Four Bobby Pins

So I was looking through some of the Milan men's shows for fashion week and saw this amazing haircut that I am determined to have.

It looks kind of like a fifties throw back greaser....think elvis meets john travolta in Grease times two. I just posted the picture. I didn't even know I could do that. Well there you are.

So I went to my hair guy (I can't bear to write hairdresser for some reason...even though what comes now is even gayer than going to a hair"dresser" so I don't know what my deal is"

Anyway. My last hair girl...(still sounds better than dresser) was one of my best friends until she hated me. DAMN. Never piss off someone who cuts your hair or you are f**ked. Especially when they are good. Then you are back in that sea of people who will mullet you and f*ck your sh*t completely up.

I remember once my dearest friends Deshja was living way upper east side and she had THE MOST beautiful raven hair and it was lusted after by everyone growing up in high school. That and the fact she looks like a beautiful version of Annette Benning when she was young in "Postcards from the Edge" Yeah. Pretty offensive. So anyway. We were in New York...In school and poor. So we were hanging out with our friend George and she decided (PS the song C'est Si Bon Eartha Kitt sings while Diane Keaton writes to in in that movie where she shags Jack Nicolson and she has the dream house and her daughter does something, she almost marries keanu reeves and then there's a heart attack and something and she marries Jack....anyway. The song just came on...while I was writing. I am diane Keaton. I am a bit like her neurotic characters...hmm. Andy Hall. Anyway...)

So Deshja, George (another friend from forever high school days) and I were walking around and Deshja decides to get a minor "trim" to her long trademark lovely locks and because we had no money and any moron can trim an inch of the back of your long hair we go into this little shit salon where no one spoke much english (DANGER WILL ROBINSON) Because it was a trim. A trim. Split ends wah-lah. Done. Five seconds.

So. Deshja sits down and George and I grab magazines....mostly in spanish with telemundo girls with big boobs and a good drag queen amount of makeup painfully smiling at us...and Deshja says to the woman...who is already confused...( I SAAAAID DAAAAANGER WILL ROOOOBBBBBBINNNNSON!) and Deshja says " I just want a trim" the woman "Trim?" Deshja "just a little shorter" doing an inch size with her fingers. The woman "Short hair cut?" Deshja "No...just a trim a little shorter" and again did the inch sign with her finger. "Okay" said the woman. The only English word I think she really knew.

So George and I look up just in time to see the woman take her scissors and take one HUGE cut into deshja's gorgeous hair. Um. And by "cut" I mean she hacked off ...all but about 6 inches of her mid back long hair. Deshja sat. Shocked. George and I Immediately hid back behind the magazines there was no way for us to read.

Um so Deshja sat in shock and the woman hacked the rest of it off until deshja realized what was happening and LOST HER SHIT.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?!!?!!?" "short cut" the woman said. Deshja got up and started losing her mind on this woman " I CAME IN FOR A TRIM. FOR A TRIIIIM!!! AND YOU CUT ALL MY HAIR OFF?!!!! I SAID AN INCH" As if NOW the woman was going to realize that an inch was what she was doing with her hand all along. Then she started balling. Wailing. And all the Women who spoke no english and cut bad hair came over saying how beautiful it was and Deshja lost her shit further " GET AWAY FROM ME! This is HORRIBLE" "no No it's pretty" the ladies said. " NO IT IS NOT PRETTY! IT IS UGLY AS FUCK AND YOU ARE AWFUL AND HORRIBLE AND I CANNOT BELIEVE WHAT YOU DID" And she bawling ran out of the salon screaming through tears to me and George who seemed to both have gown mute with shock. "WHAT AM I GOING TO DO???' She wept with tears running down her face. So George and I did what good faggot friends do. Lied. "No...Deshja...it looks new (awful) and we can make it cute with little clips (no way in hell)" "You think" Deshja said. "Yes, oooooffffffff course we can" In Deshja's eyes a glimmer of hope. Rush up to the apartment...get into the bathroom (where are those fucking CLIPS) and we try to lie about the massive damage. Until she starts crying again "I LOOK UUUUGGGLLY" I said "Deshja...what about some clips" And Deshja had finally lost it completely " FUCK THE CLIPS...I DON'T WANT YOUR FUCKING CLIPS!!!" Soo it was a long time until the hair came back. It was the worst haircut mullet thing I had ever seen....bless her. God it took a long time to come back. Bless my beautiful girl. DAMN that was bad. I wish I had a before and after pic. But I guess that would have been a little insensitive in the moment....to ask for a photo. Like people photographing natural disasters or people drowning in a hurricane...um...put down the fucking camera and help the little girl drowning asshole. (yes. I stopped the trying to put * in the curse words. It is takes to much time and everyone knows I am saying fuck anyway.)

Anyway.... I digress (no shit?)

So I go in yesterday to my hair guy and he is amazing. French. Married. Cool and his accent is charming and he wears skinny jeans as a french man can...and that make me look like miss piggy legs and I cannot. We talk about kite surfing and rock climbing and he gets very excited and I pretend that I would love a vacation of such when I would rather be drunk and messaged. But I listen. Then we have a good moment of me about to fall asleep from not sleeping and someone touching my head....and he starts talking about hair in the fashion shows in Milan.

I perked up because I had just taken the picture above and had it on my phone. "OH MY GOD. I know...I have this pic and fell in love with it" EXXXACCCTLY (remember to say that with a french accent...but a sweet one....not a condescending dick head way. He is a doll.

It was then I realized. I need this hair....on my head. I must have known this when I took the picture. But now I knew. I neeeeeded it.

So he was cutting my hair and we were talking and mentioning how boring everyone's hair is in NY. Men. Conservative or buzzed. And women. Same or same with some sameness. And lord no one is blond naturally...yet everyone is blond. THAT SHIT IS EXPENSIVE...or simply looks wrong and bad.

So I sat there. I need to do something. I had been having a horrible week and this was the answer. Random fifties hair to scare people.

Soo I ask him to do it. "Reeeeelzee?" ( i love his accent)

And so he starts and has to part it down the middle and then make two sides....both sides above my ears was totally gelled and slicked back....then the middle is now parted and hanging long. So then he takes a comb and has to tease....yes tease....like girls bangs in the 80's....my hair to the point it stands up. I kept imagining myself having to do this process every morning before work....in the gym locker room....you think I am not getting laid NOW....can you imagine after THAT process. LOLOLOL

So after teasing the hair to look like a unkept wasp nest meets bride of frankenstein.....he takes one side and starts rolling it into the middle part and "zen you....damn I need ze bobby pinz"

Yes. Bobby Pins. Now I am going to need to both tease....and bring along bobby pins to the gym. Next is make up and a man girdle. Clip on teeth. Lashes? I mean slippery slope and I am going to work as Lady Ga Ga. I love the idea of me walking into a meeting in those crystal alexander mcqueen shoes she wears towards the end of the "bad Romance" video. lol

So yes. He rolls both sides into themselves and puts about four bobby pins in my head to hold the curls in place.

Honestly. I was obsessed. This would be great for singing....my amy winehouse look that hopefully wouldn't end up like me doing what she did on the Charlotte Church show. Have you seen that? Yes. Soo wrong. Google Amy Winehouse and Charlotte Church sing "beat it" You will never be right again.

So he loves it. I love it. And I am walking into the grey of Manhattan in the winter with a pep in my step because I have hair only I would dare to wear....it seems...

What was shocking....and this is NYC....is how people started like I had half my face burned off or basically like I had my hair shaped like a huge penis coming out of my head. I might as well have.

EVERYONE couldn't help but stare....some to comment. AMAZING. I didn't know I even HAD this power. And now everyone should be scared because if I can do this with a haircut from the fifties imagine what other ways I can offend people with little to no effort. This only took four bobby pins.

Mom Said she hated it...which means I am DEFINITELY heading in the right direction and Dad, as only he could, comes back with "I will foot the bill for a crewcut."

Four bobby pins.

So when you hear of this man in NY going to work in a crystal green onesee with greaser hair and alexander mcqueen heels and geometric sparkly patterns around his eyes singing "ra-ra rahrahrah, Ga-ga-gagaga" You will know who it is....

And it started....with only four bobby pins.

Dead in my Bed.

A dear friend of mine that is a dancer and I have known since I before I needed to kill muscles in my face, got a sublet that turned out to be...well...a New York sublet...aka bates motel meets...well...a dirty toilet.  This is New York.  It is just true.

Anyway.  So I get this late night frantic call that he needs to stay with me.  I have MADE this call before and thank GOD for my dear friend Joanie AND Michael....or I would have been under the brooklyn bridge ....or throwing myself from it.  I didn't know I made that call twice.  Well there you are.  Anyway.  So my friend calls.  And of course....bring your shit over and don't be scared.  There really is nothing worse than being scared of not having a place to go....well maybe a horrible outbreak of herpes....Or my ex....but I digress.

So my friend...I need to name him...as I am not sure he wants PUBLICLY to be known as my friend and honestly who can blame him.  My Mother feels quite similarly.  So I will call him Jim.

So Jim comes over and was a bit shaken up and so logically we drink our faces off and then he goes out with friends and I pass out like the old man I am....before midnight.  That's how sexy I am.  I got invited to THE hottest club in town today where they have that studio 54 bullshit about only letting certain people in etc and my friend goes all the time and wanted me to go with her.  And because I am soo not at all cool....I declined due to the fact it STARTS at 11pm.  I know.  I am lame.  it is true.  I know.

And he was going to a drag show.  Really not my thing.  I think it is lovely for people who like the drag.  But for me it is a tad like scary clowns.  Except for the fact it might be because the last time I attended a drag establishment was for a girlfriend's birthday ( why do women love to see drag for their birthday and engagement parties?  I don't understand.  I am not running to hooters followed by a night at scores when I get hitched) that she wanted to have at a drag restaurant...yes...they exist...can you imagine how awful the food is.  Exactly.  So At that dinner.  the food was soo awful that we just drank.  And Drank.  And shots for the birthday girl and more and more and one more and just a nightcap before we go home and one more.....until I woke up full dressed in my bed with the keys left in the outside of the door and a headache to rival certain medieval torture devises....or my longest relationship.  So I got up and realized my shirt was buttoned all wonky.  What?  So then I go into the bathroom....take it off...and realize I have smeared lipstick kisses all over my body.  Oh shit.  Did I make out with the birthday girl?  So I call her.  " hey....are we ok?  Did we...make out....quite a bit...and how far did we go...?"  To this she burst into one of the loudest fits of laughter I have ever heard.  "What?" I asked head pounding and annoyed.  "Um...Zack...."  Well.  It seems I had...how does one put this...a few cocktails...and somewhere after I blacked out....the drag queen...named peppermint gummybear...or peppermint candycane....some God damned peppermint something....well...pulled me onto stage and did her "song" while riding me like a bull and proceeded to rip off my shirt and kiss my body.  I wouldn't believe it if I hadn't seen......the video.  So that might explain why I am a tad weary of "the drag" as it were.

Anyway.  Jim.  DAMN IT THIS IS JIM'S STORY.  So Jim goes out and gets in VERY late.  Like next morning,,, about the time I need to go to work late.  And God bless.  If I had gone through that trauma of possible homelessness I might do something similar...like suicide.

So he got to bed and I left for the gym(which is a stupid thing to write but then again maybe some one might think I work out and ask me out...which has really worked well for me thus far...dateless in what...months....no....years?  Lord.)....then work.

Then I texted him to see how the night was.

Then I texted him to see if they keys worked.

Then I texted him to see if he knew where the menus were

And Nothing.

So I called and left a message

"hey Jimmmmy.  Big night you whore.  Call me."

Nothing.

Soo I called again

"Jimmmmmaaaaaaaay.  I mean really you slag.  Call Me"

Nothing.

Text again.

"Jim.  Are you Okay.  Let me know.  XO"

Nothing.

Wait ten minutes.

Call.

"ALLRIGHT JIM I AM FREAKING THE FUCK OUT HERE.  IF YOU DON'T CALL ME I AM GOING TO COME BACK BECAUSE I AM....WELL FREAKING THE FUCK OUT!"

So at this point I am on the verge of a full blown panic attack and taking two xanex just so I dont have a heart attack because I have realized what has happened.

Jim is dead.....In my bed.

Jim went out.  Did cocaine somewhere( as somehow NYC is Liza Studio 54 again and coke is sold in vending machines next to Doritos)....drank too much....took a sleeping pill...he had asked me for earlier...and I gave him....and he....like every socialite as of late....died in his sleep from the combination.....but this time....on my watch...in MY house.  FROM MY SLEEPING PILL.

What am I going to tell his Mother?  "Um...I am sorry....he died...of a drug overdose...in my house...From his heart stopping from the PILL I GAVE HIM"  WHAT THE FUCK CAN YOU SAY TO MAKE THIS NOT THE MOST HORRIBLE CONVERSATION EVER???!

And then I have to LIVE in this apt where someone I loved DIED.  DEAD.  IN MY BED.  DEAD.  And then I need to buy a new bed and sadly will HAVE to throw out the frette sheets I loved because there would be death all over them....maybe I would try to wash them in really hot water....except they have to be dry cleaned....well dry clean and then  maybe... sage them?  I mean, they are really great sheets....BUT still I would look at them and see dead friend (but they are greeeeeat sheets.)  DEATH.  Someone needed a roof over their head.  And I killed them.  With a pill that barely puts me to sleep....kills my loved ones.  Next I will stab my Mother or give my God daughter a bottle of bleach.  WHAT IS NEXT?

So I go to the only co-worker that actually likes me.... freaking out.  I am on my third Xanex and am shaking.  Pam....I am about to have a heart attack (insert story above here) " and I killed him....I have written now 46 texts and called 37 times.  He is dead.  It rings.  It doesn't just go to voice mail....he would hear....he would pick up...he is DEAD.  AND I KILLED HIM"

I am soo hysterical at this point I actually look like an insane person and am shaking.  Pam looks at me and says "No.  he is asleep."  and I said " there is no way.  He is dead and I cannot walk into my apartment and see this man dead and know I killed him"  

Pam:  "Zack.  You are insane.  He is sleeping off a big night.  He is not dead" 

Zack:  "He is dead.  I am leaving.  I have to try to get him to the hospital or give him mouth to mouth or something"

And at this point I run out of my office without a coat in the middle of winter with tears running down my face like the Mother in "terms of endearment"  GIVE MY DAUUUGHTER THE DRUUUUGS!!

I get a cab and scream crying about needing to speed and run lights and someone is dying and I have to get there....to a man...that I am sure didn't speak english as all he said the entire time in a very scared voice "My friend...we will go fast....My Friend...We will go fast"  I am fetal in the back seat "poor Jim...Poor gym.  HIS MOOOOTHHHHER....oh GOD his MOOOOTHER"

So we get to my apartment and I throw "my friend" a wad of bills that later I found was about forty dollars (for a eight dollar cab ride) and sprint to (almost through) the glass door leading to my apartment. I rang the buzzzer....nothing.... I ran up the five flights to get to my apartment like I was rescuing a baby from a fire...but the baby was dead...and I killed it...and I get to the top floor and to my hall four feet from my apt...ready to do cpr and call 911 and my phone rings....

Motherfucking Jim.

"hey...(yaaaaaaaawn) you allright?"

I ran so fast to my door and almost broke the fucker down.

" YOU SON OF A BITCH *^%*&^$&^%#%^&$#&^%$*&^RT(*^T(*&^T(*T)(every word possible"

I scream at the still half asleep and half drunk- supposed to be dead- man.

HOW DARE YOU DO THIS TO ME!!!??

(Insert original story here)

And I am huffing and puffing and crying and out of breath and about to have a heart attack.

"Sorry"  And he stumbles into the bathroom and I hear him piss.

"Sorry?"  I stand there.

Oh my God.  That was all in my head.  I was able to create that entire thing...that entire nervous breakdown....just in my own head.  I had picked the song I would sing at the funeral...and the outfit...and how we would frame his picture and the make-up artist that would make him look life like if not better (that would be my gift to his dead ass) I had thought about venues and flowers...charities and my speech.  What verse I could find about not stoning me for killing him.

And it was all for nothing.  FOR NOTHING.

And this is the lesson I learned....I share with you today...this is why....THIS is why.....You should never let anyone stay at your house....why IIIIIII will never let anyone stay in my house ever again.  They all die on me....and then don't have the decency to be dead.

Food Bar.

So when I was 21 I was told I had to get a job. Some job from my parents. They spoiled the shit out of me and are part of the reason I will be single until I die. Finding someone who is the high bred of the two most amazing and opposite people is certainly a task of improbability at best.

But I digress.

This morning sitting in front of my God damn fake sunshine machine as ordered by my crazy doctor and recovering from last nights migraine that felt like a knife in the back of my neck that ripped all the way through the top of my head and turned and pulled it self out between my eyes....I started thinking of simpler times. Before I lost my mind, needed pills to get stay off my roof, could sleep without Michael jackson's former doctor (thank God he became free-I've been on the waiting list for years) and had virtually no responsibility.

21.

Ahhhhhh. Yes. 21. ( now referred to as "fucking 21") being 33.

So there was this chelsea shithole. Not really a shithole but a haunt that was really a ball called FOOD BAR. The food was inedible but the crowd was known for being pretty gorgeous and ridiculous. It was when chelsea was still a haven of muscle boys and beautiful men. And was almost studio 54 about who was there and not. It was not nice. But it was as it was.

So I had never done anything work wise that was not music or theater so getting a job was going to be difficult. Of course first haunt I hit was FOOD BAR. Why not go for the gold. Or gold plated at best.

I went in and there happen to be a "host" job that paid nothing but would appease my parents need for me to do something.

So day one of my new job I got my list of responsibilities were basically told to me very bluntly. Be pretty. Be hot. Be nice. and control the waiting list and seat people in sections equally divided amongst the waiters.

Sounded simple enough. And I was too nervous and had too much anxiety to wait tables (first sign of things to come) So this was perfect.

So I started to work and soon realized it was pretty ideal except for his lack of pay.

The job description really should have been. Look hot. Drink as much as you want all night. Flirt and appease costumers if there is a long wait....and remember who the hell is who when you have a list of people waiting.

Now my memory when it comes to music and lyrics is amazing.

My memory when it comes to things I really don't care about...is not.

So I had to come up with this system. And my handwriting is worse than any five doctors you know. But very very attractive. Like unreadable art....My Mother and Grandmother used to have to get together to decode my letters from college....and kind of figured out the hieroglyphic form my writing took...and yes....I was in college when people actually wrote letters and mailed them...with a stamp and such....but in this case very important to the next part of my job.

So the place got slammed alot because of it's reputation for pretty and muscley. And so I would actually have to DO something those times. And that was write down all the names of who was waiting. But since my memory was shit I had to start adding descriptions like. James: hot guy in white jeans. Bob: looks like Jaba the hut Tony: Unf*ck*ble in suit and so forth. Somehow I never got caught. I wish I had kept the exact lists because they were pretty wonderfully horrible. Only something a 21 yr old with no knowledge of how he one day would be described by some other 21 yr old as meanly and nasty as he once did. I don't want to know mine. Zack: Loud, pink pants like golfer grandpa, can't move his forehead, bad hair. And I am sure that was being kind. "no ass" might be in there too.

So back to the fun parts where I didn't have to give superlatives and could just flirt and drink. I have always been a rather big person and at this time was obsessed as most of chelsea was with being the muscle-y thing possible. However this at the time was also combined by almost everyone with wearing the smallest tshirts known to man to display the fact. I just recently realized I am actually not a size small. I am a large or extra large. Unless I wanted it to look like body paint. Which I think was the goal in chelsea in 97. Lord.

One of the fun...and ridiculous...and calling cards for the place was the random snowing wednesday or Monday or whatever off day the owner would come in with a horrible theme. Like Pajama night. But he would buy only pajamas that were meant for children and thus belly shirts and tights on us. But we were more than happy as we were young and hot. Now it would be grounds to cry and/or quit. But I would at least try and give it a look to make SURE I couldn't. LOL

There was also the Latex/ rubber Valentines day outfits. Everyone had to wear red or black latex of some sort that was like muscle moulan rouge...latex and rubber should never be shorts...I learned. I don't think there are photos. God I pray there aren't. It is like lady gaga but without the irony.

This is also where I met the worst liar meets antichrist. My ex on and off....and on and off. for four years. Lived together twice. It must have been the glamour of the non job and the intoxication there in that really reeled them in. I truly need to see if carrie fisher is right about electroshock therapy. It would be nice to really rid that period from my brain permanently.

Anyway. That is really the least interesting thing about my life to date. Hardly worth mentioning other than it happened at FOOD BAR.

I never came up with a clever nickname for Food Bar. Fool Bar. Fine Scar. Swine Car. Too Far. I gotta think up something. There is a gym in NY that is full of fags but is beautiful called David Barton. Yet everyone calls it Dolly Parton. That is just plain funny and good. Makes me smile everytime.

FOOD BAR days were a ball of frivolity and flirting and drinking and laughing. I was carefree and happy. Flirting with the owner. And the other owners beautiful boyfriend....sneaking to the kitchen to make out. And the sexy waiter I still think about to this day. ahhhhh Youth.

Now FOOD BAR is gone. And is a f*cking Chipotle. Of all sad things.

But I am glad I got the best of it. And it's one thing the new generation can't ruin. It will stay a time capsule of my youth and New York's last moments of chelsea's vanity ridden self conscious wonderful sexy awful fun fun fun years.

RIP Food Bar. And can I have a burrito bowl with double chicken and no chips or bread (see. a little chelsea lingers. Lives in the DNA)

oops

Soo my favorite story in the last month happened a few weeks ago when I heard that a dear friend of mine lets call him Frank....Well good ol Frank was feeling down cause some schmack had broke it off and as his co-dependant friend I felt the need to hate this person as much as possible and as cruel and harshly as possible.

My first goal was to text Frank back and make him feel better by texting the following, "F*CK him. That Piece of sh*t M*therf**king c**ksucker can kiss my f*cking ass and die."

I thought the more profanity the better it would make Franky feel. And simply enjoy a liberal use of the profane.

Until I realized that on my Blackberry....well...Frankie is right before Pastor Frank (not his name...again...protecting the innocent)....and I had just sent that text not to Frankie....but my childhood pastor.

To say I about shat myself would be an understatement. I loved this pastor and he was a huge part of my youth and music education and training. Just a wonderful man I would never want to make swallow his tongue by sending this. But. I. Just. Did.

Well. When I left my job for another a few months ago I got a new phone....and thus a new number....and though I had programmed everyone in my phone....some didn't know my news number yet....Pastor Frank one of them.

"I am sorry I think you got the wrong number. And by the way you just texted that to a minister."

That is what I got back. Wanted to puke. However.....this did give a nice out. He had no idea it was me so I could just say. "Oh...Sorry..." and dart. And he would never know.

But I couldn't. I don't know why. So I did the unthinkable and told the truth.

"Uh. Pastor Frank. It is Zack Dobbins and I am really beyond sorry. I had a friend just go through and awful break-up and well....that is what I do. I would never disrespect you and truly apologize."

Silence.

Silence.

Holy shit (no pun intended) I have alienated one of the most wonderful people I know.

Then the reply came. My phone vibrated that someone had texted me. Oh Lord in Heaven. Please don't make this as awful as I think it could be.

And there was the reply.

" LOLOLOLOLOL. THAT is funny. You owe me big time for that! Lunch when you are back in town! LOLOLOLOL"

Now this is what I love about this man. He is brilliant and kind and talented and truly a pastor and believes all many say they do. And acts accordingly. But he loves people. Not dogma or judgement. And loved me for years and could see how me using every curse word in a text to HIM of all people was indeed funny.

Lesson. Check your texts are getting sent to commoners who enjoy as much profanity as you consume and spread..... and maybe once in your life send your opinion leaders and pastors filth ridden texts that are simply against God's will they are so filthy....simply to be reminded some people are truly wonderful and stand by what they say they believe. It is wonderful to be shocked in this way.

And this has turned into one of mine....and I hear through the grapevine...HIS...favorite stories to tell. LOL

Merry eX-Mas

So in this time of refection I can't help think back....and reflect literally and figuratively. Literally thinking about the past year...and realizing it has been almost four years since I have dated seriously and I haven't been in love since I was 23. That is now ten years ago. THAT is truly frightening to put a number on. Because now I am becoming howard hughes and as attractive as a shut in, body dismorph, buts artist... is to most people.....lol...ten fucking years.

I think of the last Christmas I was in love and I was basically still quite a young kid. Twenty fucking three. Lord. And my ex was a bit older. But Ideal. Mother fucker. The reason this came up was because in Reflection.....the literal version....his best friend used to say "he cannot pass any shiny or somewhat reflective surface without looking at his reflection" So in this season of mirror-y shine and glitz and basically everything reflecting back at you.... I think of him and laugh....or cry. Both? Depends on the day and medication or intoxication level.

Mom still has the william senoma paper towel holder we bought her...and as lame as that sounds it is actually one I have been trying to find for myself since then. Really chic. If you can imagine. And I still have the cashmere sweater he bought me. I tried to get rid of it...alot...but it fits too well and looks too good.....Here is a tip if you'd like to torture whomever you love when they leave you down the road. BUY GOOD GIFTS. PAINFULLY GOOD GIFTS..... Ones they can't throw away because they are too good. And buy their families good gifts so they won't throw them out. That way they will be tortured by you forever. Merry Christmas. For years Mom hung the God damned hand painted glass ornament he gave her....even though it stabbed me in the heart and I expressed that. But her christmas tree was what she waited for all year and she couldn't not have that gorgeous ornament...that piece of art not on her beloved tree. REALLY. I mean the tree was more important than my mental health. Thank GOD she dropped it last year and it shattered and never have to see the fucking thing again. She, however, still brings it up. "What a shame that gorgeous ornament ______ gave you broke. It was soo lovely. It is not enough to not see it....now it is fucking yearly conversation. Turn the knife. My Mother.

Only really great gift I gave (besides goyard luggage...) was a recording of YOUR SONG to an ex later in life... totally unworthy of getting a CD of the The Thong Song let alone YOUR SONG. Though I think me recording a version of thong song is actually a hilllllarious idea. anyway I recorded YOUR SONG for the waste of breath and had the alarm set on his birthday to have it go off to wake him....as it was "our song" as the first moment of his birthday. I think I just vomited in my mouth thinking of the sacrifice I made to get the money to record it. I was working for ten dollars an hour and struggling to eat...skipped meals...for months...to save the money to get into a studio to do this. Anyway. I wanted to be slick and learn the lesson from my first love....and leave that gift to torture him....but couldn't.... upon leaving took a hammer to the CD and beat the shit out of it until unrecognizable.

Anyway. Back to Christmas...And having your first love be your only love tends to suck. To remember yearly waking up on christmas morning and have that person not in bed but laughing with your mom and dad having coffee by the tree. I mean it could be out of a fucking christmas movie on lifetime....well...logo...it would have to be the faggot version. "Gay Holiday"

So left with the memories of ten years ago. And the few relationships I have had since then can only kindly be compared to abortions. Or suicide bombings. Something like those but alot longer and drawn out. And with a worse ending. LOL worse endings than death. That is not good. I have not made good choices. Obviously.

But then again there is that memory of the perfect man. The perfect holiday. Even if it is the only one I may have in that way.

We even went to a wedding over that holiday. He went as my date in my hometown. That alone was enough to give a good dozen heart attacks in an evening. It was a huge goooorgeous wedding of a dear friend whom I love to this day. She didn't even think twice about me bringing him. But she isn't the expected idiot bigot. She and I sang on the beach after her rehearsal dinner around a fire. She to this day is one of the coolest strongest people I know. And it is a testament to her at that time she had not one moment of hesitation about it. I saw everyone from highschool and didn't care then nor really do now what they thought about any of it. I was soo in love. Attending things like that with someone you are truly in love with is the best. Attending them alone is like ripping your fingernails out emotionally. I would like to know the suicide numbers of singles attending weddings alone and seated at the sad old lady table seated next to the cousin that never got married and now smells mildly of cologne from years ago that isn't really made anymore because she gave up.

I watched him dance badly but charmingly badly....with the ladies in their glory and smile back at me. I caught him looking at me at the table. He was one of the most handsome men I have ever known. In that traditionally handsome rock hudson meets Cary Grant and Paul Newman way. If that perfect movie star handsome thing is for you. Everyone at the wedding was smitten. And he was mine. God.

We took a break from the wedding to walk outside and breathe the tropical air and two sequined and diamonded ladies of about 70 walked by and said to us "I'll take you....and She'll take you!" and we all smiled and laughed....then one of them specifically said to me "If my husband looked at me just once the way he has been looking at you all night I would be a happy woman"

It was true. I was too young to realize it wouldn't always be this way. I wouldn't always be adored and loved in this way. Glory of youth and innocence....and torture of memory.

Kind of sucks. And a lesson hard learned. Soo many dickheads to reiterate love like that may only be once. May just never happen again. We even had the same humor. He was too skinny growing up....and I was too fat. So we had to be smart and funny to get by in our youth. We didn't have anything else....we were very similar. I don't think we fought. I made up with that in years and relationships that followed....trust me.

So I sit in front of the tree at christmas. Played with my supermodel blonde God daughter. Felt my new twin niece and nephew fight threw my sister in law's stomach. Jotted down some future art projects I wanted to remember and music lyrics I needed to add....all with turkey and love and cinnamon in the air and truly know how blessed I am and amazed and grateful for all I have earned and been given. I am beyond blessed....Not even sure what that word would be.

Yet will never forget the moment I had. It lingers in the air like those smells once the meal has been eaten.

And wish I had known to savor every moment and live every second and remember every detail...and knew how rare it was.

Lesson learned.

And tonight.... Mom and Dad will sit and hold hands while we all watch a movie. And cate will cuddle up with Scott and Tara while Scott has one hand on Tara's belly and his twins to soon arrive. And I will love to see watch the beauty of it all.

But at the same time a thought will come as it does every year on this day.

Ten years

Ten years.

Ten years.

Almost Boycotted Birthday

I was very not excited about my Birthday this year and basically banned it. I was not having any party. I was not having a small dinner. I was not accepting gifts. NONE. OF. IT. And it had nothing to do with the stupid getting older thing because ever since I met my best friend botox that is no longer a concern...By the way. Did I mention the most genius thing about my gorgeous doctor whom I am desperately in love with....her name....ready?....Doctor....Doris...Day. DORIS DAY! I mean is their anything gayer and more wonderful than that...google her. You can't make that up. But I digress.

Birthday. Over it. Have been going through a depression where at any point in the day I could easily break into tears for no reason. It is good if you are a Soap Opera actor....bad if you are pitching very expensive windows to a designer. So in this depressive state I just banned the birthday. Pissed off many friends. Especially Anne who would not stop. And should have been a trial lawyer because she made one hell of a case....until I reminded her it was my birthday and life and I don't owe anyone shit. If I want to sit home and watch THE END OF THE AFFAIR and cry and not eat birthday cake or ice cream even though I want to but my anorexia keeps me from it and I like to stick with my motto "If you aren't a little hungry....You're fat".....then I would stay home and do that.

However today....It is my Birthday. Day two of bizarre light therapy scary machine that is simply insane. And today. I am happy. Today I am grateful for my birth. I called my Mom and thanked her for shooting me out....and she told me once again the story of the Dr not even having time to put on his gloves because I literally jumped out....atta boy. And then called my Father and thanked him for rocking it with my Mother so that I could be alive.

Interesting all of this begins a new year. I feel optimistic for no reason. I think it is called Faith....or finally the right combination of medications.

SO I am going to a party tonight to celebrate my dearest friend's company launch and I couldn't be happier as if it were for me. To be alive, in this amazing city, have great hair...and to be loved.

And also to not have to pretend to like the gifts people give me that I don't want because I am self (and everyone else) admittedly the most difficult person to buy for. My stupid ex was even moronic enough to buy the ONLY thing from Hermes I would never wear or want....and that is saying something because I thought that wasn't possible. A....logo....ski cap. What? What rapper meets douchebag wants that.

Anyway. Thank you my dear friends and family for loving me. I am not easy. I am very difficult. I am a control freak. And on any given day might be contemplating going to sleep with the gas cooktop on.

But you love me. And for that. This is a wonderful day. A wonderful Birthday. And the best gift. ( ok...that was true...but stating it makes me vomit in my mouth a little)

Me and my light box. First date.

Day one of light therapy.

It is bright. Very bright for five thirty am.

This ugly ass hospital sad looking thing lights my entire apt. But it is like prison lighting...or the lighting at work. And is about 18 inches from my face so you can imagine how enjoyable it is. And I don't even get a tan. Stopped tanning since I realized my skin was going to look like a sharpay if I didn't stop. And didn't want to waste the money on botox if I was going to fry my skin. I am certainly going to need botox because this light is making me squint and I like it better when that ability has been poisioned out of my face.

My favorite part of this experience so far was my doctor trying to find places for me to use this thing and ways to excuse the fact I have a neon movie screen a foot from my face.

"You could use it at work....as a lamp." I looked at the box. No way in hell anyone is buying it is a new fashion-y...or even ugly.... lamp. It just is not happening. I will not be setting that trend. And I already have given everyone enough "he's an artist and nuts" qualifiers that I can't also be bringing movie screens to light me at work.

And now packing this fucker anytime I go anywhere the sun doesn't shine is going to be fun as well. My crazy is starting to cost me.

Allright. SO this part of "therapy" is done for the day. And I have taken my hand full of nutter pills. I have become a new york cliche. Well....another new york cliche.

I am Woody Allen.

However I did just look in the mirror and it kind of does light you a bit like a make up light at a make up counter. Maybe I should just take it around with me...My own light and imperfection diffuser....like Barbara Walters light....all the time. More to come. Maybe my assistant can wear it as a backpack and walk in front of me. I would look flawless....maybe I need a couple...