Nothing but (some) of the truth

Last week, I really opened up to you, like Lance did with Oprah.  I told you about my ex-boyfriend. You know, the one (of many) that got away.  And of course, I told you all about my excessive steroid use…which surprised those of you who have seen me try to make it up four flights of stairs without sweating profusely.

However, I’m not going to say that I lied to you.

Much like my animal spirit guide 2 Chainz, ye ain’t never told no lie.  Honestly, that’s what makes this fun for me.  I tell you an embarrassing truth, and you go, “Ooooooooh my GAWD, did that really happen?”  And then I start sobbing into my hands, but peek at you surreptitiously to see if you’re buying it, and keep it going until you offer to buy me more drinks and/or snack wraps.

But I do occasionally switch out some of the specific details of my life to protect the innocent, and also, so my parents don’t try to send me to rehab.  Again.

I thought I was doing pretty well with censoring the most memorable particulars about people – like their social security numbers or the number of pounds they gained sophomore year of college – but last week, I must have been too lazy/hungover to bother with all that.

So, when I met up with a friend/hero/soulmate/therapist after the post had been published, I was thrilled to hear that she loved reading my blog.  I was less-than-thrilled to hear that she knew exactly who I was talking about in the most recent post, and casually remarked that she didn’t remember the term “boyfriend” being thrown around when I had dated this man.

I laughed, in a totally non-panicked way, and said, “Oh, yes!  I use the term ‘boyfriend’ very loosely, especially when I refer to men I have dated and/or Cory Booker.”

She smiled in that way people do when they can tell you are totally sane, and told me she had to run off to a party.

I gave her a hug, and ran off to my favorite safe haven: the subway.  But as I’m walking towards the uptown track, I see him.  His eye catches mine, and I know there’s no escape.  I’m going to have to say hello.  I walk up, give him a hug, and the subway platform audience applauds.

He tosses his saxophone to his band mate, grabs a handful of cash out of his hat on the floor, gives me a kiss on the cheek and says, “It was great seeing you again, Allison.”


Subway Tunnel of Love

People like to shit on the subway system here in New York, but they are usually homeless.

Personally, I love riding the subway.  It’s the perfect time to catch up on some reading, listen to some music, pretend you’re pregnant to get a seat (lunch from Chipotle and a strategically placed hand usually does the trick), practice your eye contact avoidance skills, and, of course, it remains hands down my number one favorite place to cry shamelessly in front of an audience of strangers.

However, despite the fact that there are supposedly a lot of people in this city, and subway schedules are, shall we say, less than predictable, you can always count on those creepy underground tunnels to push you directly into the sweaty arms of that one person you planned on never, ever, EVER seeing again.  Like, ever. (Oh, shut up, Taylor Swift.)

If you’re reading this and thinking, “Oh god, I hope it’s not me that Alyssa is trying to avoid!”  You can hope all you want, but, it is you.  It is DEFINITELY you.

Don’t worry, though.  You’re not alone.  There are actually a bunch of unacceptable freakshows who escaped from their cages at Animal Planet that I’m actively hiding from at all times.  Unfortunately for me, they all spend an inordinate amount of time underground.

This past weekend, I was riding my beloved subway train, listening to NOW THAT’S WHAT I CALL MUSIC 6 (I can’t figure out how to work iTunes), and I was singing the classic Shaggy hit, “It Wasn’t Me,” out loud so the other passengers didn’t feel left out.  They all stared at me, gratefully.  I hopped out at 42nd Street, and tackled some tourists waiting for nothing on the platform.

I noticed a small crowd had formed, supposedly in front of a street performer, and I wormed my way through those idiots so I could get to the stairs and also grab a few of their wallets.  And then, I saw him.  The street performer.  He looked very familiar to me but at first, I couldn’t place him.  And then I realized: it was my ex-boyfriend.


Note: This is not a picture of my ex.
It’s a picture of SpiderMan.

We made eye contact, and he sort of half-opened his mouth like he was going to say something, but then just kept playing his saxophone while people tossed what looked like melted Hanukkah gelt into his hat, and I continued up the stairs.  I though back to the time when we were together, and he told me it was always his dream to make it as a musician.

And, I mean, I just couldn’t be prouder.

Mardi Gross.

It’s Fat Tuesday.  Which is basically the best Tuesday.

In honor of my favorite Fat’s –Domino, Albert, & Trans — I will be gobbling down some key fatty treats in an effort to make sure my pants do not fit by the end of the day.  This will likely be a challenge as I am currently rocking off-brand Pajama Jeans, and these suckers are STRETCHY (and flattering).

Still, I am up for it!  And have armed myself with cupcakes, tubs of frosting, pizza, meatball subs, nachos, buffalo wings, snack wraps, and one strawberry fruit roll-up.*

And the timing couldn’t be better!  What with Valentine’s Day right around the corner, the drugstores are stocked with some of my favorite goodies (ANYTHING WITH PEANUT BUTTER) and the cashiers just assume you’re throwing a party for your sweetheart or bringing the candy to the office or feeding it to your cats as a part of your joint-suicide pact.  Oh you cashiers and your blind optimism!

I don’t really know what the origin of this holiday is – I think it’s like a tailgate for Jesus? – but I am in it to win it.  And if you see me later, don’t throw beads at me and think I’m going to rip my top off.  This is the only lobster bib I could find on short notice.


*They were giving them out for free on the subway.  Or maybe I took it out of a kid’s lunch box.  SHUT UP.

Friends With (Corporate) Benefits

Now that I have a job (cut to my parents high-fiving each other), I have been taking full advantage of the tasty adulthood-inducing perks that come with being employed.  In addition to now receiving steady paychecks, health insurance, dental coverage, and a 401K account, I have also set up a life insurance policy, with the help of a very confused/judgey HR rep, naming my stuffed animal Ranger Rick as the sole beneficiary.  Despite his penchant for tranny hookers, heroin, and horse-back riding, he is still likely to out live me and I want to make sure the people/inanimate objects with drug dependencies who took care of me will be taken care of down the line.


Pictured: R.R. and his War Horse, Poppy. Cambridge, MA circa 2005.

These standard benefits are terrific but, I have to admit, they felt a little boring.  I scoured the new hire packets for a little something extra, but to no avail!  This was it.  There were no forgotten wrapped Christmas gifts in Mom’s underwear drawer.  Just underwear!  Oh, and piles of cash.  Which I took.

And then, I found it.  That extra something special that I knew I deserved…

The homeless man who guards the subway tunnel I need to walk through to get to work!  Now, this may not sound like a “benefit” to you, and that’s because you’re probably a functioning human who didn’t take out a life insurance policy for an emaciated junky who is also a childhood toy.  But this guy is great.  It’s like being on an episode of Family Double Dare alone where your only option is “Physical Challenge” and the host is the hungry troll from the Three Bill Goats Gruff demanding that you pay him in American dollars.  So yeah, I am living the dream, folks.

Sometimes he softens his approach, too.  This morning, he was holding a bouquet of flowers, and I thought, “Finally!  Someone who wants to be my Valentine!”   However, I was mistaken.

Those were the flowers he wanted to pee on.  Which he did.