Unwifeable(29)

He writes me the next day.

Subject line: Nothing better . . .

. . . than making out with NY’s Funniest Reporter nestled on a centuries-old couch in a deserted bar in the West Village at 3:10 a.m. in the morning. Did I forget to mention that afterward, she happened to cry a river and confess her sexual frustrations? You look so lovely rain-soaked and uttering such passionate murmurs in my ears . . . Don’t be a stranger and surprise . . . surprise . . . A guy in this town actually followed up on his intentions. Call me.

Reading it, I feel like such an asshole. I hate hooking up with guys when I am blind drunk. It’s so completely depressing and the opposite of what I want out of life. And as much as I want to make a random emo dude my savior, his email completely turns me off. Or maybe it’s just me that turns me off. Whatever it is, I don’t want anything to do with it.



* * *




THE MORE I drink, the more I think about my earliest experiences with alcohol.

The first time I tried to get some, I was thirteen years old, and I walked with purpose into the dingy liquor store up the street next to the 7-Eleven on El Cajon Boulevard.

I plucked out a pack of Seagram’s strawberry wine coolers from the fridge, carried it to the counter, and hoped that it would work like how cigarettes do. If you’re tall and confident, you’re good to go.

“How old are you?” the clerk asked me.

“Um,” I said, figuring this was a test where you had to give the right coded lie. “I’m fifteen?”

“Come back in six years,” he said.

“I’m twenty-one?” I tried again.

“Come back in six years,” he said.

But the answer to finding alcohol came soon enough. One day when I was babysitting the kids who lived up the street whose parents had all the dirty channels and kept expecting me to get their weird Twin Peaks references, I executed what seemed like a flawless plan. I brought tiny empty shampoo bottles with me; then I pulled down from their liquor cabinet the bottles of Kahlúa and brandy. I poured their contents into the barely rinsed out containers of Pert Plus and watched as they bubbled over.

I kept my contraband inside a pink-and-silver starry music box that my mom had ordered me from one of those special mom catalogues. Of course, like every other kid on the planet, instead of putting nice things in there, like barrettes and shit, I put in cigarettes and alcohol.

Later, in my parents’ guesthouse, I pulled out my spoils to show my two best friends, Karen and Maureen. We gulped down the bubbly concoction: part liquor, part anti-dandruff hair care solution.

“It . . . tastes . . . really bad, Mandy,” Karen said.

“Like soap,” Maureen said.

“But do you feel it?” I asked.

Because I did. A rush of confidence. A warmness in my chest. Pink cheeks and excitement. For the first time in my life, I felt like I wasn’t the bad person I thought I was. I had finally found the answer to all my problems. All I had to do was get more.



* * *




AS AN ADULT, I can have all the alcohol I want, anytime I want it. Which, when you have no boundaries, is a dangerous combination.

Of course, sometimes it comes in handy. Like on satellite radio.

One of the more memorable moments in all the Andy Dick fallout comes when fellow Post reporter Reed Tucker asks me to do a guest spot on his radio show with Lazlow Jones, the tech genius who’s the voice of Chatterbox FM in Grand Theft Auto.

It’s an aggressive shock-radio environment (I’ve listened to enough Sirius and XM ahead of time so I won’t flinch if I’m called a “hole”). And when Lazlow asks me about Andy Dick right down to the specifics of what female scent I might have emitted, I enjoy the opportunity to be unfazed and play ball.

“My website is actually myvaginasmellslikerosepetals.com,” I riff, and it gets a nice laugh from the room.

I find out afterward that Jim Norton listened and dug my appearance. We begin an email and text friendship, including me asking him for direction in some of the sex-and-dating articles I’m writing. (Jim: “I give pervy advice.” Me: “What? No, I can’t imagine.” Jim: “I know it’s shocking.” Me: “Shocking, disappointing . . . so many emotions.”)

Norton is headlining a show for the upcoming New York Comedy Festival, which I’m previewing in the Post. During the festival, I see as many shows as I can, and when I go backstage at Town Hall to ask Howie Mandel a question, a gorgeous raven-haired woman follows me out.

“Excuse me,” she says. “I wanted to ask if you’d like join me for a drink at my club.”

It is Caroline Hirsch—the legendary namesake and owner of Carolines on Broadway. I nod yes, and she welcomes me into her chauffeured town car. As we ride the few blocks up to the Times Square staple, she speaks of the old days when Letterman and Leno were friends. I follow her downstairs to the velvet-covered, rainbow-lit room and we join Howie Mandel at a table. He does a fist-bumping hello, and I remember how he speaks openly about his obsessive-compulsive disorder.

“My mom has OCD,” I say. “So I totally get it.”

“Oh wow,” he says, the same way I react when I find out someone else is divorced. “What does she take for it?”

I rattle off meds and feel like I’m living in bizarro-land, where I’m suddenly reaching into my TV screen, having conversations with people I’ve watched and admired from the sidelines for years.