LMOIS* File 022008A

2008, However You See Fit, LMOIS File

FEBRUARY 9, 2008
11:47 P.M. 

I came home from work today to discover that our entire bathroom had been gutted. More than two months post our leased agreement, the renovations had finally, and without warning, begun in our apartment. 

The construction workers looked at me blankly when I walked in after work. They had assumed the space would be uninhabited during the week-long bathroom renovation. I stayed long enough to pack a bag. Now at my sister’s, sleeping on her East Village couch.


Man oh man. Everything is spinning amazingly out of control. 

Getting an interview at Martha Stewart. 

Meeting Jon.—I still can’t believe he invited me to Vegas with him and his dad for March Madness. I guess his dad has a girlfriend, so Jon wanted to bring a date too. Lucky me to be that date!

My apartment is perfect (or at least it will be when I’m allowed to return). 

I am beautiful. 

I get to dance every weekend. 

Seriously, I have never been so happy.


I feel as if all I ever do is think about Jon. I love the story of how we met, and now Vegas. It all just seems too good to be true. My roommate calls him So-Far-Normal Jon. She doesn’t know about Saturday night yet. 

Last Saturday night, I went to his apartment. Taking advantage of his father’s jet-setting lifestyle, Jon had invited his friends over to crash thier Manhattan bachelor pad. It was Jen’s birthday, the friend (not girlfriend) that had been his date to the Deloitte holiday party at the Waldorf Astoria, where we all met.  

 When I arrived, I took a moment on the stoop to de-commute after the hustle from Brooklyn to Midtown. I replaced my ballerina flats with my slightly-less smooth suede Mary-Jane four-inch heels, and untied my long, curly hair from its practical restrains. Then I removed my earbuds, muting the beat of female empowerment pop. I rewound the wired buds around my pink iPad mini before pushing the buzzer to Jon’s apartment. 

Located mid-tree-lined block of E 51st Street, the four-story brownstone was divided into three separate apartments. Jon’s father, my Vegas benefactor that I still had not met, occupied the basement and ground floor. Jon’s one-bedroom took up floor number three; and an older woman who kept to herself took the unit in between.

After Jon gave me the ground-floor tour of his father’s apartment, we headed down to meet the friends in the basement parlor. A quick name go-around and, Jon led me to the kitchenette to fix us some drinks. 

The space is tight for the two of us. Jon does not use this time to get flirtatious. Instead, palming ice into two rock glasses, he tells me that some of his friends do coke, and if I see it, he doesn’t want me to freak out. 

He’s backed me in to the corner kitchenette. He wants me to tell him it’s ok. 

I tell him that it’s fine. 

I tell him that I’ve seen it before, and I won’t freak out. 

I also tell him that I don’t do it. And I don’t like it. 

I asked if he does it. (I do not think I was antagonistic, but who really knows how defensive I got.) He tells me that he has done it

I respond by reminding him that I’m not into the whole up-the-nose thing. 

Drinks in hand, the night goes on from there. 

I had a great time with Jon at his apartment. His friends were fun, and Jon paid so much attention to me. My favorite part of the night was when we were all standing around the TV watching a dunking contest. Jon stood behind me, his arm around my waist. I could see my reflection in the patio door. I liked it. 

Eventually, everyone rallied out of Jon’s to make their way to the bar. Jon and I were only at the bar for 45 minutes before we went back to his place. 

That would have been the end of the night, except now that the drugs have been mentioned, one additional comment (or faint memory of comments) must be noted. When we went back up to Jon’s, we were fooling around on his couch. It was getting late, and we were both tired. 

I made a silly, sarcastic comment about how we could go downstairs and blow some lines. After some witty banter back and forth (probably three rounds) he finally made a comment correcting something in my terminology of cocaine lingo. 

“You caught me!” I said, “I have no idea what I am talking about.”

And that was the last of the drug talk. The rest of the night (and the next morning) was good. 

It is now two days later. I haven’t heard from Jon, and the drugs are still on my mind. 

I don’t want this so-far-normal fantasy to end. 

Originally from the east coast, Cha Cha lives in southern California with her fiance (he’s a plumber) and their bob-tailed cat, Copper Soup.

As a woman, Cha Cha spends her time writing, reading (though not as much as she wishes she did), watching Project Runway (way more than she wished she did—especially since the show ended in 2019), trying to exercise for at least 20 minutes a day (otherwise, she won’t leave the house because she works from home), learning how to manage her money, and talking to herself out loud.

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