Friday, June 29, 2012

NYPD Blues

I stiffly shifted awake to find myself lying on the ground atop two cushions that had been removed from the back of my white leather couch wearing only pink booty shorts and a black lace bra. I looked around my studio apartment quizzically for an explanation, but was immediately bombarded by a headache that felt like the after effects of putting a campfire out my face. Sadly, I wish I could say this sensation was new to me, but I quickly realized the culprit of my unease: sake.
Sake and I have a longstanding history of poor decisions followed by even poorer physical actions. My last bout with the devil's drink left me face-planted outside a club at a rookie 11:00PM (hence began the tradition of Face-Plant Fridays). I think it's safe to conclude that I rarely learn from my mistakes. In fact, I seem to repeat them with the eagerness of a 15-year-old boy whacking off to Playboy.

I slowly peeled my bare skin from the leather, found one friend in my bed, and another on the couch. Mystery of whom I went out with - solved. Unfortunately, the mystery of why I decided to sleep on the floor rather than double up in my bed is one that went unsolved (I'm considering contacting Robert Stack to report on it). As I began to stand, my entire body fought against the movement. I was hurting - everywhere.  I turned and squinted at the clock. Removing my contacts before bed was clearly the only responsible thing I had done. 7:15AM gleamed back at me. Shit - I was still drunk.

I stumbled to the mirror to assess the damage. The typical post night out look stared back at me - matted mascara, smudged eyeliner, and sex hair. However, despite my waking attire, I was (sadly) sure there had been no late night romp. Then, I noticed the not-so-typical knot shining on my forehead. Alarmed, I started feeling my body up and down for more protrusions. I was covered in fresh bruises - some places hadn't begun to darken yet, and I knew those would develop to be the ugliest.

Although my early morning panic had been silent, I heard my friends beginning to stir. I turned and looked at them, hoping they would be in just as much pain as I was. I needed someone else to be as bad off for once. Hungover as they were, they were seemingly unscathed and began to quickly pack up their things in the hope of making the next train. In the midst of their preparations, one turned to me, pointed at the floor to a crumpled piece of paper, and said, "I think that's your police report over there." I quickly smoothed the paper and read "Assault in the First Degree."


What had I gotten myself into? I started racking my brain hoping for some memory to present itself. Too bad I had a better chance of finding Jesus's face in one of my bruises. The last thing I remembered was screaming "Sake! Sake! Sake! BOMB!" with a group of like-minded individuals. How did the police become involved and how much will be missing from my already minuscule bank account to pay the inevitable fine?

"I can't believe that guy hit you last night."

Never did I think I would be happy to hear those words. I climbed into my bed, prepared to let it consume me for the rest of the day. Don't get me wrong, I was plenty concerned for myself and wanted to find out what had transpired the previous night, but sleeping off the poor decisions was top priority. I had just found out I didn't do anything illegal - the police wouldn't be looking for me, there would be no fine. The only logical next step was sleep. Sleep, then figure out the sequence of events that ended with me calling the police on Chris Brown's number one fan.


Days later, after hours of pitying myself as the victim, I eventually discovered the missing details from a friend that was most coherent that fateful night. Allegedly, around 3AM, after hours of aggressive consumption, I said something smart to a guy eating near me at a pizza place. He stiff-armed me, knocking me backward out of my chair. I sprang up and began flailing about hitting him. We made it outside and he gave me one last shove. I gracefully landed spread-eagle on the pavement and decided it was best I chat with 911.  I think I've finally learned my lesson - no more drunk eating.

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Would You Wear Shoes?

I was a tomboy growing up. Super cool at the time (na├»vety an overarching factor), not so cool in retrospect.  Tomboys don't get the boys, they get tackled by them - if only I would exert as much effort to get tackled in my adulthood.  The wannabe boys don't get the boys nor do they get the respect of the boys - talk about a lose-lose.  I don't know how old I was when this started.  All I remember is, I would rather play football at recess than hopscotch.  I was never picked last, and I needed to make sure the boys knew I was tough. What a waste.  Let's just chalk this tomboy decision up as a daddy issue, shall we?

These social mistakes choices lasted until about 7th grade.  It wasn't until then that I finally started to come around to the fact that I'd like to make out with boys, not outrun or out-throw them (I'll never get tired of out-smarting them, though).  I started on the "I'm a girl and I am trying to be pretty" route (still working out the kinks).  I shifted from chapstick to lip gloss and football to foursquare.  I thought I was on a roll, fooling everyone to believe I was now uniquely feminine.  The charade was going nicely until one fateful day...

Recess 1998: typical middle school setup - boys on one side, girls on the other. We were all sitting at the lunch tables in our respective groups.  Suddenly, the boys started shouting my name, instructing me to come over.  I tried to play it cool, but let's be honest, I was ecstatic they finally realized I was a hot piece of ass girl.

I casually walk over hoping my boundlessly escalating nerves go unnoticed, praying to God the months of Skip-It training would pay off.  I couldn't risk a stumble - surely I would never recover from such embarrassment.  I was elated - heart was pounding, prepubescent sweat glands working hard.  The boys wanted to talk to ME.  Maybe one of them was going to ask me out? I knew this day would come.  Whatever it was they wanted to tell me, it was sure to be important.

Well, it was important - important for my inevitable future of letting guys prey on my insecurities and diminished self esteem (again with the daddy issues).  I reach the quixotic table of boys - some whose voices sporadically cracked in and out - and all of them kept telling each other to "say it."  No one wanted to tell me whatever it was that had them so worked up.  "You tell her!" "No, you tell her!" - it went on for what seemed like eternity.  But I kept my cool, "Come on guys, what did you want to tell me?"

It was in that fleeting moment that I should have walked away.  While they were still having trouble finding their balls, I should have slinked back to the comfort of my friends.  But no, in true Lily fashion, I waited around to have their balls thrown in my face (fortunately, not literally).

Finally, someone said "____, you tell her. You're the one that came up with it!" (name omitted as to not give him any credit for being clever).  He begrudgingly obliged their peer pressure and asked,

Would you wear shoes if you didn't have feet?

I was really confused - why were they having so much trouble asking me such a dumb question?  My response took less than a second, "Well, no."  Then it came like a lonely man on a prostitute...

Then why do you wear a bra?

I was mortified. (I'll give you a minute to wish you could go back to that day, find this boy, and pat him on the back for being so funny ... k, time's up).  MORTIFIED.  I immediately ran back to the girls, attempting to tell them what just happened, instead, breaking down in tears - no, sobs.  I ran my suppressed tomboy sprint to the bathroom, refusing to leave the confines of the stall for anyone.

Well, I was 12, I didn't have much say on how long I could keep myself cooped up (thank God for studio apartments at 25).  I was only allowed to wallow in self pity for a few minutes until my teacher came in and made me tell her what happened.  I had to relive the whole incident, wishing all the while that their balls were actually thrown in my face instead of that insult.  I could have come back from balls.  There was no coming back from breast-less bras.  Of course, she made him apologize, I hated him for God knows how long, and I made my mom find me a bra that didn't say "Nearly A" on the tag.

Truth is, I think it's absolutely hilarious.  Sure, it was devastating the day it happened.  But as my mantra promotes: bad decisions make good stories.  It was a bad decision to walk into a rowdy tween boy circle, but, hey, thanks for the story...and the backbone.  It was probably one of the last times I took a joking insult seriously.

A few years after that fateful day, my boobs finally grew...for a week.  But that one week was enough time to convince everyone (including me) that this spurt might last for a while.  Sophomore year, I reminded ____ what he had said to me years before.  He didn't really remember it, but simply responded, "Well your feet look great now."  Of course, he was prematurely assuming they would look even better, but that never happened.  Sure, now you can discern my chest from my back a bit easier, but, more importantly, my personality is big.  In the end, that's all that matters, because guys love big boobs personality.

"Breasts: Because you can't motorboat a personality."

Friday, June 22, 2012

Sexy Plexi

There comes a time (or multiple) in your life when everything turns to shit. We've all been there. We've all wanted to paper-cut the eyelids of the person that muttered "when it rains, it pours" to you for the thousandth time. Fortunately, it only takes one event to turn your shit storm back around.

Now, I like to mix booze with any situation no matter the emotional severity. I understand this behavior is not encouraged, but you enjoy your yoga and quiet reflection while I chase these Jameson shots with equally regrettable hook ups. Although I am often able to control my emotions whilst thoroughly intoxicated, there have existed unfavorable instances involving drunken tears. To be honest, I wish I was heavily inebriated every time I cried. I think it would be better, not necessarily for all involved parties, but undoubtedly better for me. There are many an ugly cry that I wouldn't mind forgetting completely. But that is neither here nor there.

In the midst of a recent overly dramatic existential crisis, I turned to the bottle (what can I say - I'm a creature of habit). Fortunately, this time around, I turned to the bottle in the presence of friends. Real friends, too - not the "hi, we've shared enough shots and drunken rambles that if MySpace were still around I'd consider putting you in my Top 8 and regret it over my morning hangover" kind of friends. We were drinking at a college freshman pace, and stumbling around the bar - a bar that was used to this kind of haphazard maturity. The conversation had forgotten to take its Adderall, and jumped from bystanders' outfits to the body hair of recent conquests and back again. Soon we were joined by a mutual friend who was sacrificing all freedom and happiness getting married in a few months' time.

Mark was an all-around great guy and was genuinely concerned for my predicament. He offered slurred words of encouragement, reminding me that "when it rains, it pours" and "it will all turn around soon." Fortunately, I was hammered enough that his bits of assurance failed to negate my pessimism. He joined us in a few more shots, and the next time we made eye contact, I was the only one aware of it. He was in full blackout - what a rookie. I had never seen him like this before, and, knowing what I know now, hope to never see him like that again.

Here was a man that kept me hopeful. Mark was proof that the great guys existed. However, that night he proved that he concealed his real thought-processor behind the fly of his Vineyard Vines khakis just like every other man on the island. His optimistic garbles were now uttered within inches of my mouth while he held me in a tight embrace. If he had been anyone else, I would have thanked him for assisting me with the chore of standing - my four-inch heels were beginning to fight back from hours of sloppiness that I had, quite literally, thrust upon them.

Before the hugs and near kisses got any more threatening, I decided to get out of the situation the only way I knew how - tears. I embellished my depressed feelings in liquid form until one of my friends concluded it was best to get me home.  To no surprise, Mark volunteered to help her (he started by "accidentally" grazing her boob). The three of us stumbled down two blocks, and turned west. He kept insisting to my friend that he could handle it from there and that she should get herself home because it was so late. Once we were all inside my studio, it took but one quick glance to my friend to convey my "get him the fuck out of here" request.  While he was relieving himself (which happened to be in and around the toilet bowl as I lamentably found out early the next morning), she approached me with her plan - fake sleep. She encouraged me to hop in bed and pretend I had passed out, too overcome by my emotions.  I figured it couldn't hurt and hopped in my ever-welcoming bed.

It worked! He exited the bathroom to find sleeping beauty (more for me than you) nestled in her bed. They eventually decided, due to the aggressive coaxing of my friend, that they would head home. Once I could be sure they were out of the building, I got up to get ready for bed (read: remove all clothing, turn on the TV, and cut the lights). As soon as one of my feet touched the floor, my phone started buzzing. It was Mark. Didn't he see me sleeping upon his exit? I let it ring and continued preparing for actual sleep. The vibrations stopped and then returned just as quickly (under any other circumstances, these kind of vibrations would typically be welcome). I went to check my phone assuming to find "Mark" populating the screen, but instead watched as my friend's name scrolled across the frame. I picked up and we discussed how awkward the night had become, recounted our newly exacerbated cynicism in regard to men, and analyzed Mark's evening of descent. We ended our call with the typical "sweet dreams" and "love yous" and I got back to my routine.

I cut the lights, allowing the soft glow of the TV to illuminate my studio.  Soon my Netflix decisions were interrupted by the phone - Mark was at it again. I threw my phone onto my bed, removed the last bits of my clothing, and turned to hop into bed. Just as I was full frontal for the TV's viewing pleasure, I heard it. "Lily!" **bang bang bang** "Hey, Lily!" **bang bang bang** To my horror, I was not only giving the TV set a show, but Mark as well! He was pounding on the 4"x12" piece of plexiglass that was installed between my air conditioning unit and the existing window edge. It was the only space the blinds failed to reach. Standing on the street outside my building, peering through my first floor apartment window, his eyes locked on mine. I had no other choice - I jumped back in bed, turned to face the wall, and slammed my eyes shut all while Mark watched. I was lulled to sleep by Mark's incessant knocking and shouting...the amount of the night's alcohol consumption helped too.

It wasn't the worst thing I had done. Surely faking sleep isn't worse than faking orgasms.

Remarkably, things did get better after that.

Wednesday, June 20, 2012

So Deep It's Shallow

I was lucky enough to attend a professional hockey game free of charge with a friend. By "attend" I mean "get ridiculously wasted at." Wasted or not - it's a sporting event - you better believe I'm going to be loud and obnoxious. However, it didn't become clear to me just how annoying I was until I said the word "masturbate" loud enough for the goalie to hear. Not that it mattered, though. He was in the midst of the most lackluster performance of his career - according to the "fan" behind me.

Unfortunately, more peeved than the goalie, was the man in the row in front of me with a little kid who resembled a boy recently in the news for making allegations against the church (perhaps every boy looked that way). As soon as Little Johnny heard the first syllable leave my lips, his head whipped around to see what charming, classy lady could have uttered it only to find my legs spread, air-humping the stranger's head in front of me. Sorry, young man.

As for the stranger in front of me, well, he thought I was intriguing (he's a fan of air-humping apparently). He was so fascinated that he invited my friend and me to join him at a bar following the game - because I obviously needed more to drink. Being avid fans of new friends and drinking, my friend and I obliged.

The assembled group quickly took to my not-so-lady-like humor, and flattered me enough (read: plowed me with strong drink after strong drink) to convince me to give each and every one of them my phone number on my way out. Because that's a good idea.

While most of them sent a few texts here and there, one of the lovely gentlemen took it upon himself to text-rape my phone. The conversation with said gentleman that night progressed as such:

Travis (11:59am): i want you so bad
Travis (12:05am): u smell great (I was arleady home at this point)
Travis (1:00am): i want u
Travis (1:09am): i want u (creative type)
Travis (1:18am): hey sexy
Travis (2:27am): 69 baby
Travis (2:31am): where r u
Travis (2:41am): ur smile kills me

Yes, you read correctly - I didn't respond once. Apparently, he became concerned for my safety and decided to call me ten minutes later. Well, not that there was a man in my bed at 3:00AM, but there was a man in my bed at 3:00AM, and, let's just say, he wasn't too happy about the late night texts. He was even more aggravated with the call. So, like any good friend, I let him answer the phone: "Hey, yeah, ya lookin’ for someone?" Silence. Hang up. 

That was easy enough. Text-rapist subdued. Well, you would think so, right? Wrong. Not missing a beat, he texts me the next day, "good morning." Wow this guy is bold. So bold, that when my friends found out later during happy hour, they insisted I write him back to provoke him further. So, with the help of my classy male associates, the conversation continued:

Me (& my friends): I'm so sorry. I was with my can we make this work? (lie #1)
Travis: u tell me. i can only talk when i'm at work. where do u live? we can meet in the city.
Me (& my friends): are you married too?
Travis: girlfriend. bad relationship
Me (& my friends): understandable - bad marriage and two annoying kids (lie #2)

After my last text, I headed home from happy hour. Without a beer in my hand or my friends at my side, the conversation no longer humored me. However, my suitor was, yet again, undeterred. He continued:

Travis: so what's the plan?
Travis (30 min later): i can't talk now but i'll text u tom nite
Travis (the next day): hey
Travis: u can text me anytime 2nite

Again, I ignored him. Then, I struck gold:

Travis: Hey. Im not gona text again. If u wana email me and we can set something up and ill send u some nudie pics.

"Nudie pics?" Now we're talking! I've been contemplating creating the e-mail address "goEVENdeeper" so that I can receive said pics. Who knows, maybe one day he’ll be a politician in need of a scandal, and I’ll be just the girl to help.

Friday, June 15, 2012

Tricks Aren't For Kids

Subway performers in the city are as common as chlamydia at Mardi Gras.  When you're a rookie on the scene you think it's a great idea to encourage them via tips or otherwise, but the sad realization that you just contributed to their meth habit quickly discourages you from repeating your donation (or not if you're into that kind of thing).  There is only one group of performers to which I willingly contribute, and their payment is solely attributed to the fact that they tell me I look like Miss America (flattery gets you into my pants...pockets apparently).  If they aren't singing a doo wop version of "Under the Boardwalk" and encouraging the straphangers to "smile - it won't mess up your hair," then you can count on me to avoid eye contact and crank up my iPod.

One afternoon I was doing just that as I headed downtown on the 6 train.  I was working the New York blend as I call it - headphones at max volume, Kindle prominently displayed, dead/soulless eyes.  The man with the colorful over-sized trunk that I noticed next to me back on the platform at 77th Street began to take apart his luggage in the middle of the subway car.  In combination with his clown trunk, his East River aroma made it clear that I was to avoid all goings on until I could switch cars at the next station.

Suddenly, a white dove flailing about the crowded subway car caught my attention.  Smelly Trunk was gracing us with a magic show, and to my surprise, the menacing bird wasn't his only companion from the animal kingdom. In his very next trick he produced a rabbit out of thin air - very thin air.  The car was stifling (its air conditioning seemingly reserved for the outer boroughs).  Smelly's performance went from zero to what-the-fuck in a matter of seconds.  I was hooked. To think, Mr. Trunk was delivering such a wonderful act with merely the hope that he would score a few bucks from the commuters' pockets.  He deserved much more.  His schtick, as "subway performer" as it was, far exceeded Carrot Top's act overrun with veins bulging with the 'roids he recently injected into his ass. Someone should have recorded this.

As I considered calling a few friends in Vegas to land this guy a gig, he moved from his trunk-o-tricks and jaunted to my end of the subway car. Sure, I had been impressed by his foolery, but I was in no way ready to interact with him. I decided to get back to the blend - looking down at my Kindle and intermittently peering up only when my sunglasses allowed proper concealment. Despite my attempts, Smelly McSmellerson was not thwarted, and what happened next will haunt me every time I swipe at the turnstile.

He stood directly in front of me - which is when I realized the stench was more of a musky I-carry-around-live-animals-in-my-creepy-trunk than an East River fragrance.  Smelly Trunk wanted me to be part of the show.  Now, if I had been fully satisfied the night before, I might have waved him away or acted as if I couldn't see him altogether, but that was not the case.  I didn't welcome the activities that followed, but I didn't reject them either.  He asked me to reach into a bag resembling a butterfly catcher sans translucence and relay to the car that the bag was indeed empty.  Even though I feared a hypodermic needle awaited me at the bottom, I tested fate and reached in.  Empty as promised. 

While he showed the rest of the car the barren bag, I turned back to my Kindle, assuming my role had been exhausted.  Before I knew it, my legs were being lifted at the ankles and rose parallel to the floor.  Smelly was waving the recently proclaimed empty bag under my legs.  If the subway E-brake actually brought the authorities instead of leaving us stalled for the unforeseen future, that would have been my opportunity to pull it.  The idea of being trapped underground with Rape Clown (formerly Smelly Trunk) did not bode well with my schedule for the day.  Fortunately, as fast as my legs were pulled up, they were set back down again.  Unfortunately, the bag was no longer empty.  Mr. Rapey started hopping about the car while he reached in the magic bag, pulled a clenched hand back out, and began whirling a black lace thong around his index finger.  While I knew they weren't my actual panties (it was laundry day),  I felt just as embarrassed as if they had been.  He was the greatest magician of all time - he managed to trick even me into thinking the panties were mine.

When his performance finally ended and it came time for the passing of the hat, he paused in front of me for my contribution.  I altruistically quipped, "Weren't my panties tip enough?” Panhandling performers are exceedingly greedy these days. I almost went home with him.