'Ound Town

Another weekend in NYC and I had things all planned out. That's the thing about New York though--things rarely go to plan. I was not too excited for Friday night, as Jersey was expecting me to meet his little sister who would be in town. Why the hell this was taking place I was not sure. We had only been seeing each other for a few weeks and I wasn't even really sure if he was for me. But I liked being driven around in his Range Rover and going out to dinner so I reluctantly agreed. I was running very late, as I trucked from the Shwick into Hell's Kitchen because I had changed my outfit about 18 times before finally deciding. I was basically running through Times Square to get there, since the train I was on had stopped. It was humid, I was in platforms and I was hot as shit, so I took my jacket off. While waiting on a corner to cross the street, a large group of very ghetto gentlemen began to cat call me. I stood nervously, ignoring them, but their calls increased in strength and number. When I heard "I'm going to fuck the shit out of you", I decided enough was enough and booked it across the street, almost being hit by a car. I showed up to meet them pissed off, sweaty and a half hour late. A really good first impression.
Not like it mattered, since the sister was 19 and pretty caught up in all the partying she was going to be doing that night. She was nice enough but had brought up a huge bag of coke with her from GW (how appropriate). I don't have a sister, but if I did, I certainly wouldn't allow that behavior. After dinner she headed out for her big night and I reluctantly dragged Jersey to Meatpacking, to meet Russian Rocher. Turns out she was at Revel, the bar where JM and I had met the old dudes. (See Oh, Dating). Jersey stood around sulking, while I chatted with Russian Rocher, who wasn't feeling that well. Mid-convo, she stopped and shakily said she needed to go to the bathroom. She disappeared and when she returned decided she had food poisoning. I knew that was the end of our night and our plans tomorrow to do a Bushwick Day so we put her in a cab and then headed back to Hell's Kitchen.
The next day seemed to be promising. The weather was nice and GF was down to day drink, to make up for my broken plans with Russian Rocher. I called up Prom and JM and figured we could have a Poundtown reunion. JM was in Long Island for the day but said she would meet us later so I headed to Tribeca to meet up with Prom. Our plan was to sit out on Stone Street in the sun. Except when we arrived the sun had disappeared and was replaced with a brisk wind. We tried to sit anyway but eventually had to head inside of Beckett's, Prom's home away from home. GF finally met us and we sat around, listening to Prom and his boss who had shown up, recount their night before at a Puerto Rican wedding and then eventually a strip club in the Bronx ("biggest asses I've ever seen"--direct quote). Eventually growing bored, we decided we should change up the neighborhood. We took the train up to the West Village and headed to one of GF's fav spots, a lesbian bar called the Cubby Hole. The three of us knew full well we stood out. Prom surveyed and his dead-on observation: "Well, I can tell you what their isn't a shortage of in this establishment--comfortable footwear". Boom. We took some shots and I perched on a barstool, where eventually a girl decided to share it with me. The three of us were cranky that our fourth wasn't present so we sent JM the following sweet text: "Team Poundtown is reunited except now we are Team Oundtown. You are the P because you are a PUSSY for not being here. Love, Us.".
At this point it was still very early in the night and since we had feasted on bar food at Beckett's none of us wanted to go to dinner. We stayed at the Cubby Hole for as long as we could stand it until Prom eventually decided to break off from us as well. There was a UFC fight he wanted to watch Uptown and since GF and I were not interested we walked over to our old stand-by, Employees Only. Even though it was only around 9:30, there was a line and the bouncer informed us there was a "bit of a wait". We cursed our luck and were debating where else to go when two people walked out and the bouncer pointed to the two of us to go in, before everyone waiting in line. A gift from the heavens! We stood around and drank for awhile but we weren't having as much fun as we had that one time. We debated what we should do with the rest of our night, and since we had had a few drinks and were feeling ambitious decided we may as well try Le Baron. This was a bad idea from the getgo. We had been wanting to go for awhile, but it has one of the toughest door policies (aka a "no people" policy) in New York, complete with a bouncer who sometimes wears a bunny suit. Russian Rocher had recently gone, but her visit was mid-week through a work function. GF and I were heading there at 11pm on a Saturday night. And as soon as we exited the cab, in the desolate part of Nolita where the unmarked club was located, it began to pour. We only had one umbrella so we squeezed under it and showed up looking like soaked rats. No one was in line, since it was far too early for anyone to be there, and quite frankly if you have to wait in line at this place, you aren';t getting in anyway. The bouncer (sans bunny costume) took one look at us and shook his head--"guys I wouldn't even waste your time". We already knew this, but the fact that it was now pouring out just added to the humiliation. We scuttled down the sidewalk towards another club we knew of in the vicinity and since we were both completely soaked at this point, we were treated similarly by this bouncer. We needed to escape this nightmare immediately but trying to find a cab in New York when it's raining is like trying to find a seat on a Greyhound bus to Atlantic City--they are all taken. We were forced to the 25 plus blocks back to GF's apartment in the Lower East Side. We were soaked yet both trying to squeeze under my tiny umbrella, and shouting obscenities about the bouncers, which I will not repeat. It was pathetic. We made it back to GF's by 11:30, with no desire at all to go out anywhere else. I passed out on his couch and was forced to repeat the scenario again in the morning--the trains were all effed up so I walked 20 blocks in the rain to another line. And with that, I will erase that night from my memory.

The Shwick!

You've probably heard me refer to it many times throughout the 9 months that I lived there-the Shwick. Short for Bushwick, the not so nice neighborhood where I lived in Brooklyn. It could be described as "gentrifying" or "up and coming" but I feel a more accurate description is "shithole". It was filled with dilapidated warehouses, hipsters and poor Latino families. The L train wasn't running literally 9 weekends while I lived there, which made escaping very difficult. I would have to walk 15 minutes through a neighborhood where I  felt like I had entered a third world country to get to the nearest subway, which didn't run after 11PM. My last month living there a girl was raped at the station.
Now why the f did I choose to live there you may ask. Good question. To escape my last roommate situation in Astoria, which had quickly soured. See The Roomie. This whole disaster hadn't left me with a lot of time to find a new place, and I needed something cheap, since I was only working part-time at my museum. This didn't leave me with many options and the place I found was definitely the best of the bunch. See The Apartment Hunt. Looking back, it did definitely work out for the best--my roommate and I got along well and she was also unemployed so there was no pressure as to why I was only working a couple days a week. I also got to hang out with the adorable Baby Kitty:

                                                                                     Like a bawce

Though there were some mornings when I did want to kill her--she would throw bitchfits outside my door with her nonstop meowing. Then when I finally let her in she would tap me in the face with her paw until I opened my eyes. But other than that I am going to miss that little fatty. I was probably already grumpy in the mornings for another reason. I had failed to look out of the window when I saw the apartment for the first time. So it was an unpleasant surprise when I discovered right below my window was the trash area. And since those who resided in my neighborhood did not work, the things that were being thrown away at all hours of the day and night were bottles. And every morning our super, who may or may not have been legally retarded, emptied the trash, while screaming into his cell phone in Spanish. For the rest of my days I will now have a complex surrounding the sound of clanking bottles. Add rapid-fire Spanish to the mix and you may as well forget it.
One of the culprits of these empty bottles were a group of dudes who would once a week have a party on my building's stoop with their pit bull. The one that lived there was always very polite to me, but get him riled up on Coqui and add in a few of his boys, and it was a whole different situation. There were quite a few weekends when I would leave my building, dressed to go out for the night, and would be greeted by "Yo Snowflake!" and "Come drink with us beautiful!". No thanks.
Then there were our neighbors across the hall. We could never quite figure out the situation there but I think we've gathered that it used to be a couple who lived there who used to get in epic screaming matches. We had the police come to our door a couple of times asking if we had heard anything suspicious and one time we even had a couple of attorneys show up asking if we could tell them anything. Who knows what happened there because not long after a new rotation of rowdy residents moved in. They were a few trashy, disgusting women, with a toddler. They were rude as shit and always left their garbage in the hall. And apparently one of them was a heroin addict--one night my roommate and I took turns watching through our peephole as the paramedics took her out on a stretcher and into an ambulance, yelling something about opiates the whole way. Claaaaassy.
But the worst of the worst was the bedbug incident. See The 48 Hours from Hell. A month after all this we had to go through the whole thing again (minus the laundry) because the exterminator company failed to tell us that they needed to spray twice. Once again, we cleared everything out of our rooms, put all our clothes in plastic bags and almost gave Baby Kitty a heart attack.
Now it wasn't all bad in this "up and coming" neighborhood. The rent was cheap. There was a delicious taco stand a couple blocks away, as well as a 24 hour organic grocery store, with delish breakfast sandwiches. The subway stop was a 30 second walk away (when it was running) and I had a laundromat on the same block. There was even a good restaurant (Northeast Kingdom) and bar (Pearl's) close by. The downside to all of these things is that they were jam-packed with hipsters. And not your typical skinny jean and Chuck Taylor wearing ones. This was a whole different level. Ponchos, huge beards, Lisa Frank backpacks, bouffant hairstyles and  ripped tights were just some of the accessories I would see, and that was just on my short walk to the subway. The L train offered further fashion-watching, none of which was trendy or flattering. Though I'm sure it exists somewhere, I have never seen an area with such outrageous hipsters. And I wouldn't have minded--I respect the arts and challenging the status quo. But their bad attitudes! Right up there with JAPy girls if you ask me. Wherever I went, I was stared down and made to feel like I didn't belong. And I'm not even that preppy. Perhaps I just oozed not wanting to be there and they could tell. Maybe they are still socially awkward from high school. Or maybe they were just rude. I think I had a hipster hold open a door for me twice, I never had one try and talk to me, and once when I stepped onto the L train with roughly 145 pounds of groceries in my arms, not one of them offered me their seat.
I gave both hipsters and Brooklyn a chance, but I was more than ready to leave. From now on I will act like a true Manhattanite and venture back only when I want to get wasted in Williamsburg and entertain myself with some good people-watching.

The Apartment Hunt....Once Again

Except unlike last time I wouldn't be trucking all over questionable neighborhoods in search of a temporary sublet. I finally had a real person job and I was not staying a minute longer in the Shwick. I had found a roommate in my coworker's friend moving up from Atlanta and since GF was a real estate broker he was going to find us a place. And the place we were looking—Manhattan. I was tired of spending my life on the subway and it taking forever to get anywhere. I hadn't moved to New York to live in a shitty neighborhood in Brooklyn and even though I still couldn't really afford it, I was willing to make sacrifices. Our price range was just on the cusp of being able to live anywhere decent in this magical borough besides Spanish Harlem, which quite frankly was not going to be happening. So I knew the places we would be looking would be far from luxurious and had prepared myself for some real dumps. Good thing I had because the first couple we saw certainly were. I arrived to meet GF and the new roommate on St. Marks and was extremely pleased with the location since Criff Dog/PDT were directly across the street. We walked up a tiny, dark stairwell and arrived at the “apartment”. The living area/kitchen were so small that the loveseat barely fit in it. The bedroom door had shutters that some people put on closets. And how appropriate, as that was about the size of them. New Roommate and I peered in to one halfheartedly, where one of the guys' girlfriends lay sleeping in the twin bed wedged into the room. “Good Morning” I whispered before we realized that there was nothing else to see besides the airplane bathroom. We saw ourselves out without commenting.

GF led us to the next place, which was a few streets over. This was an open house and there were already people in line. After a few minutes the realtor walked up and I chuckled to myself since he looked like a complete douche. And we all looked at each other in horror when he opened his mouth and had the worst lisp I have ever heard-- “You guyth are here for the open houthe?”. We thertainly are.

The group of us were led inside the “apartment” and could all barely fit in at once. The place was a bit bigger than the last one but the girls that lived there must have been raised in a barnyard since there was shit everywhere and they clearly hadn't cleaned in months. The “apartment” may have been doable if it weren't for the patio off the back of apartment. It was shared—meaning it was a shared party space since it was littered with beer bottles. It was off one of the bedroom windows and I knew immediately that we could not live there because I would definitely murder a drunk NYU student one night.

We were all feeling a little dejected after those two holes but luckily the third was a pleasant surprise. It was in Alphabet City and the building had some cool architectural details, like a gargoyle out front and marble stairs. One of the guys who lived in the apartment led us up. He was hot as shit and had an adorable mini-greyhound so I already liked the place. Confirmed once we walked in—exposed brick walls and actual normal sized bedrooms at opposite ends of the apartment from each other. Plenty of windows, tall ceilings and all in walking distance from plenty of bars. We were sold. As soon as we left we made arrangements to try and get the application in but figured we should at least go look at the next two places we had scheduled in the Lower East Side. The next was in a great area but on a busy street and was a 6^th floor walk-up. The apartment was just as nice as the one we wanted but it was also way more expensive so we ruled it out. The next one was absolutely laughable and looked like it was probably a crack den not too long ago.

With that settled we headed up to GF's office to fill out the application and some other paperwork. On the way there I had a sneaking suspicion that I may see Mason, since he worked with GF and I knew he went in on the weekends. Aaaand I was correct—GF turned to give me a horrified look as soon as he walked through the door and saw him at his desk. I silently thanked God that I had sent that email and walked over to say hello. He gave me a hug and we talked awkwardly for a few minutes. With that over with, I went to fill out some paperwork for my big girl apartment, then went and had celebratory bloody marys with my new roommate in Murray Hill, where we witnessed a bar fight.

I decided since I was going to be making the big move into Manhattan, I might as well try and go out in Williamsburg as much as I could, so that night I had a birthday party scheduled for one of Polish Princess's friends at a new bar there. This plan was quickly revised after the night. The bar was in a ghetto ass part of Williamsburg off the JZ train (they don't call it that for nothing) with no other bars around. The party was filled with hipsters with a bad attitude (generally goes without saying) and since PP and her crew are so tight I felt a bit awkward. Or maybe it was because after the past couple weekends, I had decided to cut back on my drinking. Either way I didn't stay too long and was happy that I was going to be putting Brooklyn behind me.

The next day I woke up feeling refreshed and ready to take on my day. It's amazing what not being hungover will do for you. I got ready and headed back into the city, to take care of some more paperwork for the new apartment. It was a nice day so I decided that this was going to be my first bare legs day of the year, despite how pale they were. I really went for and wore one of my shortest skirts. Bad move. The men of New York must have had a long winter. I could feel myself being leered at and I was hollered at more than a few times. And never by decent looking people but but by bodega staff, sanitation workers, and questionably homeless people. I felt like I was revealing too much in an Arab country and was a bit scared for my well-being.

I made a pitstop on the way to GF's office and met Yahtzee for lunch. After wandering all over the East Village, we finally settled on Criff Dog. I did not mind one bit as I was pleased to have a male escort. I then headed up to Grand Central to sign the paperwork. After enduring the always-crowded 4,5,6 where I had a guy's dick literally pressed against my butt I emerged from the subway pretty pissed off. Luckily GF was down to grab a drank after the signing so we headed to a nearby patio bar, which was for some reason, almost completely empty, besides a group of old people eating dinner. I had plans with High School for the evening, whom I hadn't seen in forever. He met us there and we all chatted before GF departed and the two of us headed back down to the East Village. Our plan was to go to the Ninth Ward but the patio was all filled, as was every other one in the entire neighborhood. We wandered all over (my second time that day) until we finally ended up at a German beer garden a few blocks from my new apartment. There was no space outside so we decided we had to settle for inside at the bar. A few steins later and I was chatting with the German bartender. He refilled our steins and we stayed much later than we should have, chatting and cracking up about who knows what. He had still never mentioned his girlfriend to me, who I knew existed. He even received a text from her while we were looking at something on his phone which he immediately ignored. I say nothing, he says nothing and nothing ever happens with us, which is just the way I like it. After I took the L back to the Shwick and was pleased that it was one of my last weekends having to do so.

Making Amends

Judging from my past experiences I havn't had the best luck dating in New York. But I was starting to realize that I was getting to be a bit bitter about the wrongs which had been done to me. I was hauling around negative energy, which was apparent from my vengeful dreams and jaded comments I would make when drunk (aaand sober). It was just too much work to be angry at these assholes. So I had decided to be the bigger person. I was going to start small and test the waters. First target--Mason. We hadn't spoken since our text exchange ("I just can't give you what you deserve", vomit) about a month before. I had unfriended him on facebook, while also drunkenly and accidentally setting his name as my status in the process. So I had no idea what he was up to, but he and GF worked together, so there was a small possibility of running into him. And who knew how I would act unless things were smoothed over. So I sent him this email:


So I just wanted to say that I feel a bit badly about the way things ended with us. I honestly just didn't want to deal with the whole situation and figured there was no point in talking about it. I guess we both could've done some things differently. We were close at one point and I definitely look back fondly at our time together. I don't want you to think I hate you or something, nor do I want you to think poorly of me. I realize that you are going through a lot and I appreciate the fact that you shared some of it with me. I hope that you at least had fun with me. So if we ever see each other out, we don't have to be afraid of saying hi. Hope all is well!


I was pretty pleased with myself for that humanitarian act. After a few days of waiting, where I once again convinced myself he was actually an asshole, I finally received this response:


Thanks so much for this email. Leaving off the way we did just didn't sit right and I've been unsure what to do about it. I very much hope to stay on good terms with you. The times I spent with you were overwhelmingly good--thanks for your part. Now hearing you say that, I hope we do see each other out!


A decent response. So I refriended him on facebook and took that as a sign to move on to the bigger task at hand--Ibanker. We had had minimal contact since things had ended; the last time I had heard from him was about a month after the last time I had seen him It was a polite response to an email I had sent, with a new Martin Solveig video and the line "this obv doesn't mean we are bffs". I had regretted the email and had been upset about the whole situation for quite awhile. Even when things had been going well with Mason, I always compared things with Ibanker. And almost everywhere I went in New York reminded me of him. I had been terrified to go to the West Village (where he lives) for months. And now there was really no escaping it, since I was working three blocks from his office. I would walk quickly by twice a day on the way to the subway, with my head down. I always told myself to stay calm if I did run into him, but I of course didn't heed my own advice. One day I thought I actually did see him and literally ran in front of a cab to escape. When I dared look back, the guy only slightly resembled him, so my brush with death had been for nothing. 
Why all the fuss over this tool? Partly timing and partly his actions. We met at a vulnerable time for me. The night with him in Croatia was the last fun night before a series of horrible events. During my last two weeks in Europe, I had had a traumatizing experience with an Australian guy and also had my heart stomped on by a deceitful Swiss. Not to mention I was leaving behind the life I had known for six months, to finish grad school in Syracuse, NY. But Ibanker was there for me during this time, in which I was pretty upset. We emailed then texted and met up a couple times in New York. Then when I actually moved here for my internships he was there. I didn't know many people besides him and it could be lonely. And he was fun--he lavished me with praise and took me out for wild nights. He had a lifestyle and background with which I was unfamiliar. He was charming, successful and unlike anyone I had ever dated. Throughout our whole affair, he would always swoop back in at the last minute to get me caught up again, even when I had given up on him.
I missed this, and of course him. I wondered who he was seeing and constantly poured through his friends' facebook pictures looking for clues. I had gone through all the albums I could find of his Hamptons house, to which I had been "invited' but not really. So I was basically acting like a complete fucking pyscho and I was sick of it. The madness needed to stop. I took it as a sign when the Croatia guy mentioned a reunion before he moved away. This could not happen without first making amends.
I finally sent a similarly worded email to him. An hour later I received a response from him along the same lines as Mason's except for one thing--it contained a question. Rhetorical or an invitation for discussion. I of course took it as the latter, as I had come this far. This has resulted in a series of very short, yet friendly, emails back and forth, which is still ongoing. Obviously nothing will come of this except for me maybe being mildly pissed off when he inevitably stops responding. But I feel that a weight has been lifted. I can now walk, not scuttle, by his office and I've stopped imaging the scenario for running into him at every place I go. New York is no longer the city of the Ibanker, or any other asshole equivalent. It is finally now my own.

Party Hard, Party Harder

New York City is not the place to be if you want to act your age. My lifestyle makes this very clear, since on the weekends I party like a college kid, instead of acting like the 26 year old that I am. And this particular weekend was the culmination of a long year of partying. I've realized I'm starting to lose steam....
The weekend started off relatively calm. Russian Rocher's bday celebration was scheduled for Friday night so after another work happy hour I met her at her apartment. We walked over to Veselka on the Bowery together where the group dinner was going to be held. I was pumped for some Eastern European food and pigged out on some borscht and snitzel. There were about 20 people at this dinner, all of varied and interesting backgrounds. I don't think I even know 20 people in New York, but that's classic Russian Rocher. I chatted with the friend from Santa Con, who Yahtzee is interested in. He showed up towards the end of dinner because he had overslept his nap.
After the din, we all headed to a rooftop bar nearby in the Lower East Side. GF showed up momentarily, wasted, but left soon afterwards. Another surprise appearance was made by one of the other Croatia guys, who had also been present on Halloween. I hadn't seen him since so we chatted for a bit. Somehow we got on the topic of guys who like Asian girls and I confessed my theory that these guys are usually weirdos--I think it's creepy since a lot of times Asian girls are shaped like children. His argument was that I am also skinny, to which I had no response. He also mentioned that he would be moving to Chicago in the next couple of months and would probably have a going away party, which immediately put me on alert. Just who would be present at this going away party......??
Unfortunately I did not have as much fun at this party as I would've liked since it was absolutely packed, even though we had a table. It seemed like the entire junior class at NYU was present and every girl looked exactly alike--long dark straight hair with a chain purse. The whole scene was pissing me off but I made a half-hearted attempt to dance with everyone downstairs. Yahtzee and the friend were buddying up and I was pleased. Later when she said she was leaving, he said he would walk her out and did not return. I was like a proud yet sad mother watching her grown baby leave for college. Not long after I decided to call it a night.

I needed my energy for the next night--Martin Solveig Part 2. As you may recall, GF and I had seen him a few months ago at the worst place in New York--Pacha, which was packed to the brim with bros, one of whom crushed my foot. Luckily Martin was playing at a much better venue this time around and hopefully I would have more space to avoid large jumping bros. I headed to GF's early, so that we could pregame. I was dressed in a ridic outfit which involved a shirt which said "Hello" in bright neon letters and a sweatband, so we had a photoshoot with me and GF wearing shutter shades. (After I put one of them as my profile pic on facebook and I had more than a couple people wondering why I was dating Ronnie from the Jersey Shore). We also made the mistake of taking adderall which I blame as the main cause of the night escalating. After a few bevs we cabbed it up to Terminal 5 and were greeted with a huge mass of people crowded around the door. We were both ready to pee our pants but luckily the mass squeezed through the entrance relatively quickly. Once inside we staked out a spot near the bar with a clear view of the stage. GF took a picture with a girl also wearing shutter shades and I began to blab to the poor foreign guy next to us. This continued throughout the set--every time a new song came on I grabbed his arm and screamed something to the effect of "I LOVE THIS SONG!". I'm sure he wanted to kill me but I didn't notice since I was so caught up in Solveig. He was much better than at Pacha and even played "Hello". We danced around like idiots but unfortunately that's pretty much all I can remember about the show. I do know I had fun though.
And the night gets even foggier when we left. I really have no recollection of how we got to the gay bar in Hell's Kitchen where we ended up. I know I sat on the patio with GF for quite awhile. I had a 20 minute conversation with a nice gay man but I cannot tell you one topic which was discussed. I do remember texting with Jersey though and convincing him to come meet me. He wasn't crazy about coming to a gay bar, especially when he got his ass grabbed standing in the bathroom line. I wanted GF's take on him but out of the three of us, no one really remembers anything about the introduction except that GF thought he had spiky hair (false). We bailed out pretty quickly and by then I was completely time-traveling. I don't know which is more likely--two blackout drunk people trying to hail a cab or two blackout drunk people stumbling the few blocks back to Jersey's place. We must have successfully done one though because we made it back. I have glimpses of what followed, causing me to have a pregnancy scare a couple weeks later (sidenote-everything is fine, no babies here). We woke up in the morning and tried to piece together the rest of the night, pretty unsuccessfully. We did find a pile of my clothes in the living room and my shoes in the bedroom though. We were both feeling like death and proceeded to spend the day being lazy pieces of shit. We barely left the couch and ordered all our meals in. We watched a soccer game and smoked a bunch of weed, which I really hadn't done in a few years. The whole thing was total college and disgusting, but I was fine with it for a day. It was this series of events that made me decide that perhaps I needed to reevaluate my lifestyle a little bit. 26 is a bit too old to be getting blackout drunk, even in New York City. The weekend had killed me and I needed a break.

Keepin it Classy....Not

Ever since I had started my new job I had been looking forward to a tradition I had relished in at my old job—the work happy hour. Some people may dread them for fear of spending more time with coworkers, aka drinking too much and embarrassing themselves. I was different—I happened to love them. Perhaps this has something to do with the fact that I do tend to drink too often, but I also love to see people outside of the professional environment. It can be fascinating, in a morbid-car crash type of way. 

My first time getting drinks with coworkers was planned because of a potential new living situation. One of the girls in my department had a friend moving to New York from Atlanta, and she needed a place to live. I was scheduled to move out of the Shwick soon and after emailing with her a bit we decided to meet on this weekend when she would be in town. Two of the guys in the sales department, one of whom happened to be my coworker's boyfriend, also met us. The potential new roomie turned out to be fairly cool and we were all having a good time drinking beers and talking about her impending move to New York. Things got a bit awkward though when the other sales guy, in mid-convo, asked me for my number. Not wanting to be rude in front of everyone and at a loss for how else to avoid it, I reluctantly gave it to him. Subsequently I have received a late-night text from him every Friday night, which I choose to ignore and then feel badly.

This is because I have spending them with Jersey. Despite my initial qualms, he was growing on me. Yes maybe his sense of humor isn't so great, and I am much more interesting and better-traveled than him. But he is consistently nice to me, and acts very interested. He remembers things that I tell him and takes me out for meals, with no regards for the cost. He even calls me! And the other night, after taking me out, he drove me all the way back to Brooklyn in his Range Rover, when I was hesitant to stay the night at his apartment. So when towards the end of happy hour, he texted me to come meet him out at his happy hour across town I decided that I would. He was pretty wasted when I met him and he paraded me around, introducing me to all his coworkers. They were fairly nice and I chatted with one of them about his family's handbag business for quite awhile. After a bit we decided that it was dinner time, so Jersey and I hopped in a cab. Listening to him slur cross streets to the cabbie, I knew that we could not be eating in public so I told him we would have to order delivery at his apartment. Obviously this was taken to mean something else, and once inside he pounced. True, I was not as eager to leave as I had been the time before, and there was apparently no way he was letting me. We ended up hooking up in his living room, with a view 18 stories above Hell's Kitchen. We never made it to dinner.

In the morning, we got brunch in the neighborhood and it was only moderately awkward. Halfway through, I received a call from Polish Princess, who had just returned to NYC from her epic South America tour. I had obviously been unable to meet up with her the night before so when she invited me for brunch later that afternoon I agreed. Two brunches in one day, that's what's up. So I headed from Hell's Kitchen to Williamsburg, where I met a large group of people, most of whom I didn't know, at Rye. I told myself I wasn't going to eat, but of course ordered a massive helping of eggs, in addition to a Bloody Mary. Brunch was roughly three hours long--the randoms turned out to be really cool and we all had some hilarious conversations. Afterwards, I knew I needed to take a nap rather than going with Polish Princess to her fav bar, as I hadn't been home in over 36 hours and I looked a hot mess.

Back to Bushwick I went, where I passed out for a couple hours and got myself together for Saturday night.

I had Salma's bday party in Alphabet City, but first I was meeting Yahtzee. I had recently confessed to him that I had made out with the hot Irish coworker at 1 Oak and he wanted us all to hang out again. I wasn't expecting much as this was a very classy man. He used to manage Marquee, he has his own clothing line, he is hot AND Irish. So I probably wouldn't be someone he would choose to go after, other than for a quick makeout at a club, but I was definitely willing to hang out with him again. So I chose a cute, but not too over the top outfit and headed to the bar where they were (also in Alphabet City, how convenient). This outfit included a pair of crazy tights, which I discovered had a hole in them on the subway. My dress turned out to also be much shorter than I remembered and I slightly resembled a cheap hooker. So much for trying to be classy.

Hot Irish was just as hot as I remembered. He was with a group of equally attractive Irish people, and Yahtzee. Hot Irish was friendly when he greeted me, but quiet. When he introduced me to the group, my knees buckled a bit, because of how my name sounded with his accent. One of the girls, who could have been a model, started talking to Yahtzee and me, asking how we knew each other. Of course, this gave us an opportunity to launch into our Croatia story. Usually people get bored within 5 minutes, but it turns out this girl had had her own sloppy night at the club we had gone to, El Fuego, and we all cracked up at the coincidence. She also discussed what a “sweetheart” their friend was, who happened to be the guy with the Harry Potter glasses and the bad attitude who had gotten handsy with AD at 1 Oak. I chose to just smile and nod at this.

The night progressed well, although Hot Irish and I didn't have a whole lot to say to each other. He had recently dressed the famous golfer Rory McIlroy, in a suit from his clothing line. Yahtzee had sent me an article about it, like a giddy little schoolgirl. So when we inevitably started to discuss that I asked if he had Rory's cell phone number. He said he did and I told him that we were all going to drunk dial him and leave him a drunken voicemail. This cracked Hot Irish up and I was pleased to have broken through his stoic exterior. I haven't seen him since and there have not been any other club nights, but when I get word that one is scheduled I will probably pee my pants from excitement.

I then convinced Yahtzee to head to Salma's bday with me, which was being held at a disgusting dive bar, though he was unaware of this. I only saw her for a few minutes but we had a good chat and agreed that we need to go out for Guggenheim drinks soon. Yahtzee took one for the team and was good company. We dipped out early to get food and when I burped loudly while eating it, like the classy lady that I am, he chastised me by calling me a “fucking pig”. True—I had gone to brunch twice that day afterall.  

St. PADDY'S Day

After last year, I swore I would never do St. Patrick's Day in New York again. Who thinks I stuck to that promise?? The fact that AD was coming to town and I have a pair of green jeans from Santa Con were the main reasons for my decision to go out, despite having had a pesky wisdom tooth pulled a few days earlier. I hadn't eaten anything solid the day before, which made for a real treat for everyone around me. So Saturday morning, when AD and I headed to brunch at the delish restaurant I had discovered near my apartment, I was on a rampage. I sucked down a Bloody Mary and pounded a quiche in record time. Once the beast was satisfied we headed into Manhattan and over to the West Village to meet our customers. We had purchased tickets to see Justice awhile ago but were both disappointed with their new CD. Plus we knew St. Pat's could get out of hand, so we made the executive decision to put those bastards on Craigslist, with the tagline “don't miss these French fucks”. We found our buyers, who turned out to be an adorable older gay couple. We handed them off then headed to meet AD's good friend from college, who lives on Long Island and was going on a bar crawl in which we were going to be tagging along. After scooping her up on the Upper East Side, we headed down to Grand Central. Judging on how Santa Con had been, I knew it would be an ugly scene. Correct. Since it was already mid-afternoon, people were already pretty wasted and a trashy girl shoved us as we walked up to the bar. The participants in Long Island's bar crawl were pretty funny though, and we even met a guy who knew Charlie Kelly (whom we were avoiding since AD had a bf in the works back in DC). I texted GF to meet up with us and he rolled in, looking very tan and svelt. After about another hour in that area we couldn't take it anymore and decided to head down to the East Village, to meet up with—Paddy's Irish Pub.

Now he was a good friend of AD's said bf and I had gone on a date with him a few days before. We had never met, so it had the potential to go terribly wrong. But instead, we sat on the rooftop of Eataly for over 2 hours chatting non-stop. We seemed to have the same viewpoints on things, he was pretty funny and we got along really well. Afterwards I was smitten. I hadn't felt like that in a really long time, and I even allowed myself to get excited, which is strictly against my policy for, well, anything. We had made plans to meet up on St. Pats, which may not have been the best plan. I warned GF on the way there that he had to be on his best behavior. The conversation:

Me: I like this guy, so I need you to be--

GF: Nice?

Me: Gay.

We finally managed to meet up in the packed bar and as soon as I saw him I wondered if I had been delusional the night of Eataly. He didn't even look like the same person and was wearing a t-shirt with dress shoes. And not a trendy v-neck t-shirt but a regular bright green one with freaking DRESS SHOES. I decided to dismiss this as I was a bit grumpy due to the crowds of belligerent 22 years olds. GF however did not; apparently his comment to AD after meeting ole Paddy--”oh great, another mediocre-looking ibanker”. True story. We all hung out for awhile until GF couldn't take it anymore and left. The remaining three of us and Paddy decided to head across the street to a Mexican restaurant. I was starving again of course and AD and her friend were pretty wasted so probably needed food as well. So of course when Paddy tried to order us “taquitos” the waiter heard “tequila” and brought us out 4 shots of the worst tequila I have ever tasted.

This did not help AD and her friend's state—AD was chattering loudly while the friend was slumped over in the booth. I was completely sober because of all the food I had eaten. I'd really like to think that Paddy was very drunk after the following occurred. AD and her friend got up to go to the bathroom and as soon as they were gone Paddy turns to me and heatedly asked why the friend kept giving him dirty looks. I was confused, as she had barely paid him any attention. He then decided to say she was a bitch and Long Island trash. Now she may be a little tan, but she is a really nice girl and I was shocked that he would be dumb enough to say this about someone I was with. Didn't he want to impress me, because this was not the way. The only thing I could think to say was that she was really drunk, once again missing an opportunity to throw a drink in someone's face.

After dinner, the friend decided to split off from us, luckily for her. Prom was up the street at the Ninth Ward, so I insisted we go there, after hanging around a bit more with Paddy's lame friends. We sat at a table on the patio and when Prom came out wearing a ghetto baseball hat, I knew Paddy was judging. He hardly spoke to him. Little does he know that Prom makes more money than God on Wall St. so looks really are deceiving (plus, once again, the man was wearing a t-shirt with dress shoes!). Paddy at least turned his attention to me though, where it should have been, and asked me to go to dinner that week. I decided I would see what it was all about. After Ninth, he took us to Crocodile Lounge, where with each drink bought you receive a ticket for a free PIZZA. Good Lord I was in heaven. I was very pleased with the situation, until of course I wasn't. While waiting for our pizza, Paddy shoved the tickets in my hand and turned his full attention to AD, where it remained for the rest of the night. I was now a rejected pizza bitch. I shoved my face with some delish goodness and my mood improved when mid 90s jams came on and Yahtzee showed his face for a sweet sec. On our way out, Paddy suggested that we go back to his place and smoke weed. Suspicious of his intention to bring two girls back to his apartment, plus the fact that my subway line was half a block away, I declined. I heard from him sporadically over the next week, but we surprisingly never went to dinner. Could this be because he was too busy plotting how to break up AD and her bf (also his friend)? Maybe. Or maybe it was because he became privy to the fact that I have been seeing Jersey? Also likely. Though disappointed that I was once again disappointed, I'm sure I am better off.