Cinnamon Twists (Part 3)

With Grub Chick ready to kill, suddenly the doctor came out. He barely noticed me. I tried to tell him I had brought cinnamon twists, but he walked by so quick I doubt he heard.

I walked out dejected, back into the waiting room, only to see the entire room had almost emptied out. My heart sank to the floor. I knew Grub Chick wasn’t in with the doctor, and she and the commentators were now all of a sudden gone.

Most likely waiting on the other side of that door.

I needed to get out of this situation. Something. Anything. A miracle. I scanned the few people left in the waiting room, and an old lady locked eyes with me. Those eyes had seen it all. She shook her head. She knew. I knew. We all knew. I was about to get my ass kicked over some cinnamon twists. There was nothing anybody could do.

But wait. Maybe there was one thing. I went back into the area behind the receptionist's desk and took the cinnamon twists back. Nobody was looking. Nobody even cared I had brought them, but now I really needed them. I was thinking of the old bait and switch. You throw the object of a criminals desire one way and then run the other way. That was my plan. Walk with my head held high and throw the twists.

I opened the door and stepped out into the sunlight. The coast seemed clear. I didn’t want to run because that would show fear, but I didn’t want to saunter like an idiot. I had to be careful not to trip on my strappy sandals. It was like dead woman walking.

No sign of the posse, I quickened my pace. It was more like dead woman sprinting. I started to sweat a little. Onto the grass, over the lawn, across the street, to my car, when suddenly I heard a car honking its horn.

My hands went onto the twists. My peace offering, my olive branch, my ridiculous plan. It was Her. Grub Chick. My Arch Enemy. The other crazy, fighting over food that cost five bucks!

In the distance, an engine revved. Click, Click thank god for automatic locks. I dove into the car making sure not to drop my twists and locked the doors just as fast. I quickly put my key in the ignition and looked up to see what was coming.

Grub Chick was in her car with the commentators. We made eye contact. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the twists had fallen slightly out of my bag and were on the passenger seat.

Safe in my car, suddenly I felt ridiculous for running. I had been the one who stood up for myself. I was the brave one. Now that I was safe, I wanted to win.

With one hand on the steering wheel, and both eyes on her car I was able to open the box of cinnamon twists. I put my car in drive, just in case, and with one dramatic flourish I took out a cinnamon twist and bit in.

Delicious as always. Worth every risk. I couldn’t help but smile. It’s fun being crazy. I finished my twist and flew out of my parking spot after one last look over to them. The look of shock mixed with admiration was enjoyable. Until we meet again Grub Chic.

Cinnamon Twists (Part 2)

My response of “yea, they’re not for you” was not appreciated. Grub Chick didn’t like my back talk. She exclaimed, “Give me those cinnamon twists.” So I said, “No." That was received by a room full of “Oooooh."

The entire waiting room started weighing in on the fight. This was much better than just waiting for the doctor. There’s about to be a fight between two bitches over nothing. What a great day! “Ooooh that white girl she just said no, just like that, just like that. Girl, did you hear what she said, mmmm?” They were like a prison gang backing up the head bitch.

I didn’t even know what that person would be called in prison or gang talk because I’m a white girl from a middle class suburban area. I didn’t even understand why this was happening to me because I love black people and black people love me. Seriously, black people love me.

First off, I have a juicy booty. So that means all black men, plus hispanics, mexicans and puerto ricans, automatically love me. Second of all, I have a filthy mouth, so that just means all men that aren’t uptight also love me.

And then females that are black also usually love me, and I love them. Black woman are strong. They say it like it is. They like to have a good time. I really just like anyone who’s cool. So maybe that was the whole problem. Grub Chic was acting very uncool and as a result, this horrible, horrible event was taking place.

All I know is the commentators were a mixed motley crew of scary and scarier and my opponent was the nuttiest one of them all.

(Like these girls-sorta)

A psycho with a loud voice who was not afraid to say what she wanted. In another world, at another time, we would’ve been “besties,” but right now there we were, in this world, and the lines were drawn. On my side of the line, there was me. Just me. Dressed in white pants, a banana republic black tee and strappy sandals. On the other side of the line, there was this tall, scary, loud woman in tight jeans and a tight t-shirt with a tatoo of an anchor on one arm and muscles on both. She was backed up by a group of individuals looking just as tough, if not tougher. The commentators were agitating the entire situation, and I needed them to go away.

I wanted them to shut up. Maybe this whole thing would just die down if they just shut up. I waited to see what would happen next as I tried to keep my breakfast down. All eyes were on Grub Chick. It was her turn. She looked at me and stuck with her basic demand.

“I want those cinnamon twists.” I said, “If you want them, then get your ass in a car, and go buy them.” I couldn’t even help myself. Displaced anger is a real bitch. We all know if I had brought Baklava this never would have happened.

The receptionist behind the bullet proof glass pulled me into the next room, and I was unable to see my targets reaction, but could hear the uproar it caused. One for whitey! The staff knew about the cinnamon twist controversy and thanked me for them, but hadn’t touched them yet, sensing that this was not the end.

Suddenly she charged back where I was behind the bullet proof glass and exclaimed, “You better give me those cinnamon twists." I said, “You don’t give up do you?” She said, “You’re supposed to feed the poor.” The commentators looked in, waiting for my response. I said, “I don’t have to do shit.” Couldn't she just let it go?

TO BE CONTINUED...

The First Time (Part 3)

It was the night of the my first show. I practiced saying my material over and over again while walking fifty blocks up to the club trying to burn off my nervous energy. Basically, I looked like a mental patient, but I didn’t care. I tried to imagine things going great for me. I got to the club and sat with the other comedians. On the outside I looked totally cool. On the inside I was thinking, what the hell am I doing here? Why am I doing this? Am I crazy?

I looked out in the crowd and saw a few of my friends. Comforting, I guess. Name Dropper was going to be the MC for the show, and he told us the lineup. Now all I had to do was wait for my turn. The show started and Name Dropper was pretty funny. He got the crowd going and things seemed like they were going to be alright. Maybe the crowd would be good. But then the first lawyer went up and did his material and nobody laughed. It was brutal to watch, but most likely worst to be up there. Me and some of the other comics looked at each other with fear. This was going to suck.

The waiting was tough, but I watched each comic either do good or bad. It seemed like there was no in between. Either they liked you, or they didn’t. The crowd seemed to decide almost immediately and then never changed their mind. I was hoping they'd like

me. I was about to find out.

I went onto the stage and did my five minutes. Laugh after laugh after laugh, it was pure heaven. I knew this shit was funny. I felt totally redeemed. Just walking on stage and holding the microphone felt natural and as though I’d been doing it for years. The energy from the crowd was amazing. And I couldn’t believe I’d ever been afraid. The next thing I knew, I was getting the light.

When you’re performing at a club, and you get the light, it usually means you have a minute left and you need to wrap up your set. The light to me meant that I had done it. I had performed stand up. After weeks of no laughs or encouragement, nothing but a pen, a piece of paper and some guts, this is what I got: Feeling euphoric once I got off the stage. Unable to stop smiling for hours. Realizing a dream. Not bad for a few hundred bucks for a course at the New School. People go to the therapy for their entire lives without feeling this way.

After the show, I was standing outside the club and my friends came out to meet me. They loved it. They thought I was funny. They had so much fun. I was so glad they came. They told me who they thought sucked. We discussed the guy I was dating and my friend from the class. But then one of my friends pulled me aside and said, “I think this is going to be your career.” And I said, “Me too.” And we both nodded our heads in agreement and that was that. I was a comic. And then we all went out and got wasted.

The First Time (Part 2)

The next week I went back and everybody did their five minutes. And it sucked. Nobody encouraged each other. Some of the lawyers weren’t that bad, and they had some funny ideas. I could see where they were going. But when I got up, nobody laughed. No matter what I did

or what I said, all I got were blank stares. Name Dropper really didn’t say much after each person’s five minute debacle. He had everyone comment on what they thought was funny or wasn’t funny, and he’d agree or disagree. Name Dropper had quite the racquet going with that job.

But I was determined. Each week I went back with new material, observations, things I thought were funny. I cursed. I talked about sex. I talked about men. I made fun of myself. Not a laugh. Not a chuckle. Not a smile. Not a nothing. Meanwhile, I couldn’t stop laughing at everyone else’s stuff. Even if the joke wasn’t perfect, some of it was funny. I also clapped so much at the end of each person’s set you’d think I was a seal. But none of the love was returned. It was nuts.

People started dropping out of the class. Each week the attendance was less and less. There were only five classes. and then you went and performed at a club with a real audience. I refused to give up because I wanted to make it to that club. I wanted to get on stage. I did make a friend in the class. One of the lawyers. And I actually started dating the accountant. But I wasn’t there for friends, and I wasn’t there for men. I was there for comedy. And I wasn’t going to give up.

And while I wasn’t getting any laughs, I was writing material and having the guts to stand up in front of people and try it out. But still no laughs, not even from the friend or the date. More blank stares. I really thought some of my shit was funny. But I started to think maybe it was only funny to me. Maybe I just wasn’t someone who could go from being funny in life to being funny on stage. But I pressed on and made it to the class before the big night.

By then there was only a handful of us left. Even a comedy class can be brutal and make you want to run. It was probably for the best. I’d soon learn if I couldn’t take the rejection in that class I could forget about trying to handle what would come later.

Name Dropper wanted us to bring in what we were going to do for the show at the club. We all had to come in with our best five minutes of material that we had written during the last month. Name Dropper listened to all of us do our “sets” and you could tell he was bored to death. I got up and did my five minutes and my one friend in the class and the guy I had dated were sorta laughing. It was about time. I really liked what I had put together for my stand up debut and was excited. Name Dropper told us to invite people to the club for support, but there was no way I was doing that. After bombing in class for weeks in a row, the thought of inviting friends was out. But then some of my friends who knew I was taking the class kept asking me about it, so at the last minute I invited a few friends.

The First Time (Part 1)

It was dark. I didn’t know what I was doing. I was nervous. I thought I must be nuts, but it’s not like I’m the first person in the world to do this. But I was about to go on stage and do my first show as a comic. People had paid to see me. I was at a club. What’d you think I was talking about? Sex? That first time I was drunk and horny, and it was quick. This was going to be long. I had to go on stage for a whole five minutes. Wait, maybe it was like the first time I had sex.

Every comedian remembers the first time. Walking up to the mic. Getting on the stage. Looking out into the crowd. I don’t know if every comic had an experience like mine, but no matter what the experience, I’m sure they remember it. It’s the craziest, most exhilarating and scariest experience, all at once. Addictive? Probably. Fantastic? Maybe. Unforgettable? Definitely.

Ever since I was a kid, I wanted to be a stand up comedian. Not your average dream, but I loved laughing and thought comedians were geniuses. I always got attention for being funny, so why not? I sneaked watching “Eddie Murphy’s Raw” performance so many times the tape broke. I was allowed to watch, “Bill Cosby: Himself,” and I broke that tape too. Was I going to have to become a black man to be a stand up comic? Maybe. As a kid, I thought about being a comedian all the time.

But then I grew up. And I forgot about being a comedian. I had sensible goals. I did well in sales, and that seemed like a good way to make money. Boring. But it does pay the bills. So I went to my sales job, and went on vacations, and did everything everyone else does. Until one day I sorta woke up out of my coma, and said, “Screw this, I’m becoming a stand up comic!”

But how the hell was I going to do that? I had no idea. I didn’t know any stand up comics. I lived in NY, but that was all I had going for me. I decided to take a course at the New School. It’s this college that has all these different, artsy type of classes. They had a course on learning stand up comedy, so I thought I was in.

I got to the class, and I was kinda nervous. I sat down, and it was me, a few other women and a ton of guys. There was some oldish comic standing up at the front of the room, and he was the teacher. I never heard of him. He was weird, and he seemed nervous. I almost didn’t believe he was a comic. Comics are confident, right?

Anyway, he immediately started name dropping like he was in with every celebrity. He claimed he was responsible for Jon Stewart staying in comedy. He was like the six degrees of Kevin Bacon, only he thought he was two degrees from everyone instead.

If that was true, wouldn’t we know him, and why would he have been teaching this dumb class? Name Dropper finally shut up about himself and wanted us to go around the room and talk a little about ourselves.

The first guy got up and said he was a lawyer, but he always wanted to be a comedian. He was a tax attorney. Not funny. Next. Another lawyer. Next. Another lawyer. Out of the twenty or so people in the class, fourteen were lawyers. This class was going to blow. I couldn’t believe there were so many unhappy lawyer wannabe comedians.

Then Name Dropper said, “Okay, it seems like you all have stuff to draw on for material. Come back next week with five minutes.” And he walked out of the class. Umm, how do I get my money back? Did I just pay a couple hundred bucks to listen to a bunch of attorneys brag about how funny they are at the ol’ water cooler, and then have some comic basically do nothing and tell me to come back with five minutes of material? Yes. The answer is yes, that’s what I paid for. I didn’t think Eddie Murphy ever had to endure this shit. But then again who thinks they’re really going to take a class at the New School and become a comic. But I had to start somewhere. It was shocking, but I started working on my five minutes.

The Calling Card (Part 3)

It’s the big day. I walk in practicing the phrase over and over again in my head. “I thought it was a perk. I thought it was a perk.”

U.W. calls me into his office by having one of the secretaries tell me he needs to see me. Did I mention he’s a chauvinist pig?

This company is the most boys' club, male centered, bullshit

place I’ve ever worked at. While interviewing, I was told that women wearing pants was strongly discouraged. The Regional, the guy in charge, is a red-headed giant. He must be 6’7”. Apparently he likes women in skirts. That’s understandable, but we’re outside all the time. It isn’t always optimal to wear a skirt.

But every female at my company wears skirts and the shorter the better. Nobody wants to anger Big Red. He has quite the temper. Think: NYC Melrose Place.

Since today is the day I’m going in with the perk line, you can practically see my vagina, my skirt is so short. It’s so crazy that I’m getting in trouble at all because this company really has an “anything goes

type of policy.” This is more a political problem than a misstep. I’m caught in the crossfire between Big Red and U.W. They hate each other. This calling card situation is just the opportunity Big Red needs to really stick it to U.W. Not to say I’m exactly innocent, but if I didn’t work for U.W. maybe this all could be avoided.

I walk into U.W.’s tidy office. I’m sure he had a woody all night thinking about what he was going to say to me. He goes right for the juice.

“I was in a meeting yesterday, and it came to my attention that you’ve been using the company calling card for you own purposes ....” and it goes on. The calls were made from my home, to Hawaii, at 3 a.m., blah, blah, blah.

But now it’s my turn. I say, “I thought it was a perk.” And then I shut my mouth. Nothing else to add. He’s looking at me, and I’m looking at him. We’re caught in a dead stare. He says, “What?” So I say, “I thought it was a perk.”

The screaming starts. “You thought we gave you a calling card, so you could make personal phone calls from your

house during all hours of the day, and ring up a bill of $780. You expect me to believe that?”

I interjected, “I go home for lunch. Listen, I thought it was a perk. I now know it’s not. Thanks for letting me know it’s only for company business.” And I walked out of his office while he sat there staring at me. I guess he was in shock.

It’s the next day and U.W. calls me back into his office. He starts, “I want to talk to you about the calling card because you don’t know how embarrassing it was to be in a meeting and get called out...”

And I lose it.

“I told you, I thought the calling cards were a perk. They’re not. I get it now. But if you think every time I walk into this office, I’m going to wonder if you’re going to bring it up, you better think again. This is the last time we’re talking about the calling cards. Got it? The last time.”

When you have wronged someone, act as though they’ve wronged you.

Silence from U.W. I’m sure he thought he’d yell, and I’d cave. No way, I’m tough. I walk in high heels all day, in a short skirt around Korea Town. Please.

As a matter of fact I’ll be wearing ultra short skirts for at least a few weeks to atone for my calling card mishap. U.W. is so stunned, he just sits there staring.

With his mouth on the floor, I leave his office. Stepping outside into the sunlight, I suddenly remember a call I have to make. I take my calling card out and begin to dial.

The Calling Card (Part 2)

In 1997 nobody has a cell phone. Dark days. If you want to talk to someone you have to wait until you’re either at home or at work to make a call, or you can use public pay phones. I’ve always been disgusted by pay phones, so usually I just wait to talk. But when alcohol’s involved and I need to drunk dial while at a bar, suddenly the bar pay phone isn’t gross.

The calling cards are supposed to be used so that you can call clients while in your territory. My territory is two Manhattan blocks. It’s 31st and 32nd street on the west side. This is known as Korea Town. Most of the time, I’m getting kicked out of buildings or hung up on by Korean business owners.

A typical phone call usually results in me hearing,“Nobody here, nobody here” or “no call no more, no call no more.” My calling card would now allow me to hear these delightful phrases while using a filthy, disgusting pay phone in the middle of a blizzard or during a heat wave. Wonderful, right?

I decided not to use the calling card for work, but instead to use it for play. The calling card number was immediately dispersed to all my friends so we could drunk dial or call each other while out at night. My cousin had moved to Hawaii, and I was calling her there. I had given the calling card out to about 10 friends. I guess I underestimated the amount of drunk dialing, bar calling and Hawaii connections that had been made in one month, and all that had equaled $780.

Crazy worried about what to do, I realize there is a way out of this. In a word: Megan. The most duplicitous, most conniving, most underhanded mind I could ever have the good fortune of knowing. I have access to Megan and if anyone can get me out of this jam, it’s her.

Megan is the best liar. Period. Bar none. Impossible to find someone better. She has talked her way out of thousands of obligations, and

I was often there to watch, always amazed at this master of chicanery. It’s too bad she isn’t interested in politics.

I call Megan right away. She laughs at the situation, and tells me not to worry. She has a system. She tells me to grab a beer and wait by the phone. An hour later, the phone rings. It’s Her.

She says she thought of every possible excuse, but based on everything she knows about what they had on me, the only solution is to tell U.W. that I thought the calling card was a perk. She claims there is nothing he can say back. This is what my duplicitous, conniving, underhanded friend has come up with? I yell at her for smoking pot before she

tackled my problem. This is her system? She swears up and down she had waited to smoke.

If she could slap me through the phone she would. Who am I to doubt her? This girl has talked her way out of everything her entire life. It’s like she’s a guy. “You’re going in there tomorrow, and you’re saying you thought it was a perk. Trust me. It can’t fail.” This is it. The end of the road. No turning back. The last stop before hell.

Then Megan decides to give me one more piece of advice. She says, “Whatever you do, make sure you stick with your lie. No matter what happens, just continue to say the same thing. Stick with your lie.” Truer words have never been said. Sometimes you just have to lie. And when you lie, you need to stick with it. It’s the only way.

TO BE CONTINUED...

The Calling Card (Part 1)

It’s 1997, and I’m nervous. One of the Area Directors in my company wants to talk to me in his office. He used to be my manager, but he was promoted, so now he’s more of a big wig. It’s the end of the day, and I’m just about to go home. I’ve had one foot out the door for the last few months, and I wonder if he knows I’m trying to leave. This is the type of company where nobody wants anyone to quit. We’re all supposed to be miserable together, forever.

“It’s your company calling card. There was a big meeting today with all of the managers. All the higher-ups were there.” Picture a bleak conference room with lilly white, stodgy old men, young eager bucks, and a few dikey females.

He continues, “Your manager was singled out because your calling card was $780.” I offhandedly say, “Is that high?” He raises his voice an octave, “Are you kidding? It’s the highest in the company.” In 1997 there’s no cell phones, and a call costs 25 cents. Normally our bills are no more than $40.

My head starts spinning as he continues, “And some of the calls were made from your home. What’s going on?” When caught, run. “I don’t know. That’s weird, but I gotta go.” Moving quickly, I head for the nearest exit. “You’re going to have to explain this to your manager tomorrow.” Calling over my shoulder, “I’m so sorry I’m in such a rush.” And I run out the door. This is serious shit!

A meeting tomorrow with my manager, U.W. (a.k.a uptight white), was the worst possible news I could get. Any meeting with him would be dreaded, not just a meeting where I was caught doing something wrong. U.W. was the worst boss to have at this company. He wouldn’t take this lightly. I was thankful the Area Director had tipped me off, although it was hard to tell if he was warning me or trying to get to the bottom of things. I was lucky he was a pushover and let me run out the door, but it only bought me a night. How was I going to get myself out of this one? The calling card was supposed to be used for work calls.

The company I work at is pretty big. It’s another sales job and it’s one of those jobs that’s the grunt of the grunt jobs. You’re thrown into a territory and that’s that. Live or die. Sink or swim. You have a quota for the year, month and week and come hell or high water, you better make it.

At this company they never give us anything to help us increase sales. No expense account. No chochkie’s. No pens. No pads. No nothing. Well, that’s not entirely true. They did give us one thing before the calling cards. They gave us Tootsie Rolls.

While other companies were taking clients out for elaborate dinners and lap dances my company was giving away free Tootsie Rolls. Now I’ll admit, I enjoy a good Tootsie Roll every now and again. I like chewy, sugary, chocolate that when not fresh can chip a tooth. And when they started giving us tins of Tootsie rolls to give to clients, I admit I started eating Tootsie Rolls often. And I wasn’t the only one. As a matter of fact, you couldn’t round an office corner without seeing a coworker's mouth chomping hard on a Tootsie or trying to get one out of their teeth.

And then one day at our usual “you people suck and need to sell more” meeting an announcement was made. The company was now going to not only splurge and continue to give us tins of Tootsies, but they were also going to give us calling cards. And that’s where all the trouble started.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Rubies, Emeralds, and Diamonds Oh My! (Part 3)

It was THE RING. It was lost. YES! LOST! I was crazy upset, but pretending I had perspective. Even though I had only thought about moving to California for five seconds, suddenly I was into it.

I thought I lost it while going to the bathroom. I have this bad habit of every time I wash my hands, I take off THE RING. No matter where I am.

I had 24-hour notice about the interview, and I ran around like a maniac getting things together and preparing. And then once I was there, it was Suit after Suit. Talking. Questioning. Pretending to care. Feigning interest. Forced laughter. Awkward pauses.

While talking to Suit Four, I noticed THE RING was gone. I said, “I don’t mean to interrupt you, but I need to run to the bathroom for a second. I think I lost my ring.” I checked all over the bathroom, but didn’t see it.

I decided even though I was dying inside, I’d have to save my freak out for later. I wanted this job.

I told Suit Four the news. He asked me how much THE RING was worth. When I told him $11,000, he lost it. He kept talking about his Rolex, and how upset he’d be if he lost it. He called the manager, hotel security and then the police.

It was a big deal to me, but Suit Four was really taking it personally. He told me about the expensive jewelry he bought for himself over the years. The more Suit Four gushed about jewelry, the more I realized how dumb it all was. I didn’t want to be like Suit Four. Let’s face it, who does?

Finally he stopped talking about it, and we finished our interview. But there was still one more person to meet.

The Suit of all Suits. I can’t even call him Suit Five, because he was more distinctive. He was the boss. The Head Honcho. Numero Uno,

even to himself. And he was tall. Really tall. Tall people really do have an advantage in life besides being able to reach shit.

I wanted to impress him, but as Suit Four was walking away he said, “Did you hear? She just lost an $11,000 ring?” Somebody needed to smack Suit Four.

He asked me if I needed a minute after losing something so valuable, but I told him I was fine. He blinked and said the interview was over. I said, “I don’t understand.” He looked at me and said, “If anyone can get on a plane with 24-hour notice, interview all day, lose something valuable and then handle it like you have, that’s someone I want to work with. You got my vote.” And he left. It was over, and I flew back home.

It felt like I’d been gone from NYC for weeks. I walked into my apartment, and thought about ordering Chinese food, but went into the bathroom first. And there sitting on the sink was THE RING.

I realized I had taken it off while washing my hands right before I left for the airport. It was here the entire time.

A few days later I was walking around Columbus Circle. An unusually warm 45-degrees for that time of year, it was almost hot. My phone rang, and it was Suit Four offering me the job, but I respectfully declined. I told him, “Something had come up.” He asked me if I found my ring? Should I tell him the truth? He would be relieved but...nah, I kept it to myself.

I shut my cell phone and one sapphire in THE RING caught the light. It felt like Spring was just around the corner. Now that’s a good time to live in NYC.

Rubies, Emeralds, and Diamonds Oh My! (Part 2)

When I walked into the store, I was home. Rubies, Emeralds, and Diamonds. Oh my! Gold statues. Case after case of sparkle after sparkle. My newly trained eye zoned in amongst all this stuff and saw: THE RING. It was gorgeous. It was magnificent. It had everything. Weight. Color. Sapphires. Diamonds. Rubies. Pure love, the first time I saw it. I had to have it, but I wanted to play it cool.

“Oh my God. I love that ring. I want it. It fits perfect. It’s beautiful.” My NGBF thought it looked great. We bartered for a while. All the jewelry was on sale because the store was closing. Everything was marked down so much, they must buy each piece for a quarter. The saleswoman gave it to me for a good price. She said she just needed to get rid of everything and was happy to sell it. I found out later, when having it appraised, that it was actually an amazing price.

The ring is worth $11,000. If you saw it you wouldn’t think that. It’s some famous designer. Yada Yada Yada. I happen to love it, but not because of it’s value. It’s because it signified the

official end of the Jewelry Spree. Good times. Good times.

After I bought that ring, there was an intervention by one of my friends. She talked about my spending versus my earning and made some good points. She was right. It was fine with me. I had THE RING. What else would I need?

And then it got cold. Real cold. Windy with no sun cold. Some people might say it was a bad winter. I’d say it was an

un-fucking-believably-no-human-should-have-to-live-like-this bad winter. My NYC loyalty was being tested. And with no shopping or new sparkles to look forward to, all I could think about was how to survive winter.

I’d walk outside, and even though I was bundled beyond belief in a hat, scarf, gloves, earmuffs, and layer upon layer underneath a heavy jacket and looked like I’d just gained 100 pounds, the minute I was outside, I couldn’t feel my feet. My nose was about to fall off, and my eyes teared.

I started to think I could live in a nice, hot suburb. I’ll learn how to drive. I’ll shop at Costco. I don’t care. Just get me out of this crazy ass weather.

And then one day while talking to my NGBF and cursing the temperature, I said, “This would be a great time to move to California.” She totally agreed. I said, “If I had a job, I’d move there tomorrow. It’s just one of those things you say like, “I’d love to run a marathon.” Or “We should jump out of an airplane.” Or “I’d love to date a guy from France.” It’d be great, but it’s never really going to happen.

Two days later, I was flying out to California for a job interview. Crazy, I know. My NGBF had mentioned it to a higher up in her company who had met me, and then found out they had a position they needed to fill in California.

But there I was in California, sitting in one of San Diego’s finest hotel’s lobbies, in the middle of craziness. I was with the manager of the hotel, hotel security and the San Diego Police. I was with one of the guys who was interviewing me, The Suit, and he was upset. They had me drawing a sketch. Answering questions. Going over every move I had made. It was nuts. But suddenly, I wanted this job, and I wanted to move to California.

TO BE CONTINUED...

Rubies, Emeralds, and Diamonds Oh My! (Part 1)

I love NYC, and I’m a die hard fan. And I’d defend this position to the death, but in the winter my loyalty can be tested.

Knowing winter was almost here, me and my NGBF (Non-Gay Best Friend) decided to book a quick trip to Aruba. We went to a travel agent and told her we just wanted to be warm and drunk. Easy. Simple. Right?

We left out a few important facts, because she booked us at this disgusting hotel. Totally gross. It smelled and looked like it hadn’t been updated since 1975. I knew there was probably gallons of cum on the walls, and when I pulled the blanket off my bed there was hair on it. Potentially pubes.

I immediately checked us out of the hotel and told them it was because of the cum and pubes. Then I called the travel agent. Again the cum and the pubes story. She said she couldn’t do anything. Her boss got on the phone. Again the cum and the pubes story. Most vacations have more cum and pubes action as opposed to talk. This trip sucked so far.

After a ton of phone calls, we were booked into a five star hotel in Aruba, without being charged extra. Things were looking up. Our room wasn’t ready, and it was the middle of the day, so instead of going swimming, we took a cab into town to shop and drink. We needed some stress relief, big time.

Aruba is known for jewelry. So after a few margarita’s, we shopped. We were experiencing drunk vacation shopping therapy. Not good. And once we started, we couldn’t stop. We bought jewelry almost every day. Needless to say, it was a little addictive.

At this time me and my NGBF didn’t make much money. She had just changed careers, and I was at yet another sales job. We probably couldn’t really afford Aruba, which is why we ended up at the 1975 Cum Pubic Hair Hotel. We definitely couldn’t afford the jewelry we bought, but we thought it’d stop in Aruba. You know, as we were flying back wearing 14 bracelets, 4 rings and 10 chains, looking like a couple of ‘80s Guidettes, we figured we had enough new jewelry. But once back in NYC, we realized Aruba had kicked off a jewelry shopping spree unlike any other.

I’d be walking down the street to pick up my dry cleaning and instead buy a diamond bracelet. My NGBF would be in the middle of work, just running out to grab a salad, and then she’d come back to the office with a diamond watch. The flood gates were open. We were out of control. We needed to be stopped. Something. Anything. We were buying jewelry as often as we peed, and something had to give.

And then it happened. I saw THE RING. And the sparkle was amazing. You see, that’s what this was all about. I love the sparkle. I’ve always loved the sparkle, and once I started buying the sparkle, I couldn’t stop. I wanted to be covered in sparkle. The more the better. You know that woman that wears her entire jewelry box every day? I aspired to own her collection. Demented, I know.

Some sparkle over on Fifth Avenue was calling my name, and it was about time I made a purchase. I called my NGBF and she sped over.

TO BE CONTINUED...