Tuesday, January 1, 2008
5:13 p.m.
Boerum Hill, Brooklyn New York
A new year. A new journal. I just cracked the spine for the first time.
I remember driving home from the Upper West Side with my mother at the end of the summer. I told her that I keep a journal, and that I can’t wait to read them when I am older.
“Yea, ‘cause you’re really going to care about this in twenty years,” she says. Damn, woman. Way to rain on my parade.
And so, with a new year I start a new journal. Never mind my mother.
***
Last night was New Years Eve. I had fun. But I’ve had better nights.
It was crowded. Like really crowded. A new meaning to “meat packing,” apparently every 22-to-25 year-old in New York had been hooked by the $75 all-night open bar. The club was dense with drunken debauchery. The floor was wet and sticky from spilled mixed drinks. I ruined my suede Mary Jane four-inch heels. I bought them at Nine West on Montague Street in Brooklyn Heights for the Waldorf party not even a month ago.
But I think that once I get over that (and the horribleness of the next-day-hangover-low), I will remember this New Year’s fondly. But before I forget and only have happy thoughts, I must express my one grievance: Oh man. I wanted a “Happy New Year!” from this Jon kid…
Ok, an update on his story: I love that I documented that we made plans to go to the movies, because that is exactly what we did last Thursday night. We saw Juno.
My parents were in the city to help Older Sister settle into her new apartment—she and her boyfriend just moved into a one-bedroom together on 1st and Avenue A.
I was told to meet the happy couple and my parents downtown for dinner at an East Village restaurant chosen by my sister specifically for its parents-needing prices. “Be there by 5:30,” they texted while I was still at work. Couldn’t have been 6 so that I could have walked the 48 blocks from Rockefeller Center to shake off my office rut (gut) after being confined to the cube all day, and work up an appetite before eating this King-sized Italian feast. Noooo. Can’t wait. Got to eat NOW. My schedule does not matter to a Judgmentalstein-ruled agenda.
Around 7:30, full of dinner (or family frustrations?), I crawled into my parents’ minivan so they could drive me back to Brooklyn. That’s when Jon texted, asking if I wanted to go to the movies. I did. I couldn’t think of anything I would have rather done after that defeating dinner. My parents dropped me off outside my apartment and continued toward Atlantic Avenue, where they turned left, leaving New York via the BQE.
An hour later, I met So-Far-Normal-Jon for a pre-movie drink at the Coffee Shop in Union Square. I talked for most of the time, venting about my family—not only had Older Sister betrayed me all those years ago, but now they all just expected me to snap back onto their track, to forget that she ever hurt me, to ignore that she never apologized to my face, and to desist in my resistance against their decided manners-of-fact.
I explained to Jon how I had never been given a chance to explain my perspective of the past.—The last time our spat was spoken was six years ago, the night of my Rosh Hashana outburst. That night, my mother followed me up to my bedroom. She opened my twice-slammed bedroom door, then calmly walked past me trembling in tears on my bed and took a seat in my wood and wicker desk chair on the other side of the room. I remember her face beaming in her moment of material guidance she consoled me, “I know it sucks, but Older Sister is older so she needs a boyfriend more.”
The following morning, I awoke to a Hallmark card slid under my door. Older Sister was gone. She left that morning to go back to school in Boston, stopping first in Pennsylvania to see him.—A few nights ago I heard her giggling through the walls. They were on the phone making overnight plans.
As I recanted the story to Jon, I became intoxicated with emotion. When I paused to take a sip, Jon offered his advice on the situation. “I mean, I don’t know your family. And I just met you! But we’re on this date and you are ruining your good time because you are so mad. I mean, come on! You live in New York City now! Stop letting them get in the way of that.”
“Easier said than done,” I said.
“You need to figure out how to get some closure on this. Maybe you should tell them what you really think. You said you never got a chance to defend yourself. What if you wrote Older Sister a letter or something?”
“Yea, what if…” I said, my voice trailing away in thought. Then I took another sip of my drink and returned to the conversation. “Sorry, you must be so bored hearing me complain. Let’s talk about you.”
One beer-on-tap later, Jon paid our tab and we moved on to the movie portion of our evening, the 10:40 show of Juno, playing at the Regal 16 Union Square.
At the end of the night, he walked me to the Subway. I started babbling about having a good time. Then he kissed me. Three times.
The next day was Friday, December 28th. I arrived at work to find the office deserted; most people were still on vacation for the holidays. After daydreaming all morning, I left the office to take a long lunch (practically no one was there to even notice if I were gone for two hours).
In search of a new New Years Eve dress, I walked to Express on 51st and Madison. When I got there, I decided that I was too tired from the night before to go through the effort of shopping. But the sun was out. And because there is no sun inside the cube, I really didn’t want to go back to work just yet.
Recognizing my spot on the grid, I looked up—Jon lives at 51st and 1st. I took out my cell phone, trying to build balls for a booty call, “Hey, you’re off today. I got an hour. Wanna fool around?” It would have been awesome. I walked back to work. Damn it.
Around 3 p.m. I gave into my texting temptations. In a less-scandalous attempt, I sent, “I have been sitting at my desk bored since 9 a.m. I am so jealous that you didn’t have to work today.”
No response until 11:30 p.m. “LOL. I’m at hibachi right now. It’s great.” ummm ok.
The next day, Saturday, at 10 p.m. (I can play that game too) I texted back, “I’ve never had hibachi, but I hear good things.”
That’s it. That’s the end of the story. Now it is Tuesday, New Years Day, and I have yet to hear from him.
I mean, I could give him the benefit of the doubt. It was a holiday and it sounded like his was going to be an intense one. I actually remember him saying “this weekend was going to be ridiculous.”
But on the other hand, I really wanted at least a “Happy New Year.” I’ve never had a boy to wish me that before. I guess I still don’t.