Jerky Christmas



ME (Turning on overhead light while Drew is sleeping): HEY!

DREW (squinting): What?? Turn that off, it’s too bright.


ME: Are we going to have a good Christmas?


DREW: You tell me. Are we?


ME: We are if you can stop being a jerk. That’s why I’m asking.


DREW: Well I’m asking too. I’m not being a jerk. Are you going to stop being a jerk?


ME: I’M not being a jerk. You’re being a jerk. 


DREW: You’re the jerk. Turn the light off.


ME: Not until you say you’re going to stop being a jerk.


DREW: Okay, you’re going to stop being a jerk.


(pause)


ME: Light’s still on.


DREW: All right. I’ll stop being a jerk! Turn it off!


ME: Okay, then we’re going to have a good Christmas.


(light goes off)


DREW (quiet voice from the dark bedroom): You know, some people might say that only a JERK would turn the light on like that.


ME: I can’t hear you! But since you’re up, wanna watch Scrooge?

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Christmas 2010

Christmas is one of my favorite days of the year, especially now that I have a husband who is even more into it than me. We get a tree that takes up our entire tiny living room, we buy way too many presents even though we swear we won’t, we shop at Whole Foods for supplies to last us days (because we refuse to go anywhere), and then we eat like pigs and watch Christmas movies while the cats chew on the tree or sit in opened boxes. This year my mother sent, along with way too many gifts for Drew and me, some homemade catnip pillows, so they’re all completely stoned and rolling around on the floor with their respective pillows as I write this.

Overlarge tree jammed into tiny apartment:


Stoned and happy cats:


Note that Chocula’s pillow is in festive Christmas fabric. My mother is incredibly indulgent. When I was a kid she baked a cake on my hero Todd Rundgren’s birthday, now she wraps and sends presents for my cats.

I wanted to post a video of Drew doing his Christmas dance in his new Motor jeans and cashmere scarf, but he put the kaibosh on that bit of festivity and retired for a nap.

I am happy today, but I always remember when things were not as cheery, and it keeps me mindful of all of the people in the world who are not equally blessed. My happiness is also comprised of gratitude, because my holidays were not always perfect, so I know as well as some how lonely it can be.

This week I thought about a particularly crappy Christmas past. I know I have posted similar blogs, but I share it because I really want those who are out there and feeling bad (who might read this) to know that things do change, and that the feelings of loneliness or sadness on holidays where you are supposed to be happy, but aren’t, are universal.

I always had great holidays growing up. My parents were very generous and we got a ton of presents on Christmas. My siblings and I got along well enough that the day was a melee of toys and food and leaping on relatives. I wasn’t a happy kid for a few different reasons, but the holidays were happy for me.

When I got to New York, it was a different world. I was broke and dove into the most difficult of situations, the darkest energies sometimes. I fell in love with drug addicts who had nothing to give and usually spent Christmas bartending in dive bars, fighting off alcoholics and the energy suckers that also had nowhere else to go. I had friends, but they were equally young, lost, and alone. When I picture those times in my mind, they are always gray-colored: not the comforting black and white of an old movie, but the dirty gray of one of those winter days that you feel disconnected and adrift in depression.

I bartended one Christmas Eve right after breaking up with my cheating boyfriend, who wouldn’t have gotten me a present anyway. I was heartbroken, and along with pouring for the few people who ventured out, tried to get out of my head by doing a lot of coke with a friend, who conveniently happened to be a coke-dealer. He hung out at my bar all night and we tweaked and drank and talked and tweaked and drank and talked until 6 am. At some point during the frenzied conversation he invited me to go to Christmas dinner with his family the next day, and I agreed, as I had nothing else planned.

I went home and didn’t fall asleep until the sun was well into the sky. Once asleep I dreamed that my apartment was covered in insects, giant beetles the size of your hand, crawling out of the floorboards and cracks in the walls, hiding in the pockets of my clothing, clicking and tapping on every surface in sight, eventually crawling on me, as I panicked and brushed them off. There were so many I couldn’t get them all off of me and I shrieked as they took over the room. I awoke with a start; it was such a vivid and creepy dream, but not too hard to decipher. Bugs = drugs.

My friend, current occupation notwithstanding, was a truly nice person from a nice family, and I knew his parents would be proper and classy. I threw clothing around trying to find something appropriate for a dinner out with them, as they were taking us to a nice restaurant. I finally chose what I thought was a simple black dress.

When I arrived at the restaurant and took my coat off and looked around, I realized how out of touch with reality I had become. The dress was skintight, low-cut, and short. It was a dress made for hanging out in clubs, not for an afternoon Christmas dinner with someone’s family. I desperately wanted to throw my coat back on, but that would have been weird, so I sat down with too much of my chest and bare leg visible to two lovely older people and a restaurant full of strangers, who glanced disapprovingly. Excruciating.

His parents didn’t blink an eye and asked the usual polite questions about my background and history. They were warm and gracious and recommended certain items on the menu and as I looked at it I saw that they would be paying a great deal for this dinner. I ordered the standard turkey holiday dinner, and once it arrived I knew I would be too sick with the coke hangover to eat it.

I took as many bites as I could and felt it coming up almost immediately. I excused myself, feeling even more embarrassed at having to walk across the crowded room in that dress, and moved as quickly as I could to the bathroom. I threw up as soon as I got to the toilet. I could hear the woman in the stall next to me hustling to get out of the room. I wanted to kneel down and sob over the toilet, I felt so cold and ill, and like the lowest piece of trash in the world. I was lost and alone. I wanted to be home with my mommy, in pajamas, feeling warm and safe, not stuck in this big city wearing a cheap dress and trying desperately to appear normal and happy for people whose generosity of spirit only made it more clear to me that I was neither of those things and was indeed completely unworthy of their company.

I cleaned myself up as quickly as possible and went back to the table, praying the absence wasn’t overly long. I apologized profusely for not being able to eat the expensive dinner, and they expressed their concern for my well-being. I white-knuckled it through the rest of the evening and thanked them quietly. When I got home I threw the dress in the hamper, to be left there for months. I cried a little bit and fell into a heavy sleep.

Tonight I will drink wine with my love and cook morels and asparagus in pasta. We dvr-ed “Remember the Night” and we might watch some “Freaks and Geeks” as well. I will not be putting on any kind of dress and will remain in pajamas for the day. In a little while I’ll call my mom and a few friends. I already spoke to my sister, who is thrilled that Drew got her husband a t-shirt featuring Johnny Cash giving the finger. She said, “Great. My son is 6, he hadn’t learned about the finger yet. He can take that back to school after vacation.” You’re welcome, sis.  

I have a new video game to play, a pound of my favorite toffee, gorgeous gloves that Drew spent far too much on, an exquisite hand-knitted sweater from mom, Patti Smith’s new book, a bunch of other smaller items, and high-tech running shoes which will surely come in handy after the over-consumption that’s been going on this week. I don’t need these gifts, they’re just stuff, but the thought and love that went into their choice is something that feeds my soul. Life is amazing and I am more grateful than words can say.

That other, foggier Christmas was a lifetime ago, but I bless that experience and many others like it. I wouldn’t enjoy what I have now in the same way if I hadn’t seen the other side. I wouldn’t have gotten here if I hadn’t walked through there. So once again I say to those of you out there in the cold, don’t despair. You can change it for yourself. There is a world of happiness that belongs to us all, if we can only get out of our own way and find a path.

Merry Christmas friends and fam!





Yay, presents!

ME (unwrapping present): Oh, yay!! It’s the entire BBC Jane Austen series on DVD!

DREW: Gaaaaaahhhh!

ME: Look, honey…Pride and Prejudice, Persuasion, Northanger Abbey…

DREW: BBC. Boring British Cinema…

ME: Which one should I watch first? Emma probably…

DREW: BBC. Boring British Channel…

ME: I really like Sense and Sensibility a lot though. Let’s watch that!

DREW: Bonnets. So many bonnets…room is spinning…must lay down…

ME: Hey! Where are you going??

Christmas Miracles

Well… I’ve got a wicked hangover at the moment and haven’t done anything all day long so I thought I’d fill you all in on my weekend.

Friday night found me at the gorgeous home of my fancy friends Luke and Jack for a snowman themed holiday party. They have a beautiful condo right at Astor Place and always go out for their parties. There was a big ice sculpture of a snowman and the bartenders wore top hats and there were plenty of hors d’ouevres being served by waiters with trays. If I tried to set up a bar and some waiters in my apartment that would be the whole party. The ice sculpture would have to go in the tub. But their place is huge and sleek and modern with a windows running along the whole side of the building so you can feel like a movie star while gazing down 7th Street from different angles.

The singer from the Counting Crows lives next door and Norah Jones is in the building somewhere too. Mike suggested we go ringing some doorbells and see who turned up, but we behaved and simply drank and snarked over the bad ensembles some of the women were wearing. I looove a roomful of bad ensembles when I’m getting my drink on and no one dresses more horribly than a nerdy fag hag at a holiday party.

There was a guy plinking out Christmas carols at the grand piano (yes, they have one of those too) and I was tempted to lay on it and sing “Making Whoopee” a la Michele Pfeiffer in The Fabulous Baker Boys. Since it was a party full of gays I’m sure no one would have objected, but I don’t know the words and my corset was so tight it was all I could do just to sit down, so rolling around on a piano was out of the question. Maybe next time they have a party I’ll rehearse a repertoire ahead of time.

And then a Christmas miracle happened for me: Along with the Mikes (Mike and his boyfriend, who we differentiate by calling him Mike Squared), I brought some of my co-workers and we got into a discussion with some other partygoers about earth and animal consciousness. Sushi, the head buyer at PF, and I have gotten into vicious arguments about fur in the past. I buy the lingerie and handle all the consignment for the store, and I refuse to buy fur for those departments. He liked some fur lined hoodies that his friend wanted to put in the store on consignment and I refused to take them and it turned into a war.

This was a couple of years ago and after that I felt that my point had been made. So I’ll crack bitchy jokes about the fur he buys but I don’t fight him really hard on it because he already knows my opinion and I don’t want to be unpleasant with people I like and have to work with.

For the record – here is my view: I have always loved fur. My first memories are of a white rabbit trimmed blue velvet coat my mother dressed me in. It had a fur hat and a fur muff and I felt like a princess in it. Through high school I collected vintage fur coats and muffs and had a ton of them. My mom has always picked them up for me when she would see good ones as well. But as my consciousness grew about it and I learned of the suffering that goes on, I realized I couldn’t justify my love of real fur anymore. So I would never buy it now, but I do have two short black jackets that I am just not ready to give up, although lately I’ve been wearing them a lot less often because I feel like a hypocrite when I put them on.

Anyhoo, so we got on the subject of fur and I made my usual point about the fact that in China they will just stick an animal on a hook and skin it alive and that is one of the many reasons that I don’t think it’s okay to buy fur. And Sushi turned to me and said, “You know, years ago when we would fight about this, I just thought ‘fuck you!’, and that you were just being a bitch. But now I understand your point and I think you’re right.”

My jaw dropped open and just hung there. Did I just hear these words from one of the most rabid fashion fags I know? I think there may have been a chorus of angels singing somewhere, although perhaps that was just the free-flowing vodka talking. Still, I was floored and thrilled and it gives me great hope that change in consciousness is indeed possible even with the most stubborn cases.

Then the next night Drew had a gig at Don Hill’s with Bloody Social and before I knew it I found myself surrounded by models at the front of his stage. It was like this cartoon I’ve had up on my fridge for so long it’s old and yellow:



That pretty much sums up my life so far and describes last night…

I have a strict policy about standing right in front at my boyfriend’s gigs. I think it’s gauche and distracting and I prefer to stand further in the back where I can watch a little more anonymously. To me it looks very amateur when the girlfriends line up at the front of the stage and glare at fans like they own the band.

And you all know how I feel about models – tepid at best. But there it is, because of this particular band I have slowly found myself inducted into a pack of them like Mowgli with his pack of wolves. I fought long and hard, people, with much scowling and bitchy sarcasm. I tried my best to be as terrifying an unapproachable as possible. But eventually I had to give in and be nice to someone, and since all the someones in the entourage are 6 foot tall, 22 years old, 100 lbs and gorgeous, I had no choice but to bite the bullet and befriend the beautiful. And it turns out that some of them are actually all right.

So there I am, covered in tattoos and a crappy attitude (cue the song…”one of these things is not like the others…”), doing a dumb dance with my supermodel bff (who is actually quite badass) and her lanky pals at the front of the stage. Of course Drew mocked me afterwards, but I know he’s relieved that I’m actually getting along with people instead of giving him constant grief with the insecurity that ensues when I’m surrounded by gazelles.

So there are my Christmas miracles: less fur at PF, no fur flying at the gorgeous people convention. Pretty awesome. And then at the end of the night when there were no cabs, a wasted Brooklyn mook in an expensive white SUV stopped and picked us up and drove all the way home in the snowstorm, just to be nice. It was heaven-sent and hilarious in a really comical and completely New York kind of way. So maybe that’ll be the next New York type I befriend, I have a feeling they’d love my model crew.

This photo’s a little beat up and blotchy because it’s a polaroid that knocked around in a drunken dancing girl’s purse all night, but I like it anyway.