Sunday, March 20, 2011

gin + grease

Before I went to bed, I told myself “No church tomorrow!” and I meant it. I woke up at 10:30 am today craving white wine mimosas and pancakes. I called Editor and requested brunch. She told me she had an interview at 12 and that she could meet me at 2. I told her to tell herself she was meeting me at 1:30. We both laughed.

After we hung up, BFF called me. Punjabi’s live-in gf was blowing up her phone from Punjabi’s phone and from her own phone, leaving angry voicemails and texts – really upsetting her. She was convinced the girl was going to come over to her house with a gun and blow her away- Joey Buttafuco style. I calmed her down as Editor called me to tell me she was getting on the train. (Logistics: It was 1:30 at the time of the call. It takes 25 minutes to get from where she is to where we were going. It takes me 40 minutes to get there. I was still in undies when she called.) I told her I was running (quote unquote) a few minutes late. She said it was fine.

Cute outfit secured complete with sky high lace-up wedge heels that make me feel bad ass and I’m sitting at the bar looking stupid waiting. By the grace of The Almighty, I was there at 2:15. I waited 15 minutes and started calling and leaving messages.
It was 2:45 when she called.

“We are at the train”
(in my head) Who is we?

I foolishly thought she meant she was at the train station at the place where we were meeting. I was wrong. She was still in HARLEM. Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaat the eff?
At 3:30, she’s strolling with the magazine’s videographer. I thought I would be able to brush it off and seriously, those pancakes and mimosas were calling my name. As soon as I saw her, my cheeks flushed. I was LIVID.

Where were you? Why are you so late? I’ve been waiting for an hour and 15 minutes for you!

I didn’t know what time you were going to be here. I didn’t think it was such a big deal.

I told you I was going to be a few minutes late. Instead of 2pm, I was here at 2:15. What the fuck?

I’m sorry.

Videographer : Blame me. Its my fault.

(I don’t even look at him) Y’know, Editor, every time we’re supposed to meet up, you’re at least an hour late. Is that fair to me and my time?

She has the look of a deer caught in headlights.

I’m leaving. I really don’t want to scream at you in the street.

You’re what?! I came down here just for you.

I’m leaving. I can’t even look at you.

I really wanted to add a well-placed “Fuck off” – its my curse-phrase of choice…instead me and my sky-high wedges walked off in a huff. I thanked God for keeping my balance in those things because I’m very clumsy and I fall. That would’ve been horrible timing – falling in the midst of your huff walk.

I was so pissed I was shaking. I’m so done with situations like that. Seriously, I should’ve stayed true to my 15 minute rule…but honestly, I paid the money to get on the train. I didn’t want it to be in vain. By giving Editor the courtesy of letting her know I was running late, I opened the door for her inconsideration. I’m so done. I could’ve hit her.

I took the train to be with BFF. By the time I got there, Punjabi’s live-in called numerous times. BFF answered.

BASICALLY…Punjabi told her he wanted to have fun – that was his reason for WANTING to break up. They’re not broken up. Live-in was upset that Punjabi had never mentioned her and she had no inclination that he was cheating steadily for 2 years. She also wanted to know where/how they meet up because he’s home in the bed with her every night. She said “Oh, he only goes to your house and meets you in his car. Nowhere public?” BFF felt like a whore. She didn’t tell Live-in about the baby on the way.


BFF fixed me and Toni Childs (her other bff) some gin and orange juice. We laughed. We almost cried about it. We invoked the name of Jesus to try and smack some sense into the girl.

No dice.

I asked… “What happens in 15 years if you choose to stay with him and you’re the one calling some 25 year old girl about your man?”

Scary stuff.

We ordered a pizza and watched Eat.Pray.Love and felt all warm and fuzzy inside. On my way home, I rubbed my eyes. I wore minimal makeup..just some mascara and lipstick. I smudged my mascara so bad that it looked like someone punched me in the eye. Also, a stray cat stalked me at the bus stop. I was standing there and it was standing there looking up at me. I moved, it followed. I moved again. It followed.


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