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Something about my prom just screams Spanx and not enough padding in my push up bra. For most other people their’s screams throwing up on their date or hooking up with their ex-friend’s new boyfriend. I wasn’t your typical senior in high school not only was I everyone’s friend and no one’s girlfriend, but I was a hormonal psycho who had crushes on any male that walked. I also hadn’t figured out what the whole “being feminine” thing was so in an attempt to flirt I wouldn’t playfully hit someone’s arm I would shove them into a door making them bruised and upset. Of course in my head I was the queen of sexy encounters where I played “the game.” Again, I was an idiot and didn’t realize that a little mystery always helps in the courting phase of things. 

To my surprise I was asked to my senior prom. And in a way I will truly never forget it. Every Tuesday morning my high school would enter into our auditorium and look at the front to watch people make announcements that no one cared about. A friend of mine, it was in fact a guy, entered the stage to make soccer announcements as he did weekly. At the end, the famous hawaiian version of “over the rainbow” entered the loud speaker as he asked in front of the whole school whether I would go to the dance with him. I of course didn’t think he was talking to me and was flipping through the latest Us Weekly magazine. When I figured the whole thing out I threw the magazine under my chair, did a pageant wave for everyone and gracefully tripped when I went to give him a hug.

My senior prom went quite smoothly but one really has to take note in their life that when you are at an underage drinking after-party there is a 100% certainty that someone will get incredibly sick and possibly vomit on you. This didn’t happen to me. What did happen is the science geek who I happened to have a crush on for that day… let’s call him Sean made out with a girl in front of me, vomited a little on the terry cloth hotel robe he had slipped into and then tried to touch my boob and ask if I was bored?

The learning lesson today is in the future if any Sean’s come after your boob this is the time to throw them into a door as opposed to if you actually wanted your boob touched.

XOXO

Gossip Girl

My friends are always on the prowl. The prowl for men that is. As a skilled yet also socially awkward wing woman I tend to be much better at helping my gay friends find partners. In that situation all you do is say “Hey Sexy” give a wink and point to your friend. Within minutes they are making out. Mission completed. In the world of the straight man (acting as if I know anything that goes on in a straight mans mind) in a bar situation they tend to be either stand offish or way too aggressive. This is most likely because they are A. trying to look or be cool B. scared to talk to you or C. not interested. One night in particular a girlfriend of mine turned to me and said “I need to meet a guy tonight.” She then proceeded to tell me she was in, “one of those makeout moods.” I responded by telling her I wasn’t sure what kind of mood that was and that I was currently in the half drunken second guessing my outfit hailing a cab to go home mood. She grabbed my shoulders and expressed how she “needed” to have a good night. I of course felt major pressure on that one because I’m anxiety prone and didn’t have my gays around to remind me of my positive qualities. That moment was a turning point. I said to my internal monologue, “Game On Bitches!” The next 2 hours were broken down like this

12:35AM Tequila shot

12:42AM Tripped on my own high heel while dancing

12:43AM Kept dancing and decided that it was a good option to push my friend directly into a hot guy so that a conversation would start.

12:45AM she does the arm graze to him and he is staring at her boobs

12:54AM they are successfully making out

1:13AM He tells her he isn’t looking to really date and she looks drunkenly confused

1:17AM Drink gets thrown on her by accident

1:32AM I start laughing uncontrollably… seconds later forgot what was so funny

1:47AM Get a text from my mom telling me to be safe and to act like a lady

2:01AM I see a guy I made out with randomly a few weeks before. He waves at me I act like I’m looking at something very important on the complete other side of the bar

2:13AM She drags me to Pomme Frites. She almost gets hit by a cab. We end the night with fries and her eye make-up smudged on her face while telling me that “All guys are sluts”

All in all I would say that was a pretty successful New York City evening.

shorts: American Eagle

leather jacket: Vince

Scarf: No name Shop in New Orleans 

Tights: Wolford

Beer: Bud Light Platinum (did not pick this myself)

New man which means time to try and impress him with my lack there of cooking skills. Date night as it was referred to was simple, romantic, and ended with two tired people crashing before 11pm. As I lay there next to a new face I can’t sleep. Too much on my mind: job, social life and questioning whether he noticed the pile of dirty clothes i threw into my closet… I hear a sound begin to get louder and louder coming from the hallway of my apartment. I turn to the right of me making sure the new man is not outside of the room doing some weird creepy thing yet to be discovered, but no he is sound asleep. I get out of bed scantily clad and open the door to my bedroom. I take a few steps to find the culprit of the noise. I soon discover water shooting out of my ceiling onto the ground of what has now become an in house Hurricane Katrina. I of course start screaming obscenities and the new man runs out half asleep with no idea what is going on. As we try to figure out how to stop the water I turn to him and make a motion pointing to the both of us and then to the gushing water, “it’s too early in this to be dealing with thissss!” I start pacing. All hope of me looking chill and unfazed to impress him has gone out the window. I go downstairs and the doorman has no idea what to do. He then tells me my super isn’t available and asks me what the next step is. I begin to hyperventilate and go upstairs to talk to my neighbor. Paul is gay and amazing and looks like he just got into the shower with all of his clothes on because water is pouring out of his ceiling as well but even worse. I introduce Paul to the new man. Awkwardness fills the air as we stand in the elevator in our pajamas (me bra-less)  The fire department comes to shut off the water in the building and of course being NYC fireman they are all gorgeous. I remain bra-less and realize flirting with a new guy there and me looking like I had been through a wind tunnel is not really an option. The night ends with him asleep on my couch and me being guilt tripped by my mother that she’s glad I woke her but she probably isn’t going to be able to fall back asleep.

When I was a senior in college I decided that it was important to go on a spring break trip. Why? Because I had never been on one that didn’t involve my mother or father reminding me to put on more sunscreen because I have “such sensitive” skin. There was only one person I could think of to go on this epic adventure with we shall call him Sean. Sean is gay as all my guy friends are, but is one of the only ones that can kick my ass in a dance-off in under 3 seconds. Once we decided to go together, the first place that came to our minds was the Dominican Republic. Soon enough the trip came and we ended up in Punta Cana aka the college spring break shit show.

Our first night being there we befriended a bartender named Ernesto with a great smile and spoke broken English. We convinced him as we got more and more wasted off shitty El Presidente beer to take us to a local spot so we could dance. What he forgot to tell us was that his best friend (another bartender) was joining us. In a flash we were on motoconchos (mop-ed taxis) going somewhere. Sean and I were clueless, drunk, and had no identification or cell phone with us. It was such a smart plan. All of a sudden the “taxi” driver stops the vehicle and our Dominican friend pays him. We walk into an outdoor bar with a major dance scene. Ernesto’s friend Amauri looked exactly like Tyrese Gibson therefore Sean and I called him that. He would forever be Tyrese. Tyrese grabbed my hand and started moving his hips before we even got the the floor. One problem that my spring break boyfriend and I had was that either of us spoke the others language well enough to have any form of a real conversation. It consisted of, “Hola” and I would smile back “HOLA”. Throughout the night we just said hi to each other. Basically we were engaged.

The night ended with him saying something about my hotel room and me telling him that i was like soooo tired and didn’t feel comfortable that he couldn’t pronounce my name. I think the moral of this post is that everyone needs to go on at least one crazy spring break trip in their life. Whether that includes speaking spanish gibberish or stealing your parents car to road trip with your friends. GO

There is something about a purely homosexual male environment that just makes me want to dance. Greenhouse is the name of a semi-popular club in west soho. One day a week this club turns into a homosexual shit show that straight girls dream of attending. I have many gay friends or rather “gay husbands” and once in awhile Sunday night comes around and i get a plethora of text messages with simply “greenhouse” followed by a question mark.

I have to psych myself up for this particular club because the bouncer and I don’t exactly get along. This person is a highly glamorized transvestite with a long blonde wig wearing extremely tight skinny jeans and sky high heels. One particular Greenhouse evening happened to be when I hurt my foot so I was wearing flats. The evil he now she stared me down and uttered the words, “Are you from New York?” Being the nice Seattleite that I am answered with a smile, “well I’m actually from Seattle, but I’ve lived here for years.” The Bitch ho bag gave a long stare at me and let out a loud “mmhmmmm.” Upset and pissed I started to walk into the club with my gays but couldn’t help but turn around to whisper a soft “fuck you.” Ever since then the tranny and I haven’t exactly been besties. 

There is a confidence I get the minute I walk into a gay club. That confidence a woman feels when you have to impress a different type of male. The male that might possibly “out-diva” you. For me it’s kind of like a “game on” type of situation. One time a small incredibly thin asian gay pushed me to try and begin what shall be known as the most epic dance-off I’ve ever participated in. This shit was like Step Up 2: the streets no joke. So I pushed him back and obviously flipped my hair into his face before pop locking it in the middle of a Wynter Gordon “Dirty Talk” remix. let’s be real; the asian gay obviously won but not before slapping my ass and telling me to “Get it girl!”

I love to text. More than that I love to text boys. The mixture is honestly a bit lethal. Imagine you are drunk and at a bar with your friends and the guy you are seeing is out somewhere else. He texts you asking how your night is going. When I say imagine I mean that this story happened to me. Anyway, so I am at the bar just having had dinner with some girlfriends and he asks me where I had gone. Here is where I said “Japanese” and then meant to proceed that text with another saying “I love sushi.” Sadly what my iphone changed that simple proclamation to was…..

“I love you” 

I had said I love you to a guy I was barely seeing and through a fucking text message. That combo might be the most intense way to look crazy possible. Even as I tried to repair the situation “Bill” was not okay with what had just happened. Let’s just say our short “relationship” ended with him asking for a sweathshirt back that he had left at my apartment.

(Note to self: don’t text opposite gendered humans statements of emotion by accident)

(old photo of Katya and I before graduating high school)

Thursday night I did something that rarely happens: I went home. Not like seeing the parents outside their upper east side hotel but legit getting on a delta flight and landing in the city of rain and high suicide rates: Seattle, Washington. My mom was nice enough to break away from her and my father’s 9pm sleep schedule and picked me up at the airport. (I say that with no sarcasm I was extremely excited to see her) Anyway, I walk into my old bedroom which surprising enough my parents have yet to turn it into a gym like most 90’s movies have you think, and proceeded into the lavender abyss which used to be my haven away from the evils of high school. I put down my bags and sat on the snowflake flannel sheets that I fought with my mom over in Eddie Bauer Home. Pictures scatter my bedroom ranging from old snapshots from high school and the many celebrity men that at the age of 15 I decided I would one day sleep with. (side note: no celebrity men YET have been checked off the list) I guess what this post really needs to be concluded with is that I found myself at one of my parents small dinner parties listening to one of their friends discuss the beautiful time in Italy where she remembered when I was conceived. I sat there in utter horror and the only thing that came out of my mouth was “yeah those were some good times. I’m gonna go kill myself now won’t you excuse me.” Damn I love going home….

As a young teen, in my head I thought I knew exactly what went into finding true love. I personally got all my questions answered at that time by watching movies. So love and sex were a combo between The Notebook and Cruel Intentions. Basically I just assumed angsty passion turned into the most intense love to exist. What little I knew. I must preface I am a believer in love. I’m a believer in great love. With that said I am also a pessimist. People always tell me you’ll meet that special person the minute you stop looking. What happens if you’re always looking? Does that mean I’m just gonna end up in some cluttered hoarder apartment with cats that I don’t even know exist? 

After every major event in my life I think to myself have I learned or “grown” from this experience and usually the answer is yes. What happens when the answer is no? What happens when you get played? Played like a fucking piano. The answer in the words of the late Aliyah “you dust yo self off and try it again.” To the single viewers out there who are reading this remember something: that guy you are into who you think might be the love of your life… tread lightly and be hesitant. Fantasy only gets you far if you are a character in a John Hughes movie.  

 I tend to be an impulsive person. When I really want something I usually find a way to get it. There are those women who walk into a club and can approach any member of the opposite sex with saying just a few words. I am not those women. I usually do the “smooth” approach by bumping into a guy and when he turns around blame a nearby friend for being so clumsy. 

Like most other young adults I have an alias name I give suitors who I’m not interested in. That was sarcastic. No one besides me has a personal alias. Anyway “Nicole Sanchez” has been there for me many a time. Once in particular however, the name did not help. 

On a nothing special Friday night a few friends were trying to get me to come out with them. I ended up meeting up with them at a bar/club by the name of “Tonic.” Before we analyze that name what you are thinking is correct it WAS the trashiest place I might have ever stepped into. So, what does one do in this situation. Right again! I got drunk. About an hour passed and my friend and I headed to the door to get the fuck out of there. As we are leaving she turned to me to ask me if I’d go talk to some guys with her. “ugh come on Jules lets go I’m tired.” She pleaded with me so I said fine and with her walked up to what looked like a bunch of South African rugby players. “Hey” I whispered to myself as an attempt to get up the guts to talk to them. “WHAT DID YOU SAY?” one of the blonde hulks said. “HI!”

While Jules was in full discussion with the blondes I began to talk to their brunette friend. He might have been the sexiest guy I had ever seen. Only one problem I had already told the rugby men that my name was Nicole. Here is where I end up in the mud. I no longer could keep my fake story right in my head so I began to say facts about my real Addison self. I told the man I’ll call Enrique that I was from Seattle. He ended up telling me that one of his best girlfriends from college was from there too. 

Seattle is a big city. My high school was not. Enrique knew a girl I was friends with. He started to get really excited and wanted to call her. So he did. “Hey I’m here with your friend Nicole. From high school. No, no Nicole SANCHEZZZZ.” I poked him. “Umm, Enrique my name actually isn’t Nicole. It’s Addy. He looked at me like I was a complete psychopath. That conversation ended pretty quickly. 

All I can say is Enrique was probably the love of my life. But Nicole Sanchez will always have a special place in my heart.