The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe

Day 46

I have long suspected that “cougars” are having the best year ever. It’s self evident- Desperate Housewives is still a hit show, Kim Cattrall is still getting acting work, and I received a very special birthday card wishing a “happy birthday to a very special cougar”. While I am not a cougar by the standard definition (or any other definition), I use this card as further proof that cougars are more en vogue this year than rehab. And rehab has had one helluva year.

My birthday itself was very enjoyable, a special thanks to all those who wished me well. My first spirit journey formation anniversary here in NYC, and it was brought in with some new friends at a new bar. Just a few blocks from my current apartment is a lovely little place called Wicked Willy’s, which is normally populated by 9 to 5 preppy douchebags who like to play beerpong and pretend it’s 2002 and they’re still in college. However, one any given weeknight Willy’s also hosts karaoke, which means my birthday was spent drunkenly soliciting dedications. I even indulged by celebrating myself with a rousing rendition of “You’ve Lost that Lovin Feelin”, because you can’t beat the Righteous Brothers when drunk. The night quickly escalted into my fifth (yes, 5!) blackout in less than 7 days. Birthday was great, but having a birthday on the same week as the 4th of July is rough on the body.

Blackout aside, I can recall enough foggy details to truly recognize the enjoyable party that The Mess threw for me, and most of my fellows showed up to wish me well, which was awesome. The night took an unexpected turn when our friend, Times Square, won a Broadway karaoke contest (think “Hakuna Matada” with a conga line of drunken strangers) and was rewarded with a 50 dollar bar tab that had to be spent that night. At 1:30 in the morning.

I spent the next day napping instead of eating lunch, and forcing down only a banana for the daily meal. Large billion dollar television networks frown upon visible hangover. Fortunately I look good in a tie. Unfortunately, there was one physical flaw that my boss couldn’t help but notice.

My eyebrow is shaved.

Not completely, but still, enough that she noticed. In honesty, it has nothing to do with birthday festivities at the bar (or the diner we headed to afterwards). Before the birthday evening began I ran a few errands and popped in for a hair cut at a low end hair-cuttery place. I’m not too picky when it comes to buzzing off a layer of curls. However, this bitch isn’t too picky when it comes to buzzing off layers of anything, and nicked half my face and took part of my eyebrow off in the process while attempting to buzz the side of my head. The worst part was when I looked in the mirror and said “Oh, this is awkward… you cut off part of my eyebrow”. The woman looked at me intently, as if waiting for a “magic eye” image to appear in my pores, turned me around in the swivel chair, and said “No I didn’t.”

Now, I’m not always the most observant person, but I’m pretty sure I can tell when my eyebrows are too different lengths. Mainly because I have vision and a mirror. Sparing unnecesary details, calling your stylist a “dumb bitch” will get you kicked out of a hair salon quite quickly, but it may also save my face from unwanted trimming. I want my eyebrow back. Dumb bitch.

However, all of this was far out of my hungover mind when my boss, Jersey Queen (the one who cannot possibly be a drag queen because she lives in the garden state) approached me and said “Hey, Burkeman, you got buzzed last night”. I was stunned. Granted, my wrinkled clothes and the fact that I wore glasses to work might signal a hangover, along with showing up half an hour later than usual, but I thought I looked inconspicuous. I scanned myself over quickly to be sure there was no glarring bar stamp on my hand when my boss interjected “I meant your hair cut, but apparently you had a few drinks, too.”

It was too late to bother stammering an obvious denial.

Waking up the day after your birthday with half an eyebrow and a visible hangover isn’t always the worse. I could be waking up to all of this in a sketchy ass apartment in Brooklyn. I’m actually quite fond of Brooklyn, I just have been to a few too many sketchy ass apartments there- mainly the one I visited directly after my birthday. I was excited by the multi-national roommate line up, but when one “come here to study acting” and another is a professional framer at an art gallery, it became clear that none of us were planning on living in luxury. The apartment was painted pink and purple on the inside, but the room was really quite spacious, I was a fan…. until I shut the door, and the doorknob literally fell off. Half an eyebrow, admittedly hungover in front of the boss at work, and considering paying hundreds of dollars to live in a shady neighborhood, I saw my life slowly swirling to a stop along with that brass doorknob. At least it was sad funny.

I’m still considering taking it. Who needs a doornob when you’ve got a doorknob sized hole in your door?

Other apartments have been better, which is a good sign thus far. Certain parts of Brooklyn are looking quite nice, I must say. Same with Jersey, Queens, and even WAY uptown parts of Manhattan. I’ve even begin to weigh the merits of Staten Island, which isn’t such a bad place if you don’t mind a ferry ride (which includes a daily dose of the Statue of Liberty). I even consulted my boss, who’s lived in New York forever, but something about mentioning Staten Island made her oddly blurry eyed and I immediately escaped the awkward situation. I mentioned it to a person who knows our boss well and she played it off by simply saying “Well, you know, she’s a bit off sometimes.” I said sure, who isn’t. She casually replied, “She’s having rough family times. You know she’s actually a man, right?”

Suddenly the phrase “the doorknob fell off” is extra sad funny. And though I had a birthday, I’ve just met the most special cougar yet.

[no one back in traffic school had told us- there're signs that can't be learned]