Tag Archives: Saks

The Legend of Sleepy Hollow

Days Until Halloween: 342

I throw up when extremely angry.

This action is not often coterminous with this emotion, but they happened to coincide on an eventful week.

After making nice with Weather Man I was extremely excited for his visit over Halloween weekend. We had a good fight, which meant the only piece of the puzzle left to fill in was the make-up sex, which I’m pretty sure is the best part about getting in fights. 90% of the time I apologize is just for sex. You do the same thing. However, I had a few days left before Halloween on Friday. I still hadn’t put together my costume, as my friend’s veto-ed my idea to go as Tiger Woods for the millionth year in a row. And my suggestion of dressing as Seal and Heidi Klum was a no go, considering none of my accompanying friends were blondes and I didn’t feel like putting my face into an inferno. Plus I can’t sing.

My lovely work friend Tilly decided we should brainstorm a few costume ideas for the both of us as we downed a few beers with the rest of the work assistants. However, once we left worked and arrived at Publichouse we found a bar dressed up as a personality-less pit stop and waitresses already in costume as Stoli Girls. I don’t really like girls, but I’m a huge fan of stoli, so a few friendly jokes into the conversation and I found myself getting free shots from women wearing fur caps. Tilly was downing the wine and next thing I know I’m revealing terrible pieces of my past to coworkers who can barely stand up straight. In fact, the only people not teetering were the Stoli Girls, who got us all into this mess! Tricksy russian vodka women and their sneaky free liquor ways… While explaining to a coworkers exactly what amount of mushrooms constitutes “trafficking” I took a moment to turn around and check on Tilly, who was attacking our co-worker with her lips. Poor Brendan has been harboring a crush on Tilly for some time now, and he did his best to resist.

Brendan: Ummm, I’ve got to tell you that I’m not comfortable with this. I’ve only had two drinks and I’m pretty sure you won’t remember this.
Tilly: (Surly) Ummm, I’m pretty sure you’re cute.
Insecure Brendan: Um. Thanks, you’re cute, too.
Tilly: That means you’re comfortable with it, I won’t tell.

And that’s the last thing I really remember. The next morning I woke up wearing my shirt and tie on top of my recently purchased bedsheets and surrounded by McDonald’s bags (Oh, Burkeman, I know better…). That morning at work wasn’t as dreadful as expected, and I received my official invitation to join the Tuesday sales meetings, which means the management sees me as becoming a full on salesman within the next year! I was enthused, though groggy, along with the entire assistant task-force who was reeling from the night before, most of us not entirely sure if we embarassed ourselves or not. Accept for poor Tilly, who was completely unaware of her behavior. Lucky bitch. My McDonalds shame was unavoidable.

Burkeman: Do you remember making out with Brendan at the bar?
Tilly: …My eyes hurt.

That night I ransacked every second-hand store I could find in the city to find tiny women’s shorts and a white polo shirt (along with some sweat bands). After surviving another day at work I threw on my costume and met up with Weather Man, who had made his way to NYC for Halloween!

With my tennis raquet in hand the conversion was complete, I had officially become Arthur Ashe. Only with shorter shorts and sass. Arthur Ass, maybe. Whatever. Weather Man didn’t feel like putting together a cohesive costume, so when people asked why he was wearing a cape he would explain that he was Dracula. The next person who asked he would explain that he was a Cardinal. Then a Count. And so on. By the end of the night he was drunkenly telling people in Splash that he was versatile. The costume took a life of it’s own.

Weather Man and I went to watch the parade, which was the wonderfully debaucharous spectacle that I hoped it would be. People dressed as Batman and Robin were classic, Joker and Sarah Palin were unoriginal, robots were retro fun, and anything home-made was awesome. Although I’ll admit, the vampire with the upside down blow-up doll caught even me off guard. And the over-sized hairy ass (complete with hole, for viewing purposes) was in such poor taste that it was delicious. The crowds were epic, the night was reasonably warm, and the booze weren’t hard to find. Only once did a complete stranger touch me inappropriately. Victory.

With a sexy Spartan, a thong clad Gladiator, a glittery GI Joe, a versatile “dracula”, and one very realistic naughty school girl (who happened to be off the boat from Japan), I paraded my Arthur ass all the way through Manhattan as the tail end of the parade, sliding under the barrier to join my friends who had been marching for hours already. The waving crowds from the barrier cheered for costumes they enjoyed and the lights and sights all blurred together until I found myself inside an overrated dance club with a devil who’s pitch fork was a little too close. Fortunately I escaped my dance hell without a problem and the next thing I know it’s November first, I’m safe in my bed in Brooklyn, and I’ve shaken a hangover off with some hard earned make-up lovin’. I love Halloween!

That morning I sat in the living room, still wearing my sweatbands, chatting with Straight Boyfriend (who hadn’t shaken off his hangover after spending the evening as a Zombie Hunter a la Shaun of the Dead) and BYOB along with her Boy Du Jour, who had been watching movies all night. Our chats turned into long conversations and the next thing I know it’s late at night, we’ve watched Rosemary’s Baby and just started Shortbus. Early in the movie (when Jamie cums on his own face in the opening montage) my roommate’s started to realize this movie wasn’t the standard popcorn flick. And perhaps they realized that Weather Man, who bought me the movie, wasn’t the standard visiting boy. It’s strange how unimportant moments (like movie cum shots) help illuminate something deeper (like the depth of the relationship your roommate has with another human). I think that’s the point of art, to express things in unexpected ways. Sometime during Shortbus the graphic sex acted as a Jackson Pollock, and that evening BYOB actually went out of her way for the first time ever to admit that my life wasn’t as two dimensional as she had thought. I might not be a real person to her yet, but at least she sees me with 3-D goggles these days. She had even skipped a friend’s b-day party to watch movies with us.

The rest of the weekend was spent with Weather Man and Georgia Ann, touring Manhattan and eating brunch and buying scarves from roadside stands and whatnot. We saw the Christmas sights in Manhattan; the ice rink at Rockefeller Center, the site for the soon to arrive 3 story Christmass tree, the Radio City Music Hall (home of the Rockettes!), constructed our own adorable Build-A-Bears, and even tried on clothes at Saks 5th Avenue (the jacket I wanted was only 800 dollars… right). Saks was a bizarre experience, as I have spent enough time avoiding wealth in Brooklyn that the sight of $500 hats in Manhattan threw me off my game entirely. I cannot earn my sense of superiority until I own that jacket!

Monday night I was just getting used to be without Georgia Ann, Weather Man, and wealth when Straight Boyfriend and I got a strange phone call from BYOB. Or at least from her phone, apparently BYOB had gotten incredibly drunk and some complete stranger pulled her off the subway and walked her partway home. We rushed out of the apartment to collect the pieces (and stray chunks) of BYOB from the stranger, thanking her for being kind enough to bring our roommate back and for being extra nice by ensuring that a more rape-friendly stranger hadn’t plucked her off the subway.

In what shall now be known only as Vomicon ’08, BYOB barely made it into the apartment before spewing all over the bathroom: the sink, the tub, the floor, pretty much everyone except for the toilet. Hours later I was trying to clean up chunks of Wendy’s fries and pulling a nearly unconscious roommate out of the bathtub and dressing her for bed. The next morning she hadn’t cleaned up a thing (or regained consciousness) and I began to get increasingly irritated. What was this girls problem? She discounted my relationships as trivial and sexually based, talked exclusively about herself, ditched friends in exchange for passing relationships, and got so wasted on a Monday that she couldn’t get herself home (without giving second thought to how easily her safety could’ve been compromised). But now, not even an apology. My anger began to stir and as I turned on the shower water I started to brew.

Unfortunately so did the stew-like chunks of vomit that were collecting around my feet, and as the steam rose it brought the smell of hot re-heated up-chuck with it. I was so angry I had it up to my eyes, or at least up to my throat, as the smell of puke triggered my own gag reflex and sent me straight to the toilet to mimic BYOB’s early antics.

At least I made it into the toilet.

By the time I made it into work I was calm and collected, almost glad to be at work. I had somehow even beat all of my bosses into the office, which never happens! But I quickly realized I hadn’t beaten them into the office, they had beaten me into the board room- I missed my first ever sales meeting because I was busy heaving last nights dinner! FUCK!

A cup of coffee did nothing to calm my nerves and anger, so I grabbed an emergency cigarette (hidden in plain sight on my desk) and headed outside to watch my stress go up in smoke the way my morning had. Until I stepped out of the building with a Marlboro light in my mouth and see my manager, Hundo, outside as well. That’s when it becomes acheing clear that my secret smoking habit isn’t so secret in Manhattan. Vom.

[i gotta get my shit together, cuz i can’t live like this forever. i’ve come to far and i don’t want to fail. i’ve got a new computer and a bright future in sales]

Advertisements