Oncology with Cigarettes

I decided to dry my alcoholic ass out this week and let my fever break and let my cough turn into a mere hack instead of a deep lung cancerish cry for help. Although I'm still addicted to Advil Cold and Sinus and now, Mucinex, I feel ready for round two three four and five of my big city manifestations and adventures. I just hope I eat enough before I violently chug a bottle of Grey Goose this weekend.

Suck-my-face Kosovo Club Boy has been calling and texting me and asking me out every day. He's such a genuinely cuddly sweetheart but now I know he really likes me and that means I can't like him because, well, where's the challenge?

My favorite phrase is "Ignore Me and I'm Yours."

I met him for a Frappucino yesterday and it almost seemed like our electric chemistry had subsided.

My gay male Broadway singer roommate told me my problem with men is that I subconsciously feel sorry for them when they like me or are frustrated by me so I become too nice with them. The men take this as reinforcement and continue to ask me out and I can't say no because I feel guilty and I don't want to hurt anyone but I still really want to have a lot of unadulterated wild sex but the problem is...I just can't.

I think my delicate heart strings are too intimately intertwined with my vagina.

After the awkward Starbucks rendezvous, I came back to my desk at work feeling a bit perplexed. Why did I have to feel so awkwardly weird? Why couldn't I just treat him as a cool new friend I had met? For some reason the thought of licking his face endlessly began to make me feel ashamed, like a trashy filthy dirty whore.

At that moment, as I was thinking about volunteering to feed the homeless to compensate for my drunken sexual guilt, my matchmaker phoned me.

She told me a "very very very" successful clinical oncologist who is half-Italian "really really really" wanted to meet me. He's apparently 37 with brown hair and brown eyes and he's 5'10" which really means he's probably 5'8".

"Well, can I see a photo?" I asked her eagerly.

"We have to respect the privacy of our clients, so, I'm sorry sweetie, but we have to keep everything strictly off-line," she said, ever so politely.

I guess if I paid $200,000 to a matchmaker I wouldn't want my photos splashed everywhere either.

The clinical oncologist, let's call him Cancer Boy for short, called me one hour later. He sounded a bit dry, straightforward, sort of like, "Hey, this dating stuff is serious business and I need to find a wife who can breed asap."

But on a contradictory note, he also sounded really intelligent and nice. I'm meeting him Tuesday at some Italian trattoria.

What if I get there and he's fugly? Surely my matchmaker would at least pair me off with someone remotely attractive?

On my commute this morning I began to look at every guy with "brown hair and brown eyes." One guy had no chin, protruding bug eyes and a red mole on his neck. The next guy had flaky pale skin, a booger hanging out of his nose and bifocals so thick I thought they were windows.

Then, I suddenly realized that this apparent match is an oncologist. Did I mention to the matchmaker that I have the tendency to chain smoke like a chimney especially when I'm roaring drunk? Oh, and that I also burn myself to a crisp in an artificial tanning bed twice a week?

I'm from Texas.

And, that I think the Western approach to medicine is overly, ragingly, blindingly violent? If the cancer doesn't kill you, it's guaranteed that the chemotherapy and the endless rounds of toxic, bitter radiation will send you swiftly over the edge.

I'm more into the Eastern, non-intrusive holistic approach to medicine, even though I poison myself with carbon monoxide and potent UV rays on a regular basis.

Surely these could be only minor discrepancies that could emerge with Cancer Boy?

Suddenly the idea of a highly intoxicated make-out session with Kosovo Club Boy followed by a thick pack of cigarettes doesn't sound so bad...

Matchmakers, Secret Agents and New Digs

I am still sick as a dog but full of hope and wonder, hoping my body will catch up to the fun that I've been having this past month. Maybe I've created the cold and flu just so it would force me to slow down and stop being so damned boy crazy? On top of the horrific body aches I've been bleeding like a hemopheliac from my never-ending period. Maybe I've wanted to jump on top of every man I meet because my phermones are sending out invisible signals: "Attention attention, calling all men, she's ovulating! Move in quickly!"

But, despite the massive amount of blood and sickness, I feel like I've finally taken charge and I'm creating the life that I really want, even if that life does include brief frivolous flings and "lost" weekends. I keep thinking about the impermanence of things, like if I were to die tomorrow, what would I do differently? Would I call that guy meet that person apply for that job go to that party give lots of hugs lots of kisses realize we're all beautiful we all want the same thing nothing is by chance take enormous risks or make that move?

****
I met with the head of the matchmaking service (Selective Search) at the Sherry Netherland hotel on Friday. That Barbara Streisand song from Hello Dolly! kept playing over and over in my head as I was stuck in traffic nervous as hell in the pouring rain on my way to meet her:

"Matchmaker, matchmaker, make me a match! Find me a find! Catch me a catch!"

The rain was coming down in sheets and the cabdriver was playing some zitar hypnotic Euro pop Indian music monstrosity that caused my heart to palpitate as I applied my plumping lip gloss and my expensive perfume samples over and over. My hair had swelled up to the size of a big afro because of the humidity and wetness.

The head of the company met me in the lobby and we went up to her ginormous gorgeous suite and she gave me a glass of sparkling French water. I had to sign a confidentiality agreement and a thing that said I'm not crazy and everything I say is true and I'm currently not taking any medication.

I wondered if binge drinking and popping pseudoephedrine pills every few hours counted?

We chatted for an hour about what I'm looking for, what the company was about and my background. The director, who lives in Chicago but comes to NY twice a month, kept saying, "Gosh, it's just so expensive here in the city. I just don't see how people live here!"

I felt like she was trying to get a reaction out of me, to see if I was a golddigger. I opted for the response of a little laughter and the standard "Yeah, it is expensive." I left by giving her a kiss on the cheek and she said she had five or six men that she wants me to meet. I was just relieved that I hadn't accidentally signed up for an escort service.

****
Suck-my-face-Kosovo club boy drove up to my apartment Friday night. He brought me some expensive red wine and hard to find Italian chocolates. We made out in every conceivable area of my apartment in between deep discussions of Religion and Politics. Both he and I think 9-11 was an inside job...he's Muslim. Apparently, (news flash!) 90% of Kosovo "people" are Muslim. He said he's not a practicing one though, whatever that means.

There's something mysterious about this boy. Like he's into the black market or has some big secret, and I can't quite put my finger on it. I told him:

"There's something shady about you, but that's kind of hot," hoping he would divulge some more info about what he really does. I mean, c'mon, a "restaurant manager" can't live the lifestyle he leads. With labels on his clothes of Armani and Kenneth Cole?

He then mumbled something about the FBI and his face sort of flushed and then he changed the subject. When we got into our 9-11 discussion he needed a $20 bill to demonstrate the twin towers burning trick. He pulled out A WAD of cash from his pocket. I've never seen that much cash in someone's pocket. Ever.

Could this boy be a secret undercover agent for the FBI? He is well traveled and knows a little too much about the world. Is the "restaurant manager" thing his cover?

That's so totally hot I don't even know what to say.

****

My friend called me this morning and asked me to move into her apartment for the summer to take care of her diabetic cat.

It looks like I've manifested a new apartment...

Closer to downtown.

Where all of the boys are.

I think I'm going to make that move...and catch me a catch.

Think Forward Cack

Yeah yeah yeah, unlike other bloggers who have legitimate excuses for not blogging, like, say, they were on some spectacular expensive vacation or they've been so extremely unbelievably busy-busy, I have no excuse. Although, a lot of shit has happened to me over the past two weeks. Although I would like to encapsulate you with sordid, succulent, vibrant, juicy details, I'm going to recap the basics. I could write a novel:

1. I continued to exchange e-mails with Mr. CEO for lack of better judgement. We were this close to meeting about two times, and then I stopped responding 4 days ago. He e-mails me every day asking me to meet for a drink. Now, I've just become creeped out. Like I was this close to meeting a serial killer.

2. I met a gorgeous GQ modelish British 22 year old tourist boy. I despise 22 year olds, but he ended up coming over, and staying over at my house for like three days. We discussed the meaning of life over steaming hot chinese food and bitter wine holed up during the NY monsoon. He took lots of candid photos of me with his new camera. I was sure we were twin souls, meant to be together, separated by thousands of miles and I told him he should move to New York and become a model. Then, I realized I was a bit relieved when he finally left my house.

3. My new favorite word is cack. I like to add it to the end of everything I say.

4. I met a 30 year old blonde hair blue-eyed boy from Kosovo who is a manager of some restaurant on the Upper East Side. He buys me expensive lunches and drinks and I met him at some club and we ended up sucking face all night and he lives near my work and I've spent the night with him twice and... he aims to please. It's nice to walk to work in the morning. I think he might be a member of the Russian mafia. He has lots of cousins.

5. I met some guy named Omar who is a civil rights attorney. He keeps calling me. I think I accidentally gave him my number. The name Omar makes me laugh.

6. I've become a binge drinker. I like to get to the point now where I have the same conversation over and over with the same people just because I can't remember that I had the same conversation two minutes before. Sort of like self-induced amnesia.

7. I've become a quick change artist. I store all of my "going out" clothes in a closet at work and when the clock hits 5:30 I hit the handicapped bathroom and brush my teeth, smear my deoderant, spray lots of cheap perfume and put on a revealing top. I'm learning how to get free drinks. All I have to do is walk in a bar and stand there.

8. The founder of HotEnough.org who lives in Nutley, New Jersey (Nutley? Parsippany? Hoboken? The names kill me every time) has been asking me out. I think I might meet him next week. That'll definitely make a good post.

9. I found a good yet-what-seems-like-shady accountant who manipulated a good tax return for moi. I'm hoping to go shopping soon.

10. I'm exhausted. All of the going and coming and taking action and visualizing has worn me out. Like I could sleep for days.

Have I created a monster? Or, am I finally just being a fun, frivolous 27-year-old living in the city instead of my usual 80-year-old grandma self?

I don't know...but I do have a new motto:

Think forward. Always.