Wednesday, October 7, 2009

TWIR: “Another Day, Another D-bag, Another Dazzling Disappointment.”

TWIR: “Another Day, Another D-bag, Another Dazzling Disappointment.”

I'm an absurdly anxious person with extreme control freak tendencies. I hate everything about flying from start to finish. Do you call a car or to save money, take the very-convenient-to-work-and-home-subway? If you take a car, how bad will NY traffic be at any given time? Will the security lines a nightmare? While I know you can basically take anything you want with you on a plane leaving NY (ironically), will the motherf**kers working for TSA in Florida confiscate the pricey perfume I’m carrying on? And then there’s the matter of strapping myself in to a metal death cage that weighs 200,000 lbs and travels about 600MPH at 37,000 feet. When the end of this incredible journey is finally reached, I’ve got an anxiety-ridden visit in with my parents in the land of strip malls. I DIE… and not in the amazing Camp Zoe sort of way.

To deal with my neurosis on a recent pilgrimage back to mecca to see Superman and the rest of Urban’s wunderkinds take on Tennessee, I did what any rational person would do. I arrived at JFK two hours before my flight and headed straight to the sports bar in T5. After receiving free drinks from the bartender and the creepy, middle-aged men on either side of me, I boarded the plane and heard the pilot announce it was going to be bumpy the whole way to Florida. I instantly popped extra half of an Ativan and as soon as the beverage service started, ordered white wine only to have the steward bring me red vino. Regardless of his colorblind mistake, I opened and poured into a glass… right before he came back with the white I originally ordered. At this point, it only seemed appropriate to open and drink the cold white and let the red have a breather. I had two hours, right?

What seemed like 5 minutes later I woke up as the wheels touched down in Jacksonville to a tray table that had been packed up and the same steward telling me – with a horrified expression – that I’d passed out and he'd tried to wake me up multiple times for wine payment and/or general health concerns? I apologized, not particularly embarrassed or genuinely sorry, and offered to pay Judgy McSteward who, in turn, said something to the effect of, "just get the eff off the plane, crazy lady."

Sometimes while trying to keep up with the ridiculousness in your life, you get caught up in it. You become a casualty of crazy, akin to being a casualty of war. I've also come to realize that for every unbalanced action, a similar and equally absurd reaction is very much possible. For example, at home we have to hand wash dishes as we are unfortunately without a dishwasher. We use these ginormous, white coffee mugs every morning to hold the rocket fuel espresso we make. It makes me slightly insane when the crevices inside have coffee stains and are not cleaned to my liking. (Read: I'm completely neurotic and want everything done my way). However, instead of just soaking the mugs in hot, soapy water a little longer, I spray bleach inside the mugs. And we’re not talking about the veggie-based Green Works. I mean the Bud Heavy of bleach, regular old Clorox. It is beyond a doubt, certifiably demented of me to think that bleach is the better choice to a faint ring of a best friend's coffee left over from yesterday morning.

Romantic relationships will most likely render the maximum idiotic, ill-conceived, and impracticable reactions from people. Take, for example, dating someone’s ex-girlfriend or ex-boyfriend. In theory, it’s a genius idea. Think about it. Someone else already did a test run and you know that at the very least, your head won’t end up in a freezer or your skin on a blanket (too far?). At any rate, you know this person is likeable and maybe even well liked by your friends if it ended amicably. However in practice, it’s a great big douche move. Think about it. You’re dating your friend’s ex. You’re taking a big sh*t on big book of friend code and in return, getting your friend’s sloppy seconds. It’s a really bad idea. Unless... it all works out, in which case; Mavel Tov!

Unrelated, someone I know seems to have slipped into a torturous pattern of essentially not being attracted to someone unless they work together. I’m sure for that person, it happens to be a totally subconscious, coincidental event. Anyhow, could someone please remind me that person the office (particularly if that office is an ad agency) is the probably the ultimate worst place to meet someone? You’d think I they would have learned by now. I they have not.

A nice, tall, attractive 24-year old boy in Manhattan who claims to want to date you is basically a modern day Trojan horse. (Trojan cult? …get it? He’s young. Anyhow…) Having passed the 24-year benchmark four years ago myself, I should have known better... just like I should have known better than to order and consume my 6th grain alcohol margarita Friday night at Rio. However not really being one for restraint, but instead acting more like the poster child of “gluttons for punishment" everywhere, neither situation really stopped me.

The thing is this man/horse is unbelievably appealing at first glance with his tall stature, southern accent, affinity for SEC football, possession of seersucker pants and an endless supply of crisp shirts. The total package looks tempting at first. But once you get up close and pick it apart, it turns into a big f**ing mess that blows up in your face. And there you are crying at the bar, feeling like a fool because in addition to you, this baby Trojan colt also hooked up with half the girls in the office! And what did you get out of it? A monster hangover.

At some point you stop feeling bad. You have Jameson on the rocks with your friends on a Sunday night at a speakeasy in the West Village. (You whip up a pointed blog post). You reach a limit. A best friend and fellow New Yorker reached one a few months ago with a man she met on a plane. They went on a date where his truly awful shirt caused her to raise an eyebrow. However, not wanting to screw up that second chance karma, she entertained a second date. She showed up horrified to him in sweatpants and a shirt she described, while shouting over the phone as, “a shirt that was actually, originally designed to not have sleeves!!!”

And while yes, perhaps we’re overly critical bitches, and clothes can be changed, sometimes you have to ask; Is it worth it? Looking back, if all you ever really had was an adolescent g-chat buddy who talked about himself always and occasionally slept over, it’s not worth the anxiety, the tears or the potential damage to relationships with real friends. That big, wooden horse can stay locked outside the gate because I’m hoping on a plane to New Orleans with some of my favorite people on the planet. And to quote one of them, “the mustometer will be redlined all weekend.” So to my dear friends heading to NOLA, I’ll say this: Saddle up, because I’m putting myself in the running for the weekend game ball. And I’ll be starting out with an Ativan and some red and/or white wine high in the sky Friday morning.

Don’t be fooled by the pearls.


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