* I was just instant messaging with an old friend. He is feeling low because his ex-roommate's brother died a few days ago in a house explosion. A house explosion?! And I just remembered that around New Year's, one of his current roommates blew off two of his fingers with a firework.

I think explosions count as bad things. And if bad things come in threes, I hate to see what happens next in that crew. :/

STL @ NYM
Last week, as I took the subway home, I noticed something off. I saw a middle-aged well-to-do couple. And a couple of stockbroker-type guys chatting loudly. And a few more affluent-looking middle aged men.

What is going on? As mak can probably attest, Yuppies don’t ride the 7 train!

I looked closer. Little flashes of orange and blue.

Oh! They’re going to a baseball game! … I wanna go to a baseball game!

So I logged on and got two tickets to see the Cardinals and the Mets in about a month. I’m so excited. My family and I used to go to Cardinals games all the time. Good memories.

Cry Bambino Cry
I recently watched a show about the Red Sox, a one-hour history of the club. What a sad and dramatic story. I know several Sox fans; you gotta feel for them, especially any who were alive in 1986.

I used to live in Boston, so I’d heard most of the history before. The only thing new to me in the show was a segment about the team’s history of racism. I never knew that. Probably because it’s not something they’re proud of in Boston. Still, fascinating history.

They asked some of the fans what they’d do if the Sox ever won the World Series. It sounded to me like the apocalypse. There’d be a biggest celebration in the city’s history—I can’t even imagine the insane rioting that would occur. But then what? … The fans didn’t know. What would they be living for? No one knew.

It looks like they could be on their way again to another heart-breaking season: they’re kicking some Yankee ass. Maybe this will be the year, the fans say.

Is Someone Playing a Trick on Me?
Where did all these attractive men come from? They weren’t here last time I looked. Did we just get a shipment of Calvin Klein models that I wasn’t told about?

You know how (straight) guys always get excited about warm weather because women start stripping their clothes off? It goes both ways. I love seeing arms and legs and, my favorite, tattoos that have been hidden all winter. Fun fun.

I crawled up to meet her on a tall rock at the south end of the park, overlooking several active baseball diamonds.

“What’s up?” Goober asked.
“I just came from a Cuddle Party,” I replied.
“A what?”
“A Cuddle Party.”

The idea of the Cuddle Party is that it’s a safe space for adults to be affectionate with one another without it getting sexual. There were two reasons I went. The main reason was that Brady was hosting it. A very good friend of Brady’s founded these Cuddle Parties and is now including her into his business plan. This was the first one she was going to be hosting. I’m supportive of her and her ventures, so I wanted to see what this was all about. Also, I don’t get very much physical affection in my daily life, so this might be an interesting—and safe—way to get some.

Which isn’t to say I wasn’t a little nervous and—I’ll be honest—creeped out by the idea of a Cuddle Party.

I told Brady that, at the very least, an afternoon like this was sure to elicit some fantastic writing material.

Goober crossed her legs and leaned back on her arms. She was wearing red sneakers. A few clouds floated by.
“So? How was it?”
“It was interesting.”

It was all very Bohemian. We sat on the floor of a studio apartment with exposed brick and large wooden beams crossed the ceiling. A gold tapestry hung between some of the beams. On the wall was a picture of an Indian woman. I asked the girl sitting next to me who it was. She said the name of this guru, but I didn’t quite understand what she said.

A mixed group of 15 sat in a circle, all dressed in pajamas. I made a joke to Brady that there wasn’t a bra in the room. Turns out there was at least one; The Artist’s ample chest couldn’t stand on its own, I guess.

“Did you enjoy it?”

I did. I had no idea what to expect from this party. But from all of the possibilities I’d imagined in the last week, the one that actually took place was not among them. I was nervous, but for completely different reasons than I thought I would. And I enjoyed it, but for completely different reasons than I thought I would. I feel like I’ve been socked in the stomach. But in that good way.

For me, the whole experience was altered by the presence of The Hottest Man I Have Ever Met in My Whole Life.

I’m dead serious.

He walked into the apartment just after I did. No. Way. I had to look away. Looking at him was like looking at the sun.

He was tall, I’d guess 6’2”, curly medium-length brown hair, stubble on his chin. His face looked like his, but younger. Gorgeous smile. I was stunned.

And here I’d expected a roomful of deformed and unshowered trolls.

I put down my bag and coat, kicked off my sneakers, and took a seat next to a futon. It’s not like I’d get to cuddle with that guy anyway.

A few seconds later, The Hottest Man sat down next to me. Me! He sat next to me! I’m never that lucky! We introduced ourselves. Soon, we were chatting away. He looked me straight in the eye when he spoke to me. What a look.

The Artist mentioned that he’d just come back from a trip to Miami and LA. That would explain the perfectly tanned arms.

Jobs in Miami and LA? I bet he’s a model. Or an actor.

“The Artist said you just had a job in LA. What do you do?”

Model. No, actor. No, model.

“I’m a photographer’s assistant. But actually, I’m a photographer. I want to be doing more of my own stuff.”

Well, you could be a model. (I can’t believe you’re not a model!) But I’m so glad you’re not!

Brady shushed everyone down and said a welcome. Everyone introduced themselves and said why they were there. There were a lot of other First-Time Cuddlers. The Hottest Man was a first-timer, and so was I.

Brady had a few games to illustrate some of the Cuddle Party rules.

Rule 3. Only invite or ask some one to kiss/nuzzle you if you're okay with and can handle them saying No. It's risky business to expose our wants and needs to people we hardly know (and even those we do), but not doing so is what's causing the problem in our society these days, so let's be bold. Experiencing for your adult self that getting a “No” isn't the end of the world goes a long way to healing those wounds of rejection we received as kids at the school dances.

“Everyone pick a partner, someone sitting next to you. One of you is A and one of you is B.” The Hottest Man was sitting next to me. He was A, I was B.

“Person A, ask if you can kiss Person B. And Person B, you have to tell Person A, ‘No.’”

This has to be a joke.

The Hottest Man turned his body to face me. He looked me straight in the eye when he spoke to me.

“Can I give you a kiss?” he asked.

The Hottest Man I Have Ever Met in My Whole Life is asking to kiss me and I have to tell him “No!” I feel like I’m taking crazy pills! This is just cruel!

I couldn’t say it with a straight face, but I managed a “No.”

“Practice it a few times,” Brady said.

He blinked, smiled and looked at me again. “Would it be OK if I gave you a kiss?”

You’re going to make me say it again?!

“No.”

He leaned closer, lowered his head a little. Looked through me. “C, can I give you a kiss?”
“Are you going to make me keep saying this?”
“I guess so.”

I’m speechless. I have to pause a moment.

…

OK.

“Change roles,” Brady said.

I said to Hottest Man I Have Ever Met in My Whole Life, “Can I give you a kiss?”
“No.”

Now, this feels about right.

Goober lit a cigarette and we watched some kids roll an orange down a cleft in the rock.
“It’s so great to find someone you’re that attracted to.”
“I know! Makes me feel alive. I haven’t been this attracted to someone in so long. It’s nice to be reminded that I can be.”
“I just never meet hot people.”
“I know. Me either.” How sad.

After the welcome and the Hell-spawn Get-to-Know-You Games, the cuddling commenced. If there were other people there, I didn’t notice them. I myself shrank to the size of a daisy and bloomed in his direction.

I cuddled with the few people I knew—Brady, The Artist, the man who founded the Cuddle Party. And The Hottest Man. He was the only stranger I cuddled with. I chickened out a few times when I could have gotten even closer to him. I actually didn’t get to cuddle with him nearly as much as I wanted to. As I mentioned, he was hot. I was not the only woman in the room who noticed this. He was a sought-after cuddle commodity.

I can’t even believe I got to touch him at all, and have him touch me the way he did. I feel wholly unworthy.

“So?” Goober asked. “Did you get his number? His email address?”
“Pfft! No.”
“Why not?”

At the party, there were a bunch of other people standing around as we were all saying goodbye and I didn’t want to ask in front of all of them. I would have liked to walk out of the party with him; I took my time, but he was moving a lot slower than I was and it didn’t work. I even made a phone call on the front stoop on the chance he might come out while I was still around. No luck.

“But really, he was just too hot for me,” I told Goober.
“What?”
“Way too hot. I’m not allowed to be with someone that hot.”
“C! Don’t you think you deserve to be with someone hot?”

Mmm, no.

I just looked up his name on the Internet. (I peeked for his last name on the mailing list when I signed it.) Our names are on a page together. A list of photographers who had pictures in Here is New York. It's a big list. Doesn't mean anything.

He has a web site for his photography. I looked through his portfolio. I saw several mostly-naked skinny blonde models.

I’m more than fairly certain now that I could never get his attention.

… Hmm. His phone number and email address are on his web site.

I can still smell him on my skin. The smell makes me smile and ache.

*Epilogue

A few minutes ago, I was sitting on the dusty floor in the hall. I was going through some papers in my filing cabinet, looking for those $500 airline vouchers I got for getting off the plane Christmas Eve Eve two years ago. My friend, who is dying for a vacation, is nagging me to look for them so we might be able to go on a trip together.

My filing cabinet. Accordion folders, half-full journals, an autographed headshot of John Henson. An archive of spiral day-calendars, printouts of my first post-college job's Monster description, a certificate of achievement from the bartending school.

Two tightly folded pieces of printer paper.

I pulled them open, not knowing yet what I was going to read.

Oh man. I know what this is.

Heh.

I remember when and where I wrote it. It was the first week of November, 1999, in the office of the independent student newspaper I worked at in college. I remember that I was rushed when I sat at one of the dozen computers in the newsroom, banging out the details. Just getting it down. I didn’t want to forget any of it.

But I ran out of time—rush to class?—and just printed out what I had. I closed the document without saving it. 1,500 words, no save.

I didn’t get to finish the story. But it wasn’t one to go back and edit.

I got comfy on my floor, sat back and read. The true story covering the two narrow-margined tiny-fonted pages contained, in chronological order: reckless driving, a car accident, a woman-to-woman face-off, police involvement, a pregnancy scare announcement, homeless squatters, a drug deal, homemade Halloween costumes, a Halloween house party, and drug experimentation.

I had purposely not named the drugs, in case anyone did find this, because I’d remember those details myself. What a funny kid I was. Am. Am.

[At the Halloween party,] A, J and I were kinda looking for a place to hang out and couldn’t get alone anywhere, so we finally cornered ourselves near the keg by M and toasted.

That’s the last line of the second page. Down the rabbit hole.

The kids took the pills and then-! And then?!

I remember the rest, but maybe it’s best that it’s not written down anywhere. It can be mine to keep.

I’m smiling. I’ve had some of the most fun of my life in college, but it wasn’t wild by anyone’s standards. [I was going to make a joke here about someone ultra-conservative that could contrive to find my college lifestyle ‘wild,’ but I can’t think of who that could be.]

Right now, I feel like I’m looking back at my 21-year-old self saying, “Good job, kiddo. You had a wild and crazy night. I’m proud of ya.” I didn’t have a lot of nights like that. I’ve had a couple wilder since, but not many. There’s a good chance you’ve had plenty wilder, and I salute you. However, this was one I’m glad I typed up in excruciating detail for auto-posterity.

I just folded it up and put it in its proper place. My secret jar. If you’ve ever seen my jar, I must think you’re a really special person. Or at least I did when I showed you, she said with a suspicious squint.

Oh. I never found the $500 voucher. I guess I’m stuck here for a little while still.

I may be a pig, but I do shower daily, thank you.

First, I shampoo my hair, rinse, and then add conditioner. I soap up, rinse, then shave anything on the to-do list. Maybe I'll exfoliate my face. I rinse the conditioner, and I'm done.

All of this takes about 10 minutes. Maybe 15 if I'm going from Hairy Beast to Smooth Sally.

So what the hell are you doing when you take a 45-minute shower?

Seriously. I have no idea. What's going on in there?

I generally regard the present day as a low period of my life. The last few years have been rough, and though I’m on an upswing, I still feel pretty close to the bottom.

I feel this way mostly because of my salary. It’s low. Sometimes I feel like a sucker for taking this job, knowing that I should be earning more considering my talents and experience. I was out of work for six months when this offer came along, and I was so conflicted. The job sounded perfect for me-but could I even live on the amount they were offering? It was barely more than what I was getting from my unemployment insurance.

The job, it turns out, is perfect. So I made some adjustments accordingly. I gave up my studio to share a place with a roommate, a defeating but necessary move.

But why do I value myself according to my salary? It’s such an insignificant measure of the person I am or the quality of my life. I don’t care that much about money, and I’m well aware that the best things in life are free. Shouldn’t my happiness trump the numbers?

I may not care about money, but America does. And I live in America. And according to America, I’m in the dumps.

When I really think about it, though, my life has improved in a lot of little ways in the last year, despite earning a fraction of what I did a few years ago when I was at the fancy bloated dot-com.

Now I have high-speed Internet access at home. In my studio, I just had dialup because I couldn’t afford the highspeed on my own. Now that I have a roommate to split the bill with, I’m hooked up, baby!

I have HBO. Oh yes, I have HBO. Just got it last week. As a Sopranos fan who has been mooching on friends’ DVDs and cable access for years, this is a luxury I appreciate greatly. (I’m sure said friends appreciate it too.) I haven’t had HBO since I was a little kid. Mom and Dad didn’t get it again until my brother and I had left for college. Those selfish empty nesters.

I have a dishwasher. In my studio, I had no dishwasher. And I’m a pig, remember? Think about how gross I must have been when I had no dishwasher. Friends would come over, and when they went to the kitchen to get a glass of water, I’d yell after them, "Don’t go in there! I’ll get it for you!" The kitchen was not a place you’d want to see. And now all I have to do is stick the dirties in the box and it does all the work for me. A dishwasher, the lazy pig’s dream machine.

I’m paying off my credit cards. Despite being near the bottom of the salary ladder, I’ve figured out how to pay off my debt. I want to take myself on a vacation and start saving for a home of my own. Eliminating this debt is the first step. And I’m actually doing it! For some reason, I never figured this out when I was making more money. I must be growing up or something.

My commute is shorter. When I moved from the studio to my new place, I edged several neighborhoods closer to work and now my trip is about 15 minutes shorter. Score.

I get to wear track pants and sneakers to work. This is important to me. Track pants and sneakers are key elements in my wardrobe. And being able to wear them to work makes me a very happy worker bee.

I’ve kept a job for more than a year. I haven’t been able to say that since July of 2001.

I inspire millions of people a day. I was at a party a few weeks ago and someone asked me what I do. “I’m a web site editor,” I said reflexively. “No!” Brady shouted. “Damn! I mean, I inspire millions of people a day.” She’s on a campaign. She wants me to start answering that way not only because it sounds much cooler than ‘web site editor,’ but because it’s true. I couldn’t say that about my last job. (Actually, now that I think about it, I enraged a few million people at my last job. We were picketed. They even brought The Rat.)

And I haven’t forgotten the people. My friends and family, who have been there for me for every up and down, are the ones who really make me go ’round.

So I still don’t have the other 500 cable channels out there, I’m still buying knockoff shoes and handbags, and I can’t afford a housekeeper to clean up after me, but I’m doing alright. More than alright. This is no low point: I am good! Salary be damned!

... Though a raise would be cool. I’ll probably always wear cheap shoes, but I could really use that housekeeper.

“Look at those two puffy dogs.”

We were sitting on some steps in a park overlooking the river. One of my best friends came into the city for a visit. We were on a walk, getting lost, chatting away.

I looked at the dogs. “I know those dogs,” I said.

I laughed, stood up and shouted The Artist’s name.

I love bumping into people. Just the other day, I ran into the female half of The Engaged Couple while changing trains on our morning commutes. I love when that kind of thing happens.

I introduced my friend and The Artist, a friend of Brady’s I’ve met several times now, and we all made small talk. I bent over and and gave the dogs a few scratches. The Artist’s cell phone rang. “Maybe that’s Brady now,” she said.

It wasn’t. When she hung up, she said, “That was The Photographer.”

The Artist is also makeup artist to the stars. She is the only person I know who tangentially connects me to that world. The Photographer is famous. I love his pictures.

“He lives right over there, he just called. I’m going to go over and see him. Want to come meet him?”

“Ohmigod,” I said, my mouth gaping. Cool, aren’t I?

She strode across the street, the dogs toddling in tow, and my friend and I just behind.

“I can’t believe we’re going to meet him!” I said to my friend. “And look at us.”

When I met my friend at the Grand Central Information booth a few hours ago, I hugged her and said, “Look what you’re wearing!” She sported a light brown suede blazer, with a pink and white sweater underneath and dark blue jeans. We burst out laughing.

I was wearing a light brown suede blazer, with a pink button-down shirt underneath and dark blue jeans.

“We’re going to meet this guy, and we look like this,” I said. Silly is the word. We laughed at ourselves yet again.

“There he is,” The Artist said.

She introduced us all and we shook hands. He looked rumpled. His mind was clearly elsewhere than on the sidewalk meeting us girls. I don't blame him.

“C used to work at [popular music magazine],” The Artist added as her thoughtful detail about me. His most famous works were in that magazine.

“I was just an intern. I worked in the book publishing division. I was there, years ago, the summer that your book came out. So, I was, um, an intern behind your book, which doesn’t really mean anything at all!”

“Oh,” he said.

Oh.

I need to work some more on that Make a Good First Impression thing.

Once The Artist and The Photographer had gone inside, my friend and I giggled down the street and continued our walk, getting lost, chatting away.

or, Another Episode From the Continuing Series, "I'm Trying to Turn You Off"

I'm sort of coming out from underneath myself. Do you know what I mean by that? I've sort of, um, let myself go in the last few weeks. I'm not talking about my weight. My weight is fine. I'm talking about my housekeeping.

I started by throwing out the trash. Burger and taco wrappers; a paper bag with dead French fries inside; Coke cans; a destroyed pink hair band my mom gave me for Christmas and became a cat toy; cigarette butts and boxes; snotty tissues; unopened junk mail and spilled-on magazines. And really, that nickel and a few pennies on the floor amid cat food bits—they can get thrown out too.

In search of a place cleaner than the not-changed-in-a-while litter pan, the cat started peeing on top of the new bag of litter before I got a chance to even take it out of the grocery bag. Thanks, pal o' mine, I wanted to make the apartment that much dirtier before I clean it. I was going to mop the floor anyway. Plus, rubber gloves make me fearless.

Next up: dishes. A piece of burnt and buttered toast sat on a plate; the plate was on top of a bowl. I lifted the plate and looked in the bowl: fuzzy green and white chicken stew. I made that bowl of stew when I was ill. Two weeks ago. Really loving the rubber gloves now, and wishing I had one of those masks people were wearing when they were sacred of anthrax or SARS.

I shuttled the glasses and plates and bowls and cutlery into the kitchen from my bedroom. It took four trips. I loaded the dishwasher, while a few things soaked in the sink. I squeezed out some extra soap, and set it for "Heavy Load." I scrubbed down the counters. Three washes later, I was still getting dirt off it. I didn't have the energy to clean the stove. Or the coffee table. Or my desk. Maybe I'll get to those tonight.

Note: In the previous paragraphs, I confess that I committed the sin of omission. I couldn't tell you the grossest things. Grosser than moldy stew and cat piss. I'm so undignified, I can't even tell you. Reminds me of what my dad would always tell me when I'd burp at the dinner table. "C.M., that's not very ladylike." (Using the first and middle names makes it all the more dramatic and shameful.) I'm not very ladylike.

My mom taught me that your home should be clean when you have guests over. So now you know why I've never invited you over to hang out at my place. And I'm pretty sure, now you won't ever want to. Maybe I'll grow up one of these days.

I do have excuses, though! Valid ones. Good ones. Really.

First of all, I was sick! Twice! I had a cold—and then a week and a half later, I stood out in the cold for a few hours to see the elephants, which made me sick again! How can I be expected to keep up my home while I'm in bed watching movies?

And, I've been reeeeally busy. I had to make a companion web site to a network TV special! One of those famous news anchors presented it. See? High profile! High pressure! And by the time I got home every night, I was way too tired to think about cleaning or doing the shopping ... or going to bed at a reasonable hour because I'd rather pass out stoned on the couch ... ummm ...

And, er, uh ...

Who am I kidding? Certainly not you.

I'm full of shit.

I'm just a dirty lazy pig and that's all there is to it. Oink oink, baby.

Date: April 1, 2004
To: C
From: E

Good morning :) I'm very interested to hear your april fool's joke for this year!

In certain circles, I am famous for my practical jokes. Because I'm pretty damn good at them. I learned from the best. A.

On the way out of my own birthday party in January, a friend of A's that I didn't even know shouted across the street to me, "Hey! You're the one who pulls all those tricks on A! You're great! Happy birthday!" Hilarious.

She was one of my suitemates freshman year of college. She is tall, thin, a striking beauty—and can be a total bitch. I met this bitch many times freshman year. She made me believe my television had been stolen. She turned all the stuff in my room upside down—all the clothes were hung inside out, the sheets on my bed were inside out, every snapshot on the wall was turned around.

Those were no big deal. She was just trying to be mean, so I just brushed her off for being petty.

This irritated her. She had to get me.

And she did.

The mother of all practical jokes. It definitely ranks as one of the most humiliating events of my life. It was a hideous scavenger hunt around the dormitory, involving a lot of hot men that she knew and I didn't.

As the hunt progressed around the building, we collected a traveling audience. Some of the people she got to participate in the hunt, would say, as I showed up at their door with a dozen or people watching me, "I'm so sorry. She made me do this. I'm so sorry."

I did try to stop all this about midway through the hunt. I threw down the laundry basket I was carrying the treasures in. I stomped and said I wasn't going to put up with this anymore! I was shamed and called a bad sport. So I continued.

The crowd eventually made it back to my home floor and into the neighbors' suite. Their task was to 'make me up.' Hair gel dripped onto my shoulders, green eyeshadow touched my hairline, red lipstick smeared across my face. I was so humiliated.

To my relief, the next and final stop was back home, next door, in my own suite. I'd find the last treasure there. Thank goodness. The crowd was shooed away, and I snuck back toward my room where no one would have to see me looking like the freak they'd painted me.

I opened my door, and there he was. My crush. The guy I'd met the first week of school. He was my first kiss. He was a player that didn't pay much attention to me. And I really liked him anyway. Really really liked him. And here he was. Sitting on my bed and laughing at me because I had gelly hair and circus makeup.

I ran into the bathroom and cried as I dunked my head under the bathtub faucet to wash out all the gel and makeup.

Horrific. Simply horrific.

Ever since that day, I swore my revenge—and I'm not even a vengeful person! (I've always thought that 'eye for an eye' stuff was crap.)

I've gotten that revenge many times over. I filled her bed with ice cubes. I put her face onto beastial pornography and put it on the Internet with her phone number—this is the most famous one, it's a great story. I take every April 1 as an opportunity to get her again. Last year, I convinced her that I was on my way to be a human shield in Iraq. She lost a whole night of sleep over it. Isn't that great?

But yesterday, I was tired. I've been working all week on a big project (I built a web site for a network news special that is going to air next week). Um, yeah that's about all I've been doing. Work. I had a few vague ideas for a joke, but I wasn't sure I had the conviction to carry any of them out.

To: A
From: C
Subject: April 1, 2004

I let you off the hook ... this time.


To: C
From: A
Subject: RE: April 1, 2004

i know. and i'm disappointed. i'd been anticipating something since mid march. then started to think that you'd wait til mid april just to throw me off. come on, [nickname I like to be called]. don't go soft on me now. you'll let down your legions of adoring fans for whom the story of your ultimate practical joke never gets tired. :)

love you!!!

A

I pooped out on my own April 1 tradition. I suck.