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It’s been a long week, ridiculously long. I went camping last weekend with a bunch of guy friends- It was supposed to be five guys that I’m friends with and it ended up as twenty-four of their fraternity brothers all together. I was the only girl.
During the week I looked for jobs- I interviewed for one and then was called back for a second interview. Turns out that they lied about the whole thing and that it was a scam. Eight hours of walking around a development in my brand new heels (I had been told to come in for a second interview!) for a door-to-door sales job landed me with badly bruised and blistered feet. Not fun.
I drove down today to spend the weekend in Baltimore with my friend Jay. It was supposed to be a relaxing weekend- and it was, up until a few moments ago. We spent the afternoon shopping, then went to dinner, saw a movie, then we met up with some of his fraternity brothers out in the city. Had a great time, got back here. As a precursor, I’d been talking a lot with him about the PK stuff, about how upset I was, how I’m having a lot of trouble getting over him. He left his email open to a specific email (he’s in PK’s fraternity, so they have a fraternity-wide email list), the email documenting how many girls he was sleeping with. It was from last year, dated a few days before he told me he loved me for the first time. About how he had finally succeeded in sleeping with at least one girl from each grade.
Is this for real? Is this how men really are? I feel completely sick from everything. I want to believe that people are different, but I just can’t get past the terrible examples that I’ve had so far. I loved PK, I still love him. But I feel as though every part of my heart is ripping.
I went out with an old boyfriend earlier this week too, just to grab some drinks. He’s been living in Hawaii and Canada for the past few years so I don’t see him as much. We got to talking about relationships, the sort of staple conversation of two ex-lovers that meet after years of not speaking. He said one quote that really stuck for me: “I hate monogomy. It’s just not for me. Hell, I don’t think monogamy is for any guy- Any guy that tells you that he is monogomous is lying, he wants to fuck as many girls as he can find.”
That’s word for word.
My phone was beeping that I had a new message, so I dialed in to check my voicemail. Said that I had one new message, which turned out to be Steve, and one message that was about to be deleted. I listened to the message that was about to be deleted, and it pretty much knocked the wind out of my body.
It was a message from PK from over a year ago, my favorite message. We had only been dating for a few months, and were at the stage where we were starting to argue if we were boyfriend and girlfriend. He was about to graduate so he said that he didn’t want it to get serious, despite the fact that we were spending the majority of our free time together. I knew I loved him at this point, so it broke my heart that he didn’t want more with me.
This was also the point where I made the Worst Decision Ever and went out with one of his best friends a few times. God, I regret it terribly. The best friend had been after me for awhile, and had the sweetness and sincerity that I had been craving from PK. On the particular night that this message is from, I was over at his best friend’s place watching a movie, and PK was drunk at a bar two blocks from my apartment. He tried to walk to my place to surprise me, and my roomate- who had never met either PK or the friend- opened the door. Having no idea who he was, she said “Oh, are you [best friend]?” I think it must have hit him then that he was going to lose me because I got the phone call then, which I ignored, and the ensuing message from him.
Hi, it’s me, I don’t know what to do. I’m at your apartment and- get this- you roommate asked if I was [best friend]. So I guess you’re with him. I don’t know what to do. I miss you. I need you. I guess what I’m trying to say is…sigh….I love you. Just give me a call, ok? I’ll be walking around town.
I didn’t come find him because I didn’t hear the message until a few days later. The roommate told me what had happened, but I shrugged it off because I didn’t expect him to care. When I first listened to the message I broke down a little- I still do every time I hear it. I guess that’s part of why I’ve kept it in my message box for over a year.
When he was sober he acted like the call had never happened. But it was the first time he had said that he loved me. The next time would be two months later, when he was again drunk. I guess the intoxication made it ok for him to say how he felt.
I hope he’s up there and thinking of me every time he drinks. I hope the drunkeness brings sadness. I hope he’s half as lonely without me as I am without him.
I don’t have a job. I don’t have classes. Hell, I don’t have any responsibilities whatsoever besides walking our dogs throughout the day. So of course I needed a night away with my girls!
We left Tuesday night for Atlantic City, which is dangerously (gloriously) less than an hour away from where we live. We stopped off at Mer’s beach house (gorgeous, gorgeous house), where we were staying for the night, to try on various sexy outfits. We jumped in a cab and headed over to Borgata.
After one try at a bar (they rejected my license because it was expired…oops) we found our bar for the night by the pounding sound of a cover band. We pranced in to the delight of the pack of businessmen surrounding the bar, and we immediately hit on. Nice. We grabbed our first round of shots and found our seats near the band. Spent the night drinking various drinks and shots, dancing and singing, and flirting with the band. I also spent a good hour arguing with the lead singer of the band because he was a Mets fan- we made a bet on next weeks games.
We ended up getting a cab ride home and having a late night (3:30 in the morning) eating in the kitchen, then curling up to drunkenly watch one of those home remodeling shows on tv before crawling downstairs to go to bed.
The next morning we woke early and headed down the beach and spent the afternoon sprawled out on the sand and slowly (it was cold!) getting into the water. We stopped back at Mer’s house to pack and then got a quick lunch at a place downtown, where I had the best burrito ever. And we spent a good 20 minutes recalling all of the murders in the movie Seven.
Our hour drive back was the two of them sleeping (though they both deny sleeping) and listening to music with the windows rolled down.
I love my parents. I really do. But they’re killing me right now. Moving back home has been a huge mistake, and if I could afford it I’d move out instantly.
The thing is, I happen to be completely racked with the need to organize. I am meticulous. My bedroom is beautiful, with Ralph Lauren blue walls, neat white trim, and matching all-white furniture. In my clothes closet, I’ve neatly separated my casual shirts and my nicer shirts by hanger color (either blue or white, dresses are on grey hangers), and within those two categories they are organized by color and type. It is impeccable. It is disgusting.
When I had my own apartment, things were constantly cleaned. I vacuumed once a day, I tried to mop my kitchen and bathroom floor once a day. I hated having dishes in the sink, and I usually made my bed in the morning. In my office, my the paper was always perfectly straight on the desk. The books on my bookcase were in alphabetical order by auther and then by title. I’m serious when I say that I have issues.
I’m not exactly where these anal tendencies come from because they sure as hell didn’t come from my parents. My father’s computer desk (at which I’m sitting now), is not visible through stacks of paper. The entire house is like that.
Admittedly, we do have our maid come once a week or so and she is a gift from god.
Today, I did my usual attempts at cleaning- I weeded our gardens, planted sunflowers (ones that I had growing from seeds), cut our hydrangea, did all of the laundry (which is no small feat for our family), mowed the lawns, emptied all of the trash, and cleaned my room. I then decided to hit a major task that had been stressing me out for awhile- the linen closet outside of my bathroom. Another terrible habit of my family is that, rather than putting things in their proper place, they tend to stuff them into the nearest closet. Aforementioned closet consisted of 29 dirty towels, three hairdryers (two of which did not work, and none of the three were mine), 17 bottles of shampoo or conditioner, sheets that had simply been crumpled up in balls at the top of the closet, old notebooks, a lost shoe… you get the point. It was horrid. I started by cleaning it out- three trashbags full of garbage- and painting the entire inside of it- soft yellow with a white trim and white shelves. I then washed all of the sheets, folded them, and organized them by size and put them in two separate labeled bins. I folded all of the towels on the next shelf, then put toiletries and cleaning supplies in two more bins on the next shelf. It looked beautiful, really, and I felt degrees calmer after the cleaning spurt.
My mother was furious- how could I have thrown out all of those things- such as the sunblock that went bad in 1998- without asking her first? And how could I have painted it without asking her (though it does look great)?
My parents have a separate laundry room and closet room attached to their master wing of the house, in which they usually store all of their towels. She suddenly decided that she wanted to ram ALL of the towels in the house into the newly cleaned closet- when they didn’t fit she angrily told me that I hadn’t utilized the space correctly.
That was a rant. A long, frustrated, and probably grammatically-incorrect one. All concluding in one huge fact: I need to move out.
I wrote a few days back about that guy that I met, T. He was friends of friends, and we really hit it off. We ended up talking every day, at first emailing, and then switching to IM, then even to phone calls. We did the whole “talk about our families” and the “talk about what we have in common” bits, and it was really sweet. And then we made plans to meet up this past Sunday to go to the Phillies game.
I left on Friday for New York, his last words to me being “don’t forget about our date on Sunday!” When I was at a barbeque with friends on Saturday, he called me to see that plans were still on.
I got home from the barbeque and got a message from one of T and my mutual friends, Mandy. We talked for a bit, and then I asked her what T’s deal was. To which she responded “I gotta tell you, he and J [another mutual friend of ours] hooked up Friday night.”
Excuse me? Yeah. Despite having a date set up with me, and despite (as I’ve heard from others) talking about me nonstop for the past week, and despite talking to me for the past week, he went and hooked up with one of my girlfriends. And then still called me the next day to see if we were on.
I didn’t go on Sunday. He doesn’t know that I know, and I loved the fact that he was emailing me today to ask how everything went, if I’d be at a party on Friday night, and when he could see me next.
I headed up to Hoboken on Friday afternoon, hitting all of the lovely New Jersey Turnpike traffic. It usually takes me about an hour and a half to get there, this time took me clear over three hours. For some stupid reason I had decided against public transportation, so the drive there was coupled with the half hour searching for a parking space until I finally slammed into a resident parking space (Allen ended up forcing me to move it later, laughing that I’d have to use public transportation to get home because my car would be towed).
When I first got to their lovely brownstone only Paul was there. He is just a fabulous man, very kind, very unfiltered and all in a very upscale sort of way. We sat down and had a martini in their backyard garden (they have a backyard!) and gossiped. Allen came home, and after moving my car we all met up at their every-Friday-night restaurant. They’ve gone at least one a week to this restaurant for the past six or so years, so everyone there knew them. As we walked in the door, Paul shouted out “We’re here! We’re queer!” to the laughter of everyone there (see: unfiltered). After hugging and kissing every person there and introducing me to everyone, we sat at our little table and enjoyed our sparkling water, bottle of red wine, and appetizers. The food was amazing, but even more so I enjoyed the conversation- we gossiped nearly the entire time about my grandmother. Although she deserves an entire post just for herself (hell, she deserves an entire blog), I can sum her up by saying what I told them. She had called me earlier that afternoon cautioning me about going into a blue-collar industry, saying that I wouldn’t be able to cut it in a men’s profession, and also throwing in a few anti-homosexuality statements about Allen and Paul. We laughed at her, drank some more, and left the restaurant with tight bellies and a bit of an alcohol-induced stumbling. With a quick stop at home to pick up their dog, we walked a block or so down to the pier to look at the city scape at night. Which just further induced the “I need to live there” mode in my head.
After a great night of sleep in their gorgeous study (where I need to note that Paul is an interior decorator and has the classiest taste) I woke up to the puppy pouncing on my face. We trodded down the steps to join Allen for biscotti, coffee, grapes, and the New York Times in the garden. What a lovely morning. We weren’t rushed, and I took a leisurely shower before getting dressed for my exam and interview. We threw our things in the car, grabbed the dog, and headed into the city with plenty of time to spare.
We could tell right away where the exam was- there was a crowd of men and very few women wrapping around the building. A city block-long line. I said my goodbyes to my wonderful uncles, then jumped in line. I’m not sure what I was expecting. I’d heard that people don’t normally get dressed up for these, but I had figured that people would at least be moderately presentable. I stood there casually listening to the people in front of me and behind me. In the front, I had a group of five guys that sounded like the epitome of tv cops. The one guy kept talking about how he’d seen a man in a suit further up in the line- “What a jerkoff, he tryin’ to show us up?” Three of them had arms covered in tattoos, one of a rose with drops of blood dripping off onto the word DEATH that I kept staring at.
Behind me was a scrawny kid that looked like picked-lsat-for-dodgeball, hand-always-on-inhaler type. He had a small nervous wheeze, and I asked to borrow a pencil from him. His eyes went wide for a second, and he nervously fumbled for a pencil to hand me, but then went straight back to staring at his shoes. I realized why he was that nervous type a few moments later when his dad showed up. Listening in on their conversation (I have a bad habit) it turned out that his father was a NYPO, the scariest type. The kid was only 18, but his father was making him take it early, and kept running through advice that he had to remember- ” You gotta think each question through as if it was real life, place yourself in it and don’t fuck up. You fuck up, and a man’s lost his life.” Really.
After an hour or so of waiting we were filed into the building and given cards with our room and seat number on it. We were seated in the order in which the cards were given, so I was in the same line as the five in front of me and Wheezy behind me. I wished Wheezy good luck and he swallowed hard. We actually sat in our seats for awhile before our proctor said we could walk around for a bit, that our exam wouldn’t start for another 30 minutes. I got up to go to the bathroom and ended up walking with one of the five that was in front of me earlier. “You look ready for this,” he said to me. I told him I’d taken the practice exams a few weeks back and did fine on them. “Oh yeah? I failed one of them once and retook it and did ok, how’d you do?” I sort of felt like an asshole answering, mumbled quickly that I’d done well the first time around. “Did you get all your 60 credits done yet? I still have a few more to go,” he said. I told him that I’d just graduated college and had enough credits. He smiled at me, then walked down the hallway to the men’s bathroom. Wow.
The exam itself was fairly easy. The first part, they gave us a photograph to look, with ten minutes to memorize as much as possible from it. I’m fairly good at this stuff- I memorize phone numbers, license plates, credit card numbers really easily. In fact, I still remember every number that was in the picture they gave us. We had to answer the ensuing questions based upon the picture.
I breezed through the exam, checked my answers, and was the first person done in a third of the time allotted. I felt like such an asshole again, but even more so when the proctor collected my examination papers, looked at my name, and then said “Oh, you’re to be interviewed and have your language testing. A man is waiting for you outside the room, he’ll escort you to your interview.” My face got hot, and I could feel people staring at me weirdly, but I walked out. The man was indeed waiting, we talked on the way to the room, and I had a quick interview. I know I did well on that as well, and the language testing was just them speaking to me in a bit of German and having me respond.
When I walked out of my interview I threw on my hat to leave. I ran into one of the guys from my room on his way out too- he smiled at me, looked at my hat and goes, “I would have asked you out but it looks like you’re a Phillies fan.” I smiled and laughed, and said back to him, “I would have said yes, but it looks like you’re a Mets fan. By the way, how’d last week go?” He laughed, shrugged, and said “See you at the academy.”
I spent some time just walking around the city, which in a way was painful. The last time I’d been to Hoboken was with PK- in fact the pier I’d gone to with my uncles was the pier that I’d been on with him at night, where we kissed and it had started to snow. My exam also happened to take place about two blocks from where he had used to live, so I recognized the streets, saw the park that he and I had sat in together. It was too painful, so I walked to the trainstation (the one I took every time I went to see him) and took the train back over to Hoboken.
Three last bits that I loved from my train ride home: The first was that a woman approached me as I was walking along fourteenth, and asked for my autograph, and kept referring to me as Katie Holmes. I happen to look nothing like Katie Holmes, and she didn’t appear to be crazy or anything, so I couldn’t figure it out. The second was that I had two sets of people walk up to me and ask me for directions. The woman from the second pair, after I had given them directions, said “Wow, you’re such a New York lady!” Yes. The final quick quip happened on the train back home. I put on my Ipod really low and listened to people, something I always enjoy doing (see: the bit about me being a conversation whore). The girl sitting across from me looked to be about fourteen years old and was also about eight months pregnant. Her friend sat next to me, and the two of them kept conversing across the aisle. The friend was wearing a tiny scrap of a skirt and sat with her legs splayed open.
Pregnant friend: Girl, didn’t your momma tell you not to let your legs open like that?
Friend with legs open: Girl, your momma should have said the same to you months back.
I was trying to find the words to say, but this says exactly what I want to say.
My dad is my best friend, and even though I spend a lot of time hanging out with him, it’s nice to have a day to really celebrate him as my father. He probably won’t even read this, but I love him more than words could ever say.
I leave in about an hour for Hoboken. Am staying with my uncles there at their lovely brownstone (seriously, it’s beautiful) and am going to a nice dinner at their every-Friday Italian restaurant. I’ve decided to drive, even though I know parking will be a hassle, simply because the NJ transit is going to shit right now.
On Saturday morning, my uncles are taking their dog to the spa (really? people do that?) and I’m heading off to my NYPD exam and interview. I’m dying with nerves, though I’m not really sure why. The exam is going to be easy; I’ve taken both of the practice exams and I’ve scored a perfect on each. And I’ve always done well with interviews. And I bought an adorable “casual” shirt and skirt at J.Crew for it.
I was supposed to meet up with TBFC up in New York- he lives about ten minutes from Hoboken and we’ve been trying to figure out a way to meet up- but he stupidly made plans for tomorrow thinking that we could meet up tonight. I think it’d be rude for me to have dinner with my uncles and then leave to go on a semi-date. Also not the best idea for a pre-exam, pre-interview evening.
And just for the sake of notation, was talking to Mandy the other day on the phone when she coyly mentioned that T has been asking a lot about me and trying to find ways to see me again. I’m already heading to the Phils game on Sunday, so I think he’s coming too. We’ve been messaging back and forth all week, and the more I think about it the more I’m starting to like him.
Will have plenty to think about on the long drive up. Wish me luck!
Friday- I found out that I got the internship that I wanted, starting in August. I also talked to the head of the graduate program that I applied for and she’s pretty sure that I’m in. To celebrate, I went out with Mike for the afternoon- he lives down at the shore during the summers so I only see him sporatically when he drives back for work. I had this strange obsession that afternoon with getting a new pet, not really sure why. We went over to the pet store and I was fascinated with the geckos- I had one last year that PK gave me. We then walked by the adoption center, where you could adopt pets that had been dropped off or abandoned. And I found him. His name is Ben, he was the sweetest thing in the world. Cuddled right into the nook of my arm and settled there. I hate to say what type of animal he is because I understand the negative views often affiliated…he’s a rat. I bought a great cage, all of the necessary things, and brought him home. He’d been left outside of the store in a cardboard box with a note basically explaining that the owner had to move and couldn’t re-home him. Sadly, I am in love with a rat.
On Saturday I went for a long run in the morning and then met up with Mandy and some other friends in the evening. Mandy’s been having a rough time lately- her mom was hospitalized with a disease that basically has paralyzed her legs and left side of her body, and doctors say that it could be permanent. The steroids that they have her on have made her terribly mean, and the ever-sweet Mandy has been getting the hard end of it from her mom. Mandy also broke up with her boyfriend the night before, which didn’t help the situation. Was a good time for friends to come in for a night of drinks. I was the first one there, so we had some good time to talk before everyone else got there. Jenna got there next, the Zoey. Then a bunch of guys that I’ve never met before. Three of them seemed sort of like meatheads- they kept talking about how often they work out, how they hate fast food, how much they lift. The other guy was incredibly sweet, and we really hit it off. We talked for a long time at Mandy’s place, and then when we all decided to go to the bar he jumped into the passenger seat of my car. The entire drive to the bar, he was reeling through my ipod, happily exclaiming every band that he liked, and then pointing out how much of this we had in common. Hmmm. We got to the bar and he stayed by my side for most of the night, and we talked about how he’d lived in Germany and our favorite sports teams. I got up to go to the bathroom at one point and Jenna drunkenly pulled me aside: “T really likes you, you should kiss him. I can tell, T never talks to girls like this.” I laughed it off.
When I got back, people were getting ready to head to the next bar. The guy had just walked somewhere, so I waited for him outside to let him know we were leaving. He again jumped in my passenger seat with the ipod, and we got to the next bar. Where I realized that I’d left both my credit card and ID at the last bar. Shit. He came back out to my car in the parking lot, and wrote out directions on a scrap of paper to get back, all the while leaning in towards me. I sort of pulled away, thanked him, and then jumped in the car. Oops.
Turns out he wrote down the wrong directions. I spent a good half hour driving in the wrong direction, and then another half hour driving back to Mandy’s apartment and going the exact way we went there originally. Leaving the bar after getting my license, I got pulled over. My headlight keeps going on and off, and it happened to be momentarily off. Was too tired to go back to the bar, but apparently he was asking about me. All night.
Am about to go to the gym with Mandy, then back to her house for tacos. Will talk to her about it. I don’t even really think I’m interested anymore. I mean, in a relationship in general. I’m happy not dealing with it. I’m nowhere near over PK. I have enough stress in my life.