I was the other woman (sorta)
May 12, 2009
If you’ve turned on the TV or opened a newspaper (or rather open your Internet browser to a news site) in the last week, chances are you’ve heard and/or seen Elizabeth Edwards. Edwards’ memoir, Resilience, was released last Friday (published by my company) and in it she shares her side of a heartbreaking and very public affair that her husband John engaged in while campaigning for the Democratic presidential nomination in 2008.
It is fitting that my first experience with romance and deception (that I know of) occurred a few days later. Now, my story is way less tragic and far from the excruciating ordeal that Edwards went through. However, in my story, I was (unwittingly) the other woman.
Two weeks ago I went out with some girlfriends to a quirky ‘lil speakeasy in the East Village named the Back Room. We were enjoying mixed drinks in tea cups and beers in paper bags, when my friend’s co-workers joined us. Patrick and Jon (the co-workers) were a fun and funny duo, and as the beers flowed and inebriation was starting to set in, I found myself drawn to Jon. He was more shy than the confident-sometimes-cocky guys I usually go for, and he also seemed so nice. “I wasn’t sure if we’d end up talking tonight,” he said. “You seem so outgoing, I wasn’t sure if we’d have the chance.” He was cute. He was 30(!), which for me to find out, is like the shopping equivalent of discovering at the register that the J. Crew sweater I was buying for 30% off has an additional 40% off — j-j-jackpot! (A story for another time, but I have somehow amassed a dating record chock full of young, youngish, and younger guys. While it’s not all bad, it does make me appreciate an older fella, but more on that later.)
Jon bought more light brews in paper bags and we talked about work, the age o’l Boston vs. New York Debate (he’s a recent convert), and drank some more. By then Paul had two ladies with him (my friends had already left at this point) and I convinced this group of virtual strangers that we go to my all-time favorite dive bar, Cheap Shots. I could write a whole blog post about the inexpensive, blissful glory that is Cheap Shots, but I’ll save that for another time, all you need to know is that this delightful spot has air hockey, connect 4, and verrrrrry cheap shots (and pitchers).
At our new location, shots were indeed taken, air hockey games were played, and many a drunk text sent. After what seemed like a 22-year-old hussy (in actuality she was neither 22 or a hussy) started to make moves on “my man” Jon, I made my move. We kissed. I had won. We ended the night with pizza. It was great. But wait a second, did he ask for my number??
In my morning-after fog, I tried to think back… we made out, he bought me beers and cheesy nourishment and didn’t take my number…?! WTF? Or wait, did he? Seriously, I’m starting to think that with age memory goes first, then drinking tolerance.
This brings me to today. Now for the most part, I’ve filed this guy away as random drunken makeout with bonus good conversation and pizza. On Gchat (where all vital conversations are had these days) my friend J, who works with Did He Ask For My Number Boy?, told me the truth. It wasn’t so much that “he wasn’t that into me” — more that he’s into his GIRLFRIEND. That’s right. G-frickin’-F. She’s in Boston and I’m making out with her boyfriend over Kamikazee shots. I am the other woman. Even though it’s not my fault, I actually feel bad about this. It also leads me to question my judgement (I was convinced he was a sweet gentleman), although honestly, what can you really tell about a person at a bar? Who even knows what his situation is with his girlfriend? Either way, I’m no longer interested. At least, we’re not in politics.
Caught in the Act
April 19, 2009
“What is the most embarrassing thing that has ever happened to you?” This question was posed to my writing class on the first day. People squirmed around in their seats, recalling. My face felt flush like I just had a glass of wine — my most mortifying moment happened only a week or two earlier.
I wrote “Caught in the Act” for my MediaBistro writing class in Fall 2007. At the time, I was dating the guy in the essay’s opening, but the real point of the piece was examining the relationship between me and my mother. My essay never got published, but if you were friends with me at the time, you certainly heard the story.
So here is an excerpt below of “Caught in the Act” in all of its ICOHTY-glory. (Note: it wasn’t THE act.)
His hand pulled at my dress strap. His other hand was reaching beneath the hem of my dress. It felt good. Then someone knocked– no, banged – on the door.
“Is that your sister?” A asked.
“Amanda?!” came the muffled, yet commanding voice through the door.
I froze. It was my mother.
Nothing can ruin an intimate, wedding wine-induced moment more than hearing the voice of the one who gave birth to you. In my case, the voice belonged to a traditional Filipino Catholic mother with God on her right shoulder and possibly the rosary in her left hand as she banged on the door Law & Order SVU-style that night.
“Just ignore her, she’ll go away,” my cousin’s best friend said, while trying to take off my dress.
Ignoring was not an option. As scared as I was of confronting the woman on the other side of the door I knew, without a doubt, that not answering would be a much scarier fate. I was too frightened to imagine.
“That’s my mother,” I said defeated. There was no way out.
“Your mother?!” he exclaimed.
My mom and I earlier that day (pre-embarrassing moment).
Earlier that day A gregariously warmed up to my family as we rode from the church to the hotel in our rental car. He told us in his thick Queens accent about the pranks he and my now-married cousin used to play. My parents were impressed with A’s pursuit of a doctorate in physical therapy, more so since his coarse-sounding, error-laden speech made them think otherwise. While my parents had accents of their own they were fanatic about grammar in only the way people who learned English as a second language can. Born to Venezuelan parents in Elmhurst, Queens and attended a top state school, A had an accent that is a mix of Spanish, street, and when he wants to, proper schooling. Whatever favorable thoughts my parents had of A were dispelled with each thump on the door.
I stood up from the faux-luxe Comfort Inn sheets and cursed myself for taking the risk of hooking up at my cousin’s wedding in the same hotel as my parents. At twenty-five years old, I didn’t live at home, but I quickly remembered my mother’s ire. I swallowed down the growing lump of embarrassment, anxiety, and guilt in my throat and stoically moved toward the door.
“What are you doing here?!” my mother demanded.
“Uh, we were all hanging out here and then I just fell asleep,” I said feebly.
“Why aren’t you sleeping in your own room?! Go to your room!” She pointed down the hall, her face twisted with anger. I quickly turned around, grabbed my purse off the dresser, mumbled goodbye in the direction of the bathroom where A was hiding, and did the walk of shame past my mother and down the hall. While my cousin was elsewhere in Joliet, Illinois consummating his marriage, there I was at the same age being sent to my room. There was to be no pre-marital sex, not while Mama Muñoz was around.
Sure, we’ve all gotten texts before from people whose numbers we’ve lost along the way. Sometimes it’s accidental, other times it’s (definitely) intentional. Then, there are those rare times when the text sender’s identity remains unknown. Tonight I got a text from someone I can’t remember meeting (and I’m the kind of girl who keeps lists… ok, fine I’ll be truthful, I’m the kind of girl who keeps lists, remembers first and last names as well as hometown, but ALSO gets too drunk to remember who she’s given her number to). Transcript of the texts and my mounting confusion below:
9:42PM
- 347-XXX-XXXX: Are you in NYC?
Hmm. Who could this be? Not in my phone… yell to roommate, “What’s a 347 area code?” Erica shouts from her nearby room, “It’s a New York number.”
- Sorry who is this?
- Rich Greene
Rich Greene… Rich Greene… Rich… Type into Google. Nothing. Dammit. This was the absolute worst time to give up Facebook for Lent! There was that first date and now there’s a mystery texter?! Wtf. Gchat Allisonc99: Do you know Rich Greene? Call Leanne, leave message, “When we went to Cheap Shots that time, did we meet a guy named Rich Greene?” Check journal in case we made-out. No sign of Rich Greene in my life whatsoever. Have a vague recollection though that this guy has texted me before…
- Do you have the right number? Sorry not sure who this is
- Amanda-Tufts
Okay, this guy does know who I am. Creepy. Could he just be some dude I met at a bar? That name selection sounds like it. Too bad he didn’t write Amanda-Name Of Bar.
- Im sorry totally blanking here. Where did we meet?
- Uhhhh. Didn’t you go to tufts university…??
Call Maggie, “Did we know a Rich Greene at Tufts?” ”Do you mean Rob Greene,” says Maggie in between bites of her dinner. “No, Rich Greene, can you look him up on Facebook for me please?” She looks, equally concerned. He doesn’t show up on FB, he is off the grid! And certainly not a Tufts boy. Mags and I chat a little longer about First Date Guy among other things, then hang up.
I ask my roommate if people can trace you through your cell phone to your exact location. She tells me I’m not important enough to be stalked like that. We deadbolt and chain lock the front door anyway. Erica goes to bed. I Gchat Joy: “Do you know a Rich Greene from Tufts?” Joy is more adventurous, “Why don’t you try to find out how you met? What’s the harm?”
- How did u get my number? How do i know u? Its not fr tufts
Mystery Texter remains an enigma. He vanished as abruptly as he arrived in my Nokia Inbox. We may never know who his true identity is — and please contact me if you think you do — but wherever and whoever you are Rich, cut it out, I clearly don’t remember you or thought it was worthwhile to save your number. Give us both a break and save me the 10 cents, I don’t have an unlimited plan!
