Couch Pad Thai Potato

I was alone in my Hell’s Kitchen apartment on a cold windy night in December when I realized for the first time that day that it was Friday. It was Friday and I was alone. At that moment I realized that I couldn’t remember that last time I had had a date on a Friday or Saturday night. All of my friends had very active social lives and yet here I was alone for the umteenth time on a weekend night. Why wasn’t I getting ask out on dates like they were? I pondered this as I sat on my couch eating a large plastic container of Pad Thai and watching season 7 of Friends on DVD. Is it my personality? Is it the way I look? Or is it possibly that I’ve spent the better part of the past six months sitting in front of my TV eating container after container of Thai, Chinese, and Mexican food? I was down to the last noodley bites when I stopped and stared at my grease-covered chopsticks. A drop of orangey oil slid down one of my chopsticks and dripped into my almost empty container. I put the last my Pad Thai on the coffee table and stared blankly at the TV for a moment. With a sudden surge of energy I jumped off the couch, grabbing my container of Pad Thai, and all the junk food in my cupboards, and shoving it into a trash bag that I promptly took to the trash room. I went to bed that night knowing tomorrow I wouldn’t be on my couch eating take-out. Tomorrow I would stop watching my life pass me by. Tomorrow was a new beginning.

Happily Never After

Dear Prince Charming,

WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?! I’ve been looking for you everywhere. I’ve been to every “cool” lounge and dance club in Manhattan but all I found was overly touchy men with overly tan skin and overly gelled hair. I’ve been to every dive bar this side of the LIE and there was nothing but rowdy frat boys and 40-something men with beer guts and five o’clock shadows. I’ve been to baseball, basketball and football games… but still nothing. I look for you when I’m grocery shopping in Whole Foods and sun bathing in Central Park. I’ve even waited for you at every Starbuck’s in Manhattan and you have stood me up every time. I’ve asking everyone I know if they’ve seen you around and no one knows where you are. I really need to find you. I’m worried I’m never going to get my fairytale ending. If you get this, please call/e-mail me at the number/address below.

Love,

Veronica Carr
(212) –DESPERATE
VCarr@theclockisticking.com

Story of My Life

Scene: Interior of fancy restaurant, night

Violet stands at a podium with a long line of people waiting to be seated. She is talking on the phone

Violet: (in a fake chipper voice) Good Evening! Thank you for calling Gemma this is Violet. How can I assist you? I’m sorry we don’t take reservations. Yes even for large groups. I take walk in of large groups all the time. I took a walk in of 10 people last night. Yes. The wait right now is two hours. Yes. I have a very long waitlist going. I can’t take your name over the phone because that’s a reservation. My name is Violet. Okay, okay you’re welcome. Bye.

A man walks up to the podium with his arm around a woman

Annoying guy: Hi. Howard for 8:30.

Violet: What?

Annoying guy: (Talking very loud and very slow) H O W A R D for 8:30.

Violet: (mumbles) Okay geez! I’m not deaf. (Looks at computer) Are you waiting on the other two people in your party?

Annoying guy: Yeah but we’re going to go ahead and sit down.

The phone starts to ring

Violet: Actually we don’t seat incomplete parties. So if you want to grab a drink…

Annoying guy: But we want to sit down... now.

Violet: Excuse me I have to get this. (Picks up the phone) Good evening Gemma! How can I help you? I’m sorry we don’t take reservations. Yes even for large groups. I take walk in of large groups all the time. The restaurant has a lot of large tables. Yes. The wait right now is two hours. Yes. I have a very long waitlist going. I can’t take your name over the phone Sir because that’s a reservation. Okay, okay you’re welcome. My name is Violet. Bye.

Annoying guy: Why can’t we sit down?

Violet: Restaurant policy is that we don’t seat incomplete parties. So you can grab a drink at the bar and let me know when the rest of your party gets here.

Annoying guy: This is ridiculous I am good friend with the owner of this place.

Violet: Okay (beat) I’m still not going to seat you until the other two people get here.

Annoying guy: Maybe I should just call him and tell him how I’m being treated by, what’s you name?

Violet: Britney.

Annoying guy: Maybe I should call him and tell him how poorly his hostess BRITNEY is treating customers.

The phone starts to ring

Violet: Maybe you should. (Violet picks up the phone) Gemma. We don’t take reservations. Yes even for large groups. Four people aren’t a large group anyways. Okay so then why did you ask? Okay… The wait right now is two hours. There’s a long waiting list. ...Because you’re not the only person in Manhattan who wants to eat at this restaurant. Fuck you too lady! (She slams down the phone).

Annoying guy: Do you always talk to people like that?

Violet: Is there something I can do for you?

The phone start to ring.

Annoying guy: We want to sit down.

Violet: Sir, I am not going to fucking seat you until the other two assholes in your party arrive. (Picks up the phone)

Facebook Stalker

I was sitting in front of my laptop on my bed surrounded by a huge white down comforter, four pillows, a bottle of wine, and three empty beer cans furiously clicking through Justin’s pictures on Facebook. Who was this girl in the pictures with him? Why was his arm around her? And why is she all over his Facebook wall?!?! I immediately picked up the phone and called Natasha.
“Hello?”
“Natasha! Who is this fat girl all over Justin’s Facebook profile?”
“I don’t know... Wait, let me sign in and look.”
“I need to know who she is,” I continued. “Are they together now? Already? I mean, we just broke up like 2 weeks ago and now he has some bitch all over his Facebook profile?!”
“Wait. Which girl are we talking about?”
“The one with the long straight blonde…is there more than one?”
Natasha was silent, but I can hear the clicking from her laptop.
“Natasha?”
“I guess you can’t see the other pictures because you’re not friends with Terrance,” she says finally.
“There are more pictures?!”
“Well…yeah,” Natasha said carefully. “But I’m more worried about the blonde than the redhead.”
“There’s a redhead?!”
“Yeah…” she said slowly.
I was stunned. How had sweet Justin turned into some sort of pimp over night?! I hadn’t even been on a date since we broke up. This couldn’t be. I won’t believe it. This redheaded girl must be ugly. She must be fat.
“Natasha, I need you to e-mail me the picture of Justin and the redhead girl. I need to see it.”
“Honey, I really don’t think it’s a good idea.”
“Look, I know I’m being crazy. I know that this is not the right thing to do, but please humor me.”
“I don’t know…”
“Natasha! Send. Me. The. Picture.”
“Are you sure?”
“SEND IT!”
“Okay…”
I knew I was being crazy, but I couldn’t help it. Justin was the first guy that I had really felt like I could be with, like really be with. I broke up with him because I was scared of him. I was scared of the way he felt about me, the way he made me feel about myself, and most of all I was scared of the way I felt about him. I knew the second I hung up the phone with him the night we broke up that I had made a mistake, but there was no going back.
“Weren’t you the one that broke up with him?” Natasha asked carefully. Although I found the question slightly hurtful I knew that she was just trying to snap me out of my drunken craziness, but I couldn’t be stopped. The crazy had been unleashed and it just needed to run its course.
“Yes,” I said reluctantly. She had me there. “It’s not like I care,” I said trying to recover some dignity. “It’s just the principle! And besides I didn’t break up with him because I didn’t like him. We broke up because he didn’t want to be in a relationship. CLEARLY what he meant was that he didn’t want to be in a relationship with ME!”

Things I have lost in the past five years living in NYC:

1 Gold Quilted Marc Jacobs wallet

$170

1 black strappy sandal (the left one)

1 vintage white clutch with a gold clasp

3 boyfriends

4 CitiBank debit cards

1 US Passport

6 ID’s (2 fake, 4 real)

30lbs (which I promptly gained back)

Hundreds of hair elastics

Thousands of bobby pins

1 pair of black leather gloves that my mother gave me for Christmas

1 pair of size 9 brown leather riding boots from Banana Republic

1 Waitress position at Bar Stuzzichini

2 Best friends

1 pair of gold aviator sunglasses

1 CD (Overcast by Atmosphere)

1 Mac Powerbook

1 Hostess position at Barbuto Restaurant

1 French waiter/painter

The desire to be famous

The Peruvian

I met the Peruvian on a warm autumn night in New York. The hot moist air put a spring in my step as I nearly skipped down the street to meet my friends Devin and Natasha for drinks at the Olive Tree Café. After two orders of nachos and a round of beers one thing led to another as they always do, and before I knew it I was standing in the notoriously long line in front of Marquee with the Peruvian. He was 6’4’’ with short black hair, tan skin, smoldering brown eyes, and an adorable little gap between his front teeth. He wore a black long sleeved v-neck sweater that hugged his biceps, dark blue jeans and a small black scarf draped around his neck. Usually I wouldn’t find a man scarf attractive, but on The Peruvian it looked divine. There are some things that foreign men can pull off that American men just can’t, and the man scarf is one of them. I was, of course, head over heels for the Peruvian upon looking at him (as any straight woman would be). That night inside of Marquee the Peruvian bought me drinks, held my hand as we maneuvered through the crowded nightclub, and pressed his rock hard body against mine as we danced. With every drink I fell harder and harder for the Peruvian and with every swivel of our hips I wanted him more. As the night came to a close it came out that he had a girlfriend and I went home alone.

3 months later at my birthday party Natasha runs up to me, grabs me with both hands, looks straight in the eyes and says: “The Peruvian is single!”

4 months after that I found myself at a Bar-B-Q in Princeton, NJ. Devin, Natasha, The Peruvian and his new girlfriend were all in attendance. My purpose in going to NJ was to scope out the Peruvian’s new girlfriend: the girl that was chosen over me. And as I suspected she was tall, blond, and skinny. Not “Victoria Secret Model” thin; “Runway model in Paris” skinny. And even though her hair was long and shiny, Natasha and I decided that I was much prettier and (after 30 seconds of listening to her speak) smarter. I spent the majority of the party staring at the Peruvian and his girlfriend wondering what it was about her that was so great. She didn’t seem particularly nice, smart, or funny. At the risk of sounding conceited I will say that I was definitely the better catch. The only thing she had on me was skinny. She was skinny and I am, well, not skinny. I wondered if maybe she was really great in bed, but there was no way of knowing. While I was staring at the Peruvian and his girlfriend a very tall young man with dirty blond hair, a scruffy beard, and the most amazing blue eyes you’ve ever seen sat down next to me. His name was Justin. He started asking me questions about how I knew Devin and Natasha, and what I wanted to do with my life, and before I knew it I had forgotten all about the Peruvian and was totally into Justin. After two months of dating Justin I broke up with him. To this day I still don’t know why I did.

One night that next fall the Peruvian was standing in my bedroom/living room with his entire life packed into a duffel bag. He was drunk and angry.
“What happened? Why are you here? Why did you need to come over?” I asked climbing back into bed after letting him in.
“I’ve just been thinking about things. Like who I should be with and who I shouldn’t,” he replied in a thick accent.
I stared at him in silence for a minute wondering why he had such a thick accent if he had been in the US for over ten years. Then I asked: “What does that even mean?”
He put his bag down on the floor and threw his jacket on top creating a mountainous pile in the middle of my room.
“If you were me; and you had a girlfriend; and she kissed another guy in front of you; What would you do?” he asked as he sat on the end of my bed in a slump. “And she says he’s like a brother to her,” he added staring at the TV.
“Is he gay?”
“No. He dated her sister.”
“The guy she’s kissing on the lips dated her sister?” I asked to clarify.
“Yeah,” he said as he laid back on the bed.
“Well I guess I would ask her to stop.”
“I did.”
“Well, I mean I guess it’s a little disrespectful if you asked her to stop and she didn’t,” I said so unconvincingly I didn’t even believe myself. “So that’s why you broke up?”
The Peruvian sat up suddenly and looked at me.
“She kissed another guy in front of me!”
“Yeah, but I mean is that a really good reason to break up with her? Don’t you think that you are being a little juvenile?”
The Peruvian just stared at me in silence. I worried for a minute that maybe I had hurt his feelings. He said nothing and returned to his horizontal position on my bed. I stared at the Peruvian out of the corner of my eye and I wondered what I should do. If I slept with him would I feel like a whore in the morning? If I didn’t, would I regret missing the opportunity to see him naked? While I was debating whether to sleep with the Peruvian or not I drifted off to sleep only to be awoken by long muscular arms being wrapped around me. I jerked awake and turned on my side to look at the Peruvian.
“Were you having a nightmare?” he asked me sweetly.
I nodded.
“Come here,” he whispered as he pulled me closer to him and began to gently rub my back. After a minute his hand drifted to my stomach and started making its way North.
“I really don’t think we should do this. You just broke up with your girlfriend.”
“Are you sure?” he whispered.
“Yes.”
Immediately his hand drifted back to his side of the bed.

In the morning, the Peruvian left promising to call me later that day. Her never called. That evening, Natasha called and told me that the Peruvian went back to his girlfriend.
“So did he just fake a fight with his girlfriend so that he could try to sleep with me?” I asked.
“I guess. I don’t know.”
“Does he think I’m some whore that he can use for sex when he’s bored?”
“I don’t know.”
“Do I look like a whore?”
“No! Of course not! I think it was more of a hope… Besides, you proved him wrong, because you didn’t sleep with him!”
“I know,” I say distractedly. “I still feel used though.”
“I’m sorry hunny. I told him that I would never talk to you about him again, and never talk to him about you. I can’t believe he did that. He’s such an idiot. I’m sorry that I ever introduced you to him.”
“It’s okay. It’s not your fault.”

That night, I stood in my bathroom staring at myself in the mirror. I stared at my face so long it didn’t look like a face anymore. All I saw were shapes, skin, and hair. I stared and I saw an embarrassed, angry, scared young woman. I stared and I saw a lost soul, a broken heart, and shattered self-esteem. I stared and I saw hunger and longing. I stared. I stared. I stared. I stared until everything got blurry and I had to look away.
I turned off the bathroom light and wandered into my bedroom in a haze. I crawled into bed wondering if the Peruvian would ever know how what he did, or tried to do, made me feel. I wondered how one man’s actions could make me doubt myself; how something so small could effect me so much.

I stared into the blackness of my windowless bedroom until I feel asleep.

The Holy Grail

It's official: I am the last single girl in my group of friends. Carol, my roommate and partner in crime, came home this morning with a huge smile plastered across her face. I knew as soon as she skipped into the living/my bedroom that she had gone to the dark side. Every woman knows that big fat smile. It’s the smile of a woman who is officially a part of a couple. It is the smile of a woman who will soon replace the words “I” and “me” with “we” and “us.”

Carol just stood in the middle of the living room/my bedroom smiling at me for what seemed like hours before I finally said something.

“So how was last night?” I ask with lackluster enthusiasm as I squinted up at her through the morning sunlight. Her eyes rolled up to the ceiling as she sighed deeply with the smile still plastered across her face.
“Well…” she started through her Cheshire Cat grin. “We went out to dinner at this Caribbean restaurant that was so good and then we went back to his place…” she trailed off.
“So you really like Ronny then huh?” I asked.
She looks sheepishly at the floor and sighed again. I could tell from the look on her face that she is remembering some cute memory from last night and it made me want to jump out of bed and slap her.
“Ronny just makes me feel so good about myself,” she said. “He’s always complimenting me. I’m not used to that! It’s just really nice.”
“So are you guys are like together then?”
“I don’t know… I guess…”

How did this happen?! I ask myself as Carol rambles on about how great Ronny is. Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy for her! I’m over the moon for her! She is an intelligent, beautiful, fun young woman and she should be with someone who sees that. I am happy for her and sad for myself.

Over the past year all of my close girlfriends have gotten boyfriends. One of them is currently living with hers and two others are discussing doing the same. Carol was the last girl in my group who was free for sushi and martinis on Saturday night and brunch on Sunday. Our phone conversations were never cut short because (insert male name) is calling on the other line, has just arrived, or is already there and is feeling neglected. We both enjoyed going out for dinner and drinks followed by more drinks and dancing. Over dinner we'd bitch about how men suck and on the dance floor we would dance with boys and men whose names we would forget or never know. We did what I thought all the other twenty-somethings were doing New York: being carefree and having fun. But apparently when I was out dancing on bars, shooting Jack and Patron, and giving out fake numbers everyone else was pairing off like this was the second coming of Noah and his arc.

I did not get the “everyone is coupling off” memo and now I am doomed to dining by myself at the bar of trendy New York restaurants, eating ice cream in my pajamas on the couch on Saturday nights, and getting up early enough on Sundays to have breakfast not brunch. I still occasionally go out with "the girls" for "girls’ night out" which really means: "the only night away from my boyfriend this month." But instead of discussing men’s shortcomings we will discuss the cute thing Devin did this week, or how sweet Justin is, or if Jessie sees her self marrying Manuel. Occasionally, I point out that I am the only single girl left. Everybody has boyfriends! Geraldine and Andy, Lauren and what's his name, Simona and Victor, Sam and Justin, Natasha and Devin, Jessie and Manuel, Chanel and Matthew and now Carol and Ronny. The girls sigh, roll their eyes, and say that being in a relationship “isn't all that its cracked up to be.” Natasha tells me that relationships take work (as if I didn’t know). And Jessie reminds me that I have so many things going on in my life right now that I should really concentrate on my career, or the lack there of. When I am feeling particularly needy I complain to Sam (she’s the nice one) that I don't know why I can't find a boyfriend.

“I'm not asking for a lot,” I whine into the phone. “I just want a manly man who is smart, funny and taller than me. I go out all the time and try to meet people! But the only guys I meet are losers or just trying to sleep with me. I mean, Jesus Christ, looking for an eligible bachelor who wants a relationship in Manhattan is like looking for the goddamn Holy Grail! I'm smart, funny, and interesting. What's the problem?” By the end of my rant I am screaming into the phone. Sam is silent and I suddenly feel self-conscious and ask: “Am I really annoying or something?”
“Oh my God!” Sam exclaims in her sweet voice. “You are not annoying at all!”
“Then what is it!?” I whine as I wander around my kitchen looking for something full or carbs, sugar or fat, or ideally all of the above to comfort me.
“Maybe guys are just intimidated by you.”
“What?! Why would I intimidate a man? I’m an out of work actress who is hostessing for a living!” I scream into the phone.
“They aren’t intimidated by your job!” Sam giggles. No matter how much I yell and scream Sam always maintains her sweet disposition. “They’re intimidated because you are beautiful, intelligent and have a strong personality.”
Sam likes to tell me that my alleged beauty intimidates guys every time I complain about being single. Although it makes me feel slightly better, I know is a load of bullshit because models and celebrities are never without boyfriends and husbands.
“Sam,” I say sternly. “That’s bullshit!”
“Oh dear,” Sam sighs. “What am I going to do with you?”
“What am I going to do with myself?”