how it got so bad. Insecurities eat me from the inside, my anxiety boils over, and I need to tell them I am awkward to perhaps, give relief (to me?) from the expectations and first impressions.

Now, I don't know if I actually was "awkward" when my friend told me years ago. But I sure as hell am now.

The Failed Threesome

A couple years ago a quiet girl I waitressed with asked me out for dinner and drinks. Since I did not know her very well, I took it as her way of saying she wanted to be friends-- and who am I to deny an extended hand?

She wanted to go to a new restaurant her ex-boyfriend worked at because on Tuesday night they had cheap specials. Sounded good to me.

Once there, we each ordered a martini, followed by another martini we received courtesy of the manager, then another courtesy of her ex. By the time the place closed, we were more than buzzing so it was easy for her ex to convince us to go to another bar down the street.

There, the ex fed us numerous vodka shots. -- I should probably mention her ex did not speak any English. -- While he was taking care of my bill, I did not speak an actual word to him. My coworker sat in between us relaying English to Spanish and vice versa and through the drinks, we managed to have a good time.

By the time it was 3 a.m., we attempted to stumble back to our homes. Being the lush that I am, I invited the two back to my apartment. The least I could offer was more vodka shots from my Smirnoff handle I always have waiting in the freezer since I hardly paid for anything during the night.

After the first apartment shot, things started to get strange. The three of us were hanging out in my room as the quiet girl told me how cute I was. Thanks? Then the boy started rubbing my shoulders and whispered Spanish nothings into my ear. Seriously, Spanish nothings, since I did not understand what he was saying. Simultaneously, the two pressed their hands against my body and guided it to my bed where each tried to unbutton the long flannel I had over my leggings. My fingers quickly buttoned my shirt back up, as they each began to kiss my neck. 

My confused, drunk mind stuttered "I need more vodka" as I struggled to rise. I poured myself another vodka as I glanced at the guy who was sweaty and smelled like tequila. He looked incredibly excited, like a kid in a candy store, not knowing what to grab first.

As I took my shot, each lunged at my shirt buttons again. I laughed nervously then swiftly button them up like I was playing an instrument. Another shove, I was back on the bed... the charade again continued in trying to match my lips with theirs as they pushed down my hands so they could caress my squirming body. Wow, this was some kind of dual molestation.

Somehow, my body lurched upright and I drunkenly shouted "Stop!" The girl then snapped out of it, grabbing her ex's hand and saying, "We're going to go now." No complaints from me.

The next morning she sent me a text saying she blacked out at the bar and didn't remember the rest of the night. We never talked about the incident.

Happy Easter Birthday (again).

Many self-pitying people say how much they hate their birthday, how something bad always happens on their special day. I don't exactly hate my birthday, it just never goes quite as planned. (My hatred for Christmas is much stronger.)

Five years ago, my twenty-first birthday fell on Easter. To put it bluntly, it sucked. Sure, I was already drinking nine years before that, but everyone deserves to go to a bar on their twenty-first and have strangers congratulate you and buy you shots... to spend it at home with your family -- especially my family -- it was simply uneventful. But this isn't about my twenty-first birthday, this is about my twenty-sixth...

Since my birthday fell on Easter Sunday, it was decided I would celebrate the days before.

The Russian Vodka Room is a low-key Midtown piano bar with an array of high-quality, house-infused vodkas, making it a perfect choice for my Friday intimate gathering. After a couple hours, my empty stomach that consumed itself with straight vodka decided it did not want anymore. My brain shut off and I threw up. I don't remember the throwing up ordeal of course, I remember laughing with friends then waking up in my bed.

Saturday, in addition to the large yellowish bruises covering my body, my limbs ached, as my head spun in a vat of vodka. Around 10 p.m. my last bout of throw up emerged, red from the Gatorade I was drinking. The bridge on my nose developed a bruise, after smacking my face into the toilet from a quick run and slip to the bathroom. And after canceling my big dive bar smash where I invited every acquaintance I knew, I celebrated midnight by curling into a ball on the bathroom floor, reliving my early college days while simultaneously growing into my late-twenties.

Seems like I have everything figured out just fine.

The next day was spent at my mother's house with some family members and Italian food. Everything was okay until my 4'11" mother walked down the stairs dressed as the Easter Bunny. Seriously-- she sported carrot slippers, a full bunny suit, and a massive bunny head. As if this wasn't enough, she squeaked, "Happy Birthday Stephanie!" then nuzzled the bunny head into my face like I was actually going to pose for a picture. It was one of the most frightening moments in my life and I questioned whether or not I was still drunk from two nights before or maybe I was really turning six, not twenty-six. What about shrooms taken eight years ago? Could they induce a hallucinatory trip almost a decade later?

So that was my second Easter birthday. Taking a different form, read about the first one in a poem written during another life.

 

Happy Easter Birthday

Underneath my down comforter I hear

my brother’s voice bellow,

“Drink this. I made it for you.”

My head peeks out, confronted

with a champagne glass,

“Happy 21 Year Old!” in rainbow paint.

“Take this. It has nutrients.”

Then, a low grumble

“You act like you’re 80.”

I grab it. Chug it.

Stare at the mirror: numb.

My curls sit atop my head

like erratic broccoli sprouts.

My eyes: red, baggy, dark-circled

and puffy. Holding the glass,

I read the words backwards,

wonder why I am not a happy 21-year-old

and what room has a mirror facing their bed.

This is not feng-shui.

(April 2007)

Burning Down the House

Beep! Beeep! BEEEP! BEEEEP!

The high-pitched noise is drilling into my dreams -- wait, I'm not dreaming -- disoriented, my legs stumble out of bed, practically tripping my body onto the doorknob. When I open it and peak my head into the hallway, my mind begins to put things together-- it's the fire alarm.

But not just for my apartment, the downstairs alert system is going off as well. And I smell something burning. Not caring where it was coming from, my squinty eyes focus on my roommate, curled onto our couch. She's slept there three nights in a row already and it looks like tonight wasn't ending much different. 

Beeeeeep!

"Heather!" She is still in her bartending attire, she must've gotten drinks after work. "Heather!" Leaning over her, my small hands shake her shoulder, she slightly opens her eyes -- glasses still on -- grunting something incoherent then turning away from me.

"Something's burning! Wake up! Don't you hear the fire alarms?" The beeps are so loud, my thoughts are having trouble connecting. "Heather!"

Frustrated by her behavior, I run into Keith's room. How am I the only one to hear the noise? "Keith, I need help! Something's burning! Heather won't wake up!" 

Like a cartoon, Keith springs out of bed, still in his white boxer-briefs. I hurry into the hallway which is now filled with smoke. It wasn't like that before. "Smoke! Shit! I don't know where it's coming from!" I start to panic. Why won't Heather wake up?

Keith prances passed me, straight for the kitchen. Then I see it-- why didn't I think of this before? -- the oven is registered at 425 degrees. She left the fucking oven on.

As I push every button to turn it off, Keith reveals the culprit. A frozen Amy's Pizza that has turned into charcoal. Heather wakes up now, she grabs the smoking, hard disk that was in the oven at least two hours too long and attempts to run water over it.

It's 6:15 a.m. in the morning. The beeping won't stop. The girls upstairs hate us.

I snatch the pizza box to use as a fan. Finding the blinking red lights, I wave the box wildly over my head, hoping the wind will turn off the noise. My large t-shirt I wear to bed, rising above my bum, I continue to scream at the ceiling.

Keith is laughing, already reiterating the story while Heather is mumbling apologies. After my frantic hopping from alarm to alarm, the noise subsides and things (more like, I) seem to have calmed down.

Keith goes back to bed snickering, Heather tells me she didn't do it on purpose, she fell asleep. Of course, she didn't do it on purpose, but she acted like a fucking drunk-- which is what I wanted to tell her but I didn't 'cause the shame in me knows I am a drunk, too.

She staggers back to the couch, back into a fetal position. Why didn't she just go to her bed?

I go back to my room with my heart still pounding. I had to work at the office in less than three hours.

It happens.

Missing Friendship

We were riding the No. 1 train headed uptown, back to school, after our "leap day date." My hand clasped with yours like it was an old glove. I can't remember if we bickered or if I didn't feel well but you kissed me on my forehead.

(I never told anyone this before).

Right then, my heart sank. I knew it was the last time you would kiss me (as my boyfriend, my love). I gazed into your eyes -- those soft blue eyes --  you asked me why I looked sad. I squeezed your hand -- those soft hands -- you smirked.

(My mind recalled our first date when I nicknamed you "Smirky" 'cause you couldn't stop smiling around me, but you'd try not to, forming a goofy smirk).

The fight happened back at my apartment. Perhaps, I was looking for an argument, an excuse, a reason why we couldn't be together anymore...

You shouted, "Shut the fuck up!"

(I can still hear the way you said it. A slight hesitance after "shut" and a drawn out "fuck," in a louder tone than I ever heard you yell before). 

I did shut up. Right away. And thought about how I was turning you into an awful, unhappy person. My lips pursed together, as I lowered my eyes to the floor, then whispered, "I think we should break up."

Tears followed as I heard you choke on your breath. Five seconds might've passed, maybe five minutes, but eventually, you looked at the wall and said, "I think so, too."

We both cried and held onto each other. Reciting the last "I love you's," reassuring each other when we were older and ailing we would find the other and take care of each other again.

After we wiped each other's tears, we scooped bowls of ice cream and watched an episode of Six Feet Under (our favorite), cuddling under my fuzzy blue blanket. It felt like a giant weight lifted off of us. I don't think I ever felt a bigger relief than that night.

So we had somewhat of an anniversary tonight.

A Postal Service song you used to sing to me played at the bar I went to for Happy Hour. Typical. I came home and flipped through our old photos.

Why do I still feel compelled to tell you about the artists I interview and an installation I saw reminding me of Marcel Duchamp last week? Why did I want to buy us tickets to see the founder of Black Flag and Circle Jerks, who I read about on Pitchfork yesterday? Why were you the one I wanted to call when both my siblings got engaged?

"I can't be your rock anymore," you told me, two years later when you got a new girlfriend. "I can't give her a reason to be jealous."

BUT YOU WERE MY FUCKING BEST FRIEND.

 .

I cried alone tonight.

#2011highs

Twitter upsets me. I feel like I am trying to get into the popular clique by having to copy everyone else... hashtags, retweet, links... but I don't really know how to do it. And I try to show off my random, hilarious and poignant thoughts but always seem to fall short. My followers come and go.

In attempts to get "more popular" I am trying to incorporate trending topics. This morning I noticed one was #2011highs. Well that should be easy...

Writing more. Escaping steakhouse. The Cure show.

Seriously. That was all I could think of.

Sure, I escaped the terrible steakhouse I worked at for two years, now write for an online magazine and started this little blog, but I make less money and most of the time feel uselss. The Cure concert was awesome but why didn't I go to any other mind-blowing shows?

Wow. I can't say "2011 sucked" but where are the highs? Where are those crazy experiences that make my heart feel like it's going to burst and my head go into overload?

No spontaneous trips. More blackouts. Same lovers I should be rid of.

So 2012, I will cheers to you tonight, but please... show me something worthwhile this year... and maybe, have 100 followers find me so I can pretend to be loved.