Category Archives: Unhealthy

I wish these gave me less headaches.

An Idiot’s Guide to Handling a Hormonal Girlfriend

Step 3. Don’t question my mood swings. If I want ice cream, give me ice cream. Don’t even think about substituting it for frozen yogurt unless you want me to burst into another round of tears. If I want to talk about my deep-rooted insecurities that trace back to my horrific junior high school experiences, let me talk about that time I had braces.

I’m going to need you to tell me I’m beautiful. I’m going to need a back rub. I’m going to need a bubble bath, but first I’m going to need for you to wash my bathtub. When I’m in the bubble bath, can you hold my magazine for me so the pages don’t get wet? Can you dim the lights, set up a few scented candles and make baby whale sounds? Can you run to the corner and pick me up a box of super tampons, another pint of ice cream, a bag of ice and a bottle of scotch? Can you make me a scotch milkshake and feed it to me in the bathtub?

[from my pseudonymous column at The Gloss]

Well, can you?

Caps

Fortunately, I keep my thinking cap right next to my drinking cap.

Fingerthings

I can’t point my fingers. I don’t know what to do with my fingers so I pick them. I take razor sharp scissors and slice up my cuticles and pick and pick, down and down, until the flesh around my nail bed is permanent scar tissue and pink nail polish looks like I dipped my finger tips into a pool of pearl lacquer. So I keep my hands to myself. I shove them in my pockets and only wear one ring. I don’t know my finger size. I don’t know where to put my hands in a job interview. I don’t know if he feels the scarred up mess when he holds my hand in his coat pockets. I just hope they’re better in the morning so I can go at them again with a sharper, cooler knife.

The Surprise

It was 9am. I don’t know why were up. I don’t know why my head hurt so much. I felt like my brain had been hard boiled and cracked, ready to peel. The room was hot. The fan wasn’t working because the unit’s butt stuck out of the window and was covered in snow. It had snowed, now I remembered.

I had a planned a surprise for him. I wasn’t in the mood.

I had a faint memory of puking. Did I puke? I asked him. I dreamt I puked.

He wrapped his arms around me and inched his nose into my neck. It was just a dream.

We picked ourselves up slowly, gathering at the diner for eggs and a bialy. I picked at my sausage. I gave him half my omelet and most of my potatoes. I barely touched my coffee. Isn’t this weird? I’m just not hungry.

Not weird, he said, his mouth full of my omelet. I’m a foot taller than you. I’ll eat it.

We took a cab to the Javits Center where I revealed his surprise: tickets to the Wine Expo and passes to the Travel Show. He was delighted. I was scared. I was exhausted and I felt sick. We drank wine for an hour until we were warm and our tongues felt thick. We went to the Travel Show and entered fifty or so contests for free vacations. We took complimentary photos and ate complimentary chocolates.

It was beautiful out. We walked down to the Highline and held hands down 10th avenue. We stopped in a little restaurant in the Meatpacking Distract for soup and sandwiches.

I was beginning to feel faint. It was a long day. I was tired and cold. I had started shaking.

When we arrived home I curled up in bed next to him and napped. We watched SNL, though I was asleep before 1am.

We stayed in bed the next day, sleeping on and off, watching movies and working on our computers. By the evening I had developed cabin fever. Let’s get something sweet, I suggested. I finally feel all better! Let’s go to Led Zeppole!

He agreed. Put your jeans on, it’s cold out. And then I’m getting you canollis.

I reached into the top of my hamper for my jeans. I pulled them out and gagged. They were covered in dry vomit. I had thrown up the other night after all—right into my hamper. I must have fallen out of bed and thrown up into my hands.

I stared, wide-eyed, at the jeans. He laughed. Oh my god, you poor thing. He hugged me. Some people sleep walk. My girlfriend sleep-pukes.

I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry, so I laughed, too. And then I washed my floor. And then I burned my hamper.

Surprise.

As opposed to what?

I didn’t want to go to the birthday party, but I had been cooped up from the snow all day and wanted  a drink. We ordered in tacos and drank cold beers. We left the limes at the bottom of the bottles and the sharp knife in the sink and headed out into the snow to drink more. The party was pink themed. The party had its own step-and-repeat that I avoided. He stood in front of it and pretended to cry for the cameras. We drank free vodka cocktails and ran into a friend of mine who did the PR for the party. She was miserable—she hated the birthday girl, and desperate for human interaction (“as opposed to what?” he asked, and we laughed). She got us champagne, which we sipped until our heads spun and the music beat under our feet like the ensuing stampede of stilettos. We managed to get free bottle service, a profane practice most club-goers spend upwards of hundreds of dollars in order to sit on a banquet and pour their own drinks. He made me a screwdriver and spilled most of it on my lap. We laughed and danced and took photographs, our shirts tugging down past our decolletage and our drinks sloshing over the rims of the glasses. The room spun around me like a crystal ball. The legs were too long, all too long, and the heels were too high. No one was wearing enough clothes to deal with the blizzard. I wrapped myself in my dark wool coat and scarf and fell into his arms, into the cold and broken night.

Practically a Minus Sign

I drank too much scotch, sure. Give me a Friday night when I don’t drink too much scotch and I’ll give you a lie. But it wasn’t the scotch. It wasn’t the scotch, and it wasn’t the soggy lettuce later on. But whatever it was, I was scratching at the cab door. My nails were crawling up and down the window, and my legs were crossing and uncrossing until the cab pulled over prematurely and as he paid I was already walking, and he reached for my hand but I dropped it, and when we were in my room he brought me a glass of water and laid down and began to snore. And I laid down, too, momentarily. But then I was in the bathroom heaving up the lettuce. And then I was on the floor, wrapped in a towel on the cold tiles, sweating and moaning, and then sulking back into the big bed in the next room. Every thirty minutes I made my way back to the bathroom, until six or seven hours had passed, and gastric acid was sliming down my nose and my throat was burning and he finally woke up and looked at me, and I wasn’t even crying, I was just faded and negative and practically a minus sign of a girl. I was burning with fever, and I continued to burn up all day, until the room was covered in shiny ribbons and the pillows were damp and I kept saying over and over again how cold it was inside, and how warm it was outside, until I slid back into a rich, black sleep and the day came and went like a fairytale of sickness past.

Not too sweet.

We were at the karaoke bar and he wanted us all to sing Hall and Oates. He wanted to buy everyone what they wanted, even the weird drinks, even the guy in the corner nursing a tequila and ginger, which he swore was not too sweet and just delicious enough. He bought someone a gin and soda with a cherry. He bought me a scotch and soda with a lemon. The bartender had too many tattoos: a loopy, white bird, an upside down cross and an abstract tornado, he said, that was taken straight from his portfolio. And we kept drinking, taking down gulps of our drinks, letting the gin and scotch dribble down our chins as we drank them down slowly at first and then faster and faster, until we were water-logged, fatally numb from our bad decisions and top shelf liquor.